Every Time a Bell Rings

A few weeks ago, I had a session with one of my favorite clients. He proposed. It amuses me that I have had so many clients offer me their names, while my progeny must reply same when prompted with the internet's most common riddle. 

Oh, I have had many husbands, just none of them have been mine. 

Now of course when clients propose they are just being silly. If I am doing my job well, and I always am, I have coaxed their vasopressin levels to the brink of a coronary, only to throw open the oxytocin floodgates. Their offer to take an oath before God is just the grandiose nature of being intoxicated. 

My exes-of-note knew my views about marriage. They each, carefully, suggested it once or twice. Do I look like the sort of girl a man would marry? If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife. More importantly, why would I wish to participate in such an outdated, and barbaric tradition rooted in ownership and possession?  

Yet ask me what my tattoo symbolizes. 

There was a bridal party at the spa during my recent getaway. When it became clear I wouldn’t find my Zen amid their enthusiastic planning for The Big Day—loudly unfolding by the aqua terrace—I chose instead to quietly observe. A woman around my age, likely the mother of the bride, or maybe an aunt or Godmother, encouraged the bride-to-be to indulge. “It’s your day,” she said. “You’re the princess.”

Just for one day, poor thing. 

There was a time when the idea of being the princess for a day held a certain appeal. An ex of some significance—he’s been mentioned here before, if you’re keeping score—once dared me to marry him. He looked so silly backpedaling when I showed up in white. Double dog dare. It would have made such a cool story, if he had been just a little braver. He confessed recently that his mother still reminds him—thirty years later—that he made a mistake. I’ve always loved her too much to cast her as the evil mother-in-law. Maybe that’s why that path veered when it did.

Truth be told, I’ve never understood marriage.

As a young adult, I’d listen to friends explain why it mattered to them. I found a kind of curiosity in what they shared—like hearing someone describe a faith I didn’t share. I have my own beliefs. You’re unlikely to convert me. But I’m always interested in peeking through the lens someone else uses to frame their world. Yet as I’ve grown older, when someone staunchly defends marriage—or monogamy—it sounds like they’re telling me they still believe in Santa Claus. Scratch that. I think I might actually have more respect for someone who believes in the magic of the Christmas spirit. At least that has a touch of whimsy. But telling me—with a straight face—that you’re betting your immortal soul on finding one person, and only one person, interesting until the day you die… and that they’ll feel the same about you? That you will enjoy that, find it fulfilling, and that it will keep the love you have today alive and thriving. You can't really mean that, can you?

Of course, if you say it's for health insurance, that I understand.

I’ve been told that makes me jaded. That I don’t believe in love. But that’s not accurate at all.

I believe in connection so deep it bypasses reason. In protocols negotiated, not assumed. In power exchanged not with a ring, but with a look, a gesture, a whispered command.

I’ve had men try to give me their name—as if it were a prize. 

But I was never interested in what they had to offer.

So you can keep your name.
I’ll take your soul.

Dinner with Raymond K. Hessel

If while you were waiting for the results from an x-ray, you got a call with the results from your biopsies, you probably wouldn't even mind that you fractured your wrist. 

It occurs to me that the statement probably would apply regardless of the specifics of the results. For me though, on this timeline, my doctor said, "It's OK. Not malignant. Some inflammation- probably an infection. Follow up with your primary." 

I said, I love you. To the radiologist on the phone, and the PA who diagnosed the fracture. 

Then I made lunch for Raymond and me. And I've done my best to linger here- in the frequency of gratitude. 

Should I stop here? The story is complete. I could check this last item off today's list. I could go to bed satiated. 

Or should I try again to tie it to the other story? 

I was a guest on Your Kinky Friends last weekend. The topic was lifestyle verses professional Dommes, and the misconceptions about each. When I saw the topic on my invite, I was so excited I decided that I could ignore the throb in my wrist and get past the fact that I couldn't really brush my hair or apply my makeup well. Pain and vanity be damned, this is a subject I can get excited about, I have things to say here. Then I went on the show, and I couldn't find my rhythm. I couldn't find the words for what I wanted to say, my voice caught, my dog barked. Nicholas is a great friend and a gracious host. I should have watched the show while icing my wrist and just asked if he'd be interested in doing a part two when I was more healed.  

It's a great topic. As I imagine you must know already, I am a professional Domme. But perhaps you wouldn't know this is also my lifestyle. I consider myself a 24/7, 365 Top, in addition to being my Top's 24/7, long distance but TPE sub. Well in theory anyway, but that's veering off track. Pin it, perhaps will circle back to that in another post. Let's keep this just about the different hats I wear as a Domme. 

Actually, my wrist is starting to throb again. I have been tapping these keys and backspacing for over an hour. Before I find myself again wishing I had waited until I felt better, let's pin all of it.  Let's make a plan to come back really soon, and in the meantime, you could leave me a comment with your ideas or questions about professional verses lifestyle kink. 

At a Bar Called O'Malley's

Where we'll plan our escape

Did I really title an entry with the song from A Night at the Roxbury? And it was an entry for my top? Are you sure? Weird.  

The Musings of Mistress Cassidy: What is Love, Baby Don't Hurt Me....

Also, note to self: I miss being part of a team that included a psychic advisor. 

To be honest, I only gave it a quick, dyslexic, once over. There was just so much cringe. If it were on paper, and had managed to last this long, I'd definitely light it on fire today. Seven years, all new cells, right? Whatever hasn't materialized in seven years, it's well past time to strike the match and start over. 

Well no, that's a fib, I have promised one of my vanillas that I will stop burning my journals. They're all hers when I leave this realm, bahaha- wish her luck. 

Note to Self: burn your punishment journals, it's a small fib & for the best.  

Double fib, I wouldn't burn the entry. He said He loved it. The butterflies would blow out the match if I tried. 

But who even wrote that? 

Not me. 

I'm not that chained up little person still in love with you 

Wait, no, that's not the right song.

All seven and we'll watch them fall, they stand in the way of love and we will smoke them all. 

When I feel like my writing is a bit too emo and silly, I remember Prince wrote 7. 

Seven. Today marks seven years. You've heard this story before, I was bouncing on a massage table, House of Pain was pumping. If you've got the feeling, jump up on the ceiling....jump up, jump up and get down. I have no particular fondness for House of Pain, but my floggers, Dreamer and Dancer, were popping and stroking the back and ass of this cutie dressed up like Harley Quin. There I was, at the very tip of the top of the world. 

It could have been a polka, I'd have been dancing. 

And I wouldn't have cared if you watched. 

Did I ever mention I wasn't going to text him that night? I wasn't going to text him anymore, full stop. Or at least that's what I kept telling myself. Our playful texts were so much fun, but our paths weren't (and continue now) to be nowhere near each other's. It didn't have a future. Simultaneously, my real life, the one I had invested nearly 2 decades in, was catching on fire. I kept thinking the right thing was to try to put it out. All the elements were there. Everything I had ever wanted, kind of, mostly, close enough. Who cares? I was flogging Harley Quin, and I could have stomped out the fire, again. 

There was this boy in a suit, I met him once before at another Gemini event. The similarities were striking, and he was watching me. I'd bet that last cigarette; they have kinship or time travel was involved. It seemed like a sign, so I texted Him and told Him to ask me again. 

With my 20/20 hindsight, maybe I would negotiate more thoughtfully. Like for an actual collar. How does that muggle recipe go? Get the diamond before investing in a cow? I'd definitely have him sketch out clearly, in ink, how he plans to control the Os he asked me to relinquish. Then again, how far would any of that get me? My attention span is far too short to think I can out stubborn a Taurus. Besides, on every timeline throughout the multiverse, I wish to be his and I trust Fate to sort out the details. 

Happy Birthday Clive, and Happy Birthday Mom

There's Boston baked beans simmering. Molasses and salt pork of course, bacon and maple syrup are fine for barbeques south of here, but not today. One of my ancestors must have been so committed to following the fourth commandment. Wonder if it was one of the one's who also should have been a Friend of Bill's? Perhaps I should have asked her which once I came to understand, probably while reading Little House, that that's why baked beans were served for supper on Sundays. 

Too late now.

Clive Barker turns 73 today, and it is the second time I won't wish my mother a happy birthday on the 18th of January. The first of my investments in my immortality is a huge fan of Mr. Barker. I read him The Thief of Always as a bedtime story when he was preschooler. Let him watch Nightbreed and Hell Raiser too when he was much too young. Please remember how old I was before you cast judgment. 

I have a deep appreciation for his work. He created a character, Pie oh Pah, that I think of often, as if they were a friend of mine that I haven't seen in 30 years. Almost every February I re-read The Thief of Always. It comforts me to know if Harvey can survive the great gray beast of February, I'll probably make it through too. My deepest wish is to craft stories as spellbinding. I sent my top a silly one this morning with my morning pictures and gratitude. He may have enjoyed it, but I don't think he is quite spellbound, yet. I'm working on it though. 

My spiritual beliefs are fluid, thick and viscous, but lacking starch to alchemize them into a True Faith. I believe in reincarnation. How could we be so deep, complex, multi-faceted and nuanced, and then in a blink of an eye, cease? It seems highly unlikely to me. Conceptionally terrifying, so I remind myself how improbable it is. There is definitely more, there must be. I also really like the idea that we choose our lives. It resonates and feels likely to me. I know I would, absolutely, choose exactly this life. It is easy to picture myself, in some space between heaven and reality, making my wishes known. I'll need a poodle, a pink poodle. But to really believe that, to adopt it as canon, would require a fair amount of narcissism. It lends itself too easily to victim blaming also. My mortal self is not above either, I just would prefer to believe that the character of universe, the God/s, Fate would be.      

What sort of soul would choose to be Trump? Whether you admire or abhor 45-about-to-be-47, as an example he fits well. What sort of soul would choose to be him? I'm not wondering what sort of mortal wants to be president, that's an entirely different question and holds no interest for me. What I want to know is, what would an immortal soul hope to experience via being Trump? What about say Dahmer? Or Jesus? Or Sigmond Freud's mother. Why would a soul choose to be any of them? Why would a soul choose to be any of the faceless masses who never, ever, even try to pursue their passions? 

So, I like the concept, I'm just not entirely sold on it. But I'm going to imagine that 73 years ago today, a couple of souls were hanging out in the space between waiting for their options. Then the being in charge said we have 2 spots left today. You can be an incredibly successful author, and talented artist, gay, English and handsome. Or you can be (censored to protect my mother's privacy) and Cassidy's mom. Then the earthbound souls arm wrestled to decide who got to hang out with me this time. 

Hopelessly Devoted

Sometimes I wish I was one of those people who only smoke when they have a drink, or when they hang out with their bad influence friend. There was a girl I knew in high school, I'm pretty sure to this very day her mother never knew she smoked, but she puffed a pack or more every weekend for years. Sadly, I'm just not that kind of girl. My DNA dictated I was destined to be the bad influence friend. 

It's OK, bad influence DNA also comes with gravity defying titties. 

Depending on your calculations, it took me 18 months or 30 years to quit. If I am being honest, the attempts before January of 2018 shouldn't be counted. I started smoking in 8th grade, in the beginning it was only on rare occasions. By 9th grade my Texas boyfriend was making fun of me for wasting the cigarettes I smoked because I didn't inhale. On the timeline that brought me here another boy taught me how to inhale during an extended visit back home. He is certain that he didn't. I am more inclined to believe in shifting timelines than to imagine either of us might be mistaken. 

I can't claim I didn't know smoking was bad for you when I started. Boomers can sincerely claim they didn't, but every pack I've ever bought came with a surgeon general's warning. Yul Brynner's, my first bald crush, postmortem PSA aired the same year I sparked up the first time. I absolutely knew, even at 12 and 13, that smoking smells disgusting, that it was a waste of money, and that it caused lung cancer. At 12 and 13 all of my friends smoked, so we all smelled gross together. At 12 and 13 I didn't have many bills, but I had a job. Besides, I assumed I'd be really wealthy when I was an adult. And at 12 and 13 I knew there would be a cure for lung cancer long before it was a concern for me. 

Every 12-year-old is naive, but I may have been especially so.  

At the drive-in when Sandy said, Tell me about it stud, 6-year-old me knew, first chance I got, that was the who I was going to be. 

Took it, and I was. 

I am.  

Motivation is a weird concept for me. I don't tend to have a lot of it, but I don't seem to need a lot of it either. Things just work out for me. On the rare occasion I find something challenging, I just turn my attention to something that isn't. Fuck it, the world is full of so many cool things, why waste time on the difficult ones? A dozen times I had reasons to quit, and I tried. I went an hour, sometimes several hours, a couple times I went most of a day not having a cigarette. Then I got uncomfortable, annoyed, cranky and said why am I doing this to myself? I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, and I'll have wasted these hours being uncomfortable that I could have been enjoying myself and a smoke. And that was that, I had tried. 

Then Fate was like, hey remember that one boy? How would you like a chance to impress him now? 

Oh, remember how cool he was in 1991? You won't believe this, that wasn't his peak. 

Whatcha got? What exactly are you doing that might wow him?  

It really is so embarrassing, but that's where I found my motivation. I wanted to impress a boy I felt like I had failed to impress when I was a teenager. 

I invite you to peruse my follows, it is not often that I fail to make an impression.  

Does it matter what sparked it, tobacco is a sacred offering. 

It took 18 months, January of 2018 through August of 2019. In the rearview I see it all as one attempt, the one and only successful attempt. It took months to master day 2, and I'd take a few days off from trying after I caved. It seems like it jumped. Once I could get through 2 days, a week became my breaking point. I'd be so proud of myself for making it so far that I'd feel justified having a little secret treat. I'd rationalize that maybe I can be one of those girls who just smokes occasionally. Nope, definitely not and there I'd be back at the beginning. Each time I'd remind myself with consent berating, if you hadn't fucked up, you'd be past this part forever. You choose this discomfort. You know nowl exactly how frustrating it is. You knew that you are going to feel like you are going insane and here we are having to go through it again. But I did, over and over again until I pushed through that too. 

I made it through my mother's services without slipping, that seems proof enough that I'll be an ex-smoker forever now. But still sometimes I wish I was the kind of person who could just indulge occasionally.