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.