The New Client

I like new clients. Well, I like all my clients, but new clients are a bit like trying a meal you’re almost certain you’ll like. I’m very particular during my interview process, so I only rarely end up with a dud.. and when I do, it’s usually so I can have stories to tell. Like that one time I was fisting a client, and all he could talk about was how his house was near this famous rockstar’s, “but not TOO close.”

You’re the reason I use ballgags.

Anyway, once in a while, I get a lovely email from a potential new client, and I know instantly that we’ll hit it off. Case in point, Little M:

Many thanks for your reply. Yes, I would love to tell you about my experiences and interests. I did have
2 sessions in the past (a few years ago) and one was with a friend so the excitement was limited to giggles for us both. I am 38 years old but I can become shy very quickly in the company of the right lady hahah. I have experienced bondage, worshipping (sic), some pegging training and light I do love the psychological aspect of play as I find eye contact can be such a powerful thing, even without touch. This is why I have a huge love of this.

I also am a huge latex/leather lover and own my own small collection of items like masks and catsuit, gloves etc. I know this is not everyone’s interest so I don’t expect it to be fulfilled always. It is to please someone else that I aspire to. I also have a sense of humour and I have a regular life so this passion does not rule my life. I remember seeing your profile a long time back on fetlife and have wanted to contact you since then. Your mannerly yet stern profile had me intrigued instantly. This weekend I
was not able to find any contact details for you so I googled [my name and city] and found an email for you. I hope that this isn’t too much or I can provide whatever more you wish to know. I am a very positive person
with a fulltime job and good lifetime friends, meaning I am not clingy or desperate. But I do have this dark side that I feel I must pursue further seeing as we all only live once. 

 I hope you can relate to some of this and we can talk further.

Thank you,

Oh, you’re oh-so-welcome, M. Let’s play. You may be just what I need right now…fresh meat

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I’m Not Pretty Right Now

My best friend back home just bought a house. The photos are beautiful. Her husband is great with their daughter. I have another friend who just had a son. She posts photos on facebook of him holding their son. I bet he helps with the feeds. I bet he never blames her for her post partum depression.

You can never trust what you see on facebook; that much, everyone should know. Still, I can’t help but look at those photos, longingly. My sons deserve that life; *I* deserved that life. A beautiful home with a loving partner who takes late night feeds or holds his children close. I’m not pretty; I’m green. I want it. I don’t want to take it from them, I just want the same thing.

I have my housemate. She stays up with my baby. She takes late night feeds and my sons love her… and one day, she won’t be here. She will go back to her home, to her sons, and I’ll carry on.

I don’t feel like a particularly pretty person, right now.

envy

That Time My Boobs Reached Critical Mass

The thing about breast feeding is, your breasts will change size throughout the day. For someone like me, who can produce up to 18 ounces in a single pumping session, the change in how I look from before to after can be quite dramatic.

Cue to me, at my vanilla job, riding the lift. I drop something and look down:

Me: “Oh my gosh. OH MY GOSH! MY BOOBS HAVE REACHED CRITICAL MASS!!!”

Coworker: “Are you allowed to say things like this near me?”

Me: “THE BRA CANNA’ HOLD THEM MUCH LONGER, CAPN!”

Coworker: “You came back too soon from maternity leave.”

Sometimes, I fail at being the aloof Domme.

Why are all my pix of Katy Perry

Only me…

“I can’t talk to Lady M.” Special K is texting me about his dilemma.

“Oh?” I text back. “Why is that?”

“Because my girlfriend is dating my lover, so I can’t talk to either of them about the other, even though I generally talk to both of them to get their insights.”

Apparently, this is the problem with being possibly-bi, and dating your boyfriend’s lover…

I can’t tell if I feel incredibly modern, or deeply confused. I’m opting to merge the two into “incredibly deep,” and “modernly confused.”

my dating life

Lady M had kissed me at her birthday party as Special K and I had left. After over a year of not drinking, I had had three glasses of white wine, in a row, and proceeded to suck K’s face nearly off of his head. The poor dear may be disfigured for life.

“Did that…? Did she…?” I stuttered, like a bad scene from a film.

“It did. She did. I think she’s interested in you,” K says, while walking me out. I decide, as I do, to take control of the situation, so I ask Lady M out on a date. Because, why the hell not.

“So…. are you bi now, or something?” My friend texts me after the date, in which nothing happened other than me shoving Lady M up against a concrete wall on a drizzly evening for a quick kiss. The truth is, I’ve never thought much about my sexuality. It’s there. I’m attracted to people whom I find attractive. Some of these people are conventionally attractive, many are not. Some are men, but a few have been women, and some have even eschewed the gender-binary structure, altogether. I try to find a witty and insightful way to sum all of this up for my friend in New York.

“Meh,” was about the best I can do, because apparently my brain hit a heretofore unknown word limit.

I’m mostly-straight, certainly kinky, not overly interested in how my lover(s) sees him- or herself, but I find random things unattractive and off-putting. Is there a title for that? That’s my sexuality, I suppose.

“So, who do I talk to now, about my girlfriend and my lover?!” Special K is making a big show of his predicament, in an attempt to make me smile. Foolish sub; the heart of a Domme is made of ice and the tears of little subs like you…

I smile.

DAMMIT! He’s good…

“Hard for you to talk to anyone, once I get that ball-gag in your mouth, isn’t it?!” I type back.

“Touché,” he says. Or something else cute. I can’t read his texts; I’m thinking about him, struggling, his pretty mouth stretched around a black rubber ball.

Mmmmm…. sorry, what was I saying??

My Body As Currency

Dom R was in town, today. He asked if I wanted to see him, and I said yes. I meant it, at the time. Because I care for him. He was 100% there for me when I realised that my marriage was a lie and I had to leave my husband. R was loving and supportive, and such a great….. kid. He’s not much younger than me in years, but the differences in our life experiences is vast. So vast, in fact, that sometimes I’m almost certain he can’t see where I am and what I’m really struggling with.

He came to visit, and Summer took my littlest boy. My older son was out with his father, so that left me and Dom R alone…

“Do you want to go to your room?” he asks me, suggestively. One year ago, I would have jumped at the chance.

“If we go to my room, I’m going to take a nap,” I respond.

“Do you mean nap, or ‘nap‘?”

“I mean NAP, motherfucker. I’m tired. I have two kids.” I think that put a dampener on things. But FUCK. What the fuck do people expect from me? I had to go back to my vanilla job this week; I can’t stay out on maternity leave, no matter how much I love spending time with my baby, because I’m the sole source of financial security for my family; the ex pays NOTHING in support for the boys. Shoes on their feet, clothes on their back, roof over their head? That’s all my work. And in walks Dom R, who asks me if I want to go down to my room with him and give him a blowjob?

And do you know the worst part? The worst part is, I was tempted. Not because I was aroused and wanted to do it, but because he’s such a nice guy. He really is. He was there for me, and he had driven down, and I know he cares for me. A part of me kept pushing:

“Just do it. Just make him happy. Why not?” went the little voice in my head.

Why not? Because it’s MY BODY, and I DON’T WANT TO. What have I been doing for the past 6 months, if not working toward a life where I do what I want with my time and my body?

“He’s such a nice guy…” Yeah. Yeah, maybe he is, but I DON’T WANT TO.

Why am I fighting with myself? Dom R wasn’t pressuring me; it was all something inside of me, compelling me to just make things easy. Why resist? Just make it easy. But then, I suppose that’s how I got into a 9 year relationship with a man who would step over me when I collapsed in the kitchen, and told me to “stop faking it.”

Honey, I faked loads of things in our marriage: fake laughs at your jokes, fake interest in your stupid rambling, and not the least of all, fake orgasms. I sure as shit NEVER faked having asthma… but I also won’t be faking interest in something sexual, if I don’t honestly want to do it. That time has past.

In my head, I turned away from that voice, and let the comments get further and further away from me. Because my body is not currency for your niceness and time.

I May Throw Up… wish me luck

Mediation is three rounds: the first is visitation, the second discusses the finances of support for my children, the third is to finalise all agreements.

Visitation was easy, because I want him spending time with his sons. Finances will be hard, because from the start, he hasn’t wanted to pay anything. For myself, I don’t care; I can support myself, and even my sons, without him. That’s not the point. The point is, the soon-to-be-ex-husband doesn’t want to support his children.

Even just speaking of my vanilla job, I have always made at least twice what the husband made, and I didn’t mind that, because he loved his job and I loved him. So, when I knew we had to separate, I didn’t anticipate him spending tens of thousands on our kids; he makes almost nothing, that would be insane. But on almost every purchase since the split, he has fought me. He can’t help buy this or that for them, because he makes so little. I tried to explain that ANYTHING he makes is more than what I’m bringing in, if I’m on unpaid maternity leave. He won’t hear it. Surely, he says, your family will pay for whatever you need.

No, I say, they’re our children. They’re OUR responsibility. Yes, my family will help, but they’re not bottomless pits of cash, either.

It twists my gut to have these fights. This isn’t the man I married; where did he go? Where is the man who held my hand while my step father and my mom went through round after round of chemo? Sometimes, when the boys are asleep, I sob in bed. One time, I was reading the bedtime stories to my eldest, and I just started crying in the middle of it. Poor Curious George had a hard time at the zoo that day. My eldest held my hand and told me he loved me. A 3 year old was a more mature man than my husband.

Today is the second round of mediation. Wish me luck. Today, I battle with my ex-partner for him to show signs of giving a shit about the two amazing kids he brought into this world. What a way to spend a Friday.

Bye Bye, Bi

Lady M is French, the kind of French where you’re unbearably chic. She’s exactly the type of French that can throw her messy, after-sex-hair on top of her head, and start a new fashion trend. She wore a black silk shirt, black jacket, black heels, and dark jeans on our date, last night.

“Does this mean you’re bi, now?!” My friend H asked, excitedly over text. We always fantasise about running away together and being hetero lifemates.

“I don’t think so, no.”

Lady M had already ordered sangrias when I got there, and thank fuck for that. My first Date with a Woman. Not a “date,” and not a “girlfriend.” A Date. A Woman. A French Woman who runs the Bi-Women’s group in my area. I hadn’t even thought she had any interest in me, until Special K and I left her birthday party a few weeks earlier, and she planted a serious kiss on me. So, I pretty much walked straight into my glass, and tried desperately to channel my inner Domme and get control of the tone of the evening. If anyone was going to be nervous about this date, it would be her, dangit! I’m a Domme and stuff. Rawr!

“So, did you two kiss?!” H is a fast typist on the iPhone.

Lady M is French… which would have been a good thing to remember when I managed an awkward half-hug, and she pulled me back to do a second cheek-kiss, as the French do. I pulled out the flogger in my head and demanded that the inner butterflies calm the fuck down. I looked at M over her glass; despite her initial kiss, she was spending quite a bit of time on her phone. Hm… I have to get a sitter for the kids and find clothes without baby puke on them, and she’s chatting away online?

Not. Thrilled.

The food was good, and when we chatted, it was about music and literature and the perils of extricating oneself from smothering relationships. I make a Virginia Woolf joke about having “a room of one’s own.” I don’t think she caught it, but my inner feminist gave me a mini high-five. Dessert was a hot chocolate fudge brownie, because calories don’t count when you’re on your first lesbian date.

And there, outside of the little Cuban restaurant, up against the wall in the light drizzling rain, I kissed her. I kissed Lady M.

There weren’t fireworks, and I didn’t immediately feel my “Bisexuals Membership” card spontaneously grow in my wallet, but it was nice. She was nice. She’s easy to be near. And maybe, more than her genitalia, “easy and breezy” is just what I need right now.

The Perils of Skype, and Chinese Buttplugs

It’s hard living so far away from your family…

Actually, it’s not hard at all, and I fucking LOVE it. I really thought that I wouldn’t, and I certainly miss some of them, sometimes. But distance gives you the advantage of perspective. For example, you may ask yourself, “How can I POSSIBLY be a Domme, and yet stay in an emotionally abusive and neglectful relationship for so long?!” But, then you look at the relationship models near you, and a small little cracked light bulb clicks on. “Ohhhhhhhh,” you say to yourself, “right.”

But, not seeing family IRL often, means that they want to Skype. Natural, and easy; as soon as you get annoying, I can click a button, and you’re gone. That is, until your oldest son finds the new inflatable toy you’ve purchased for your clients, and comes running into the room screaming, “mama!! A BALLOOOOOOOOOON!” and your roommate collapses in gigglefits on the floor as you desperately try to stop oldest from showing the new buttplug to his grandfather. His EXTREMELY RELIGIOUS grandfather. I have never flying-tackled a 3 year old, before, but I can safely say that that is now ticked off of my bucket list. ….and that I need to start putting a lock on my toy box.

I swear, you can’t make this up.