I Don't Promise This Is Pretty

Today I finally had the routine ob-gyn checkup I've been overdue for. My doc left her previous practice and it took some doing to chase her down and get into the new practice. I took that trouble because she was great and I need great lady docs, especially for the lady parts. That's just Me.

All that, and it was still a moderately rotten experience. First bad sign: the clear sealed bag containing the metal speculum. Metal? Who still uses metal for this?  Uh-oh. Then I asked if they had a smaller one, the nurse said yes, pulled out another, set it next to the first and left.  Door closes, I pick up my giant Kleenex cape and go look, only to find yeah, she was bullshitting Me. It's exactly the same marking, size, sku, the whole enchilada. Lying to Me is not good, and really not when someone is about to put that lying stainless steel in My tender coochie.

Then I look at the lube. It's sort of a generic KY, water based, doesn't claim to be sterile, and it's already got a couple squeezes out of it. Ok, that's not a deal killer if done with proper technique but hell's bells, I have single serving packs of steri-lube at home. My medical play is better than my medical office? This troubles me, while I also acknowledge that I'm bored and tense and prone to focus on things like this that maybe aren't all that important. Or alternatively, My intuition is picking up on something very important and how fast can I figure it out.

So I sit there, cuz that's what everyone in a paper dress about to be made to spread their legs really wants to do. And I quickly realize that much as I would dearly like to think I don't need half a Xanax for this, it really would have been a fine choice. I'm not hugely worked up, I'm not spinning disaster scenarios or anything.  I'm just all Buddhist mindful about huh, yeah, I'm tense, and I know this about myself, and why did I so lack compassion for myself that I didn't do the obvious to manage it. I'm tense enough I completely forget that I do KEEP a halfa something xanaxy in a deep dark unused corner of my coin purse...For almost exactly *this* kind of oh-shit situation. But I'm all-in now, and the part of my brain that plans that sort of stuff isn't in the room.

So she comes in, hi how are ya, good fine great. Sorry to keep you waiting (can't recall the last time a doc didn't keep me waiting, can you? This is just ritual now, that passingly annoys me.) cuz I know how much you're probably enjoying sitting there in a paper dress. 

Right. Is this like, post-modern irony we're going for or what? 

She has me lay down and I'm immediately aware this isn't right. My butt isn't dangling off the table bizarrely enough, the stirrups are somehow not in the usual position. She goes to get the (grimace) metal speculum and substandard lube and says: now I just want to let you know I've been having a little trouble with the PAPs lately so if it's not going well, I'll just pop out and go get NAME and she's great, you'll love her, cuz it just kinda depends on the day, you know, and between the two of us we always are fine.

It flitted through my mind that 1. This Adam Sandler in Wedding Singer-ish should have been brought to my attention earlier when I was actually not already highly vulnerable, I'd been suckered and 2. W.T.F. What Doctor admits to having an off day and how do I feel about that?   and 3.  RUN!!!  But I didn't, partly because the weight of the power imbalance inherent in most medical dynamics had already had the intended disempowering effect on me and two, I gots no fallback position. This is my gal, my prior visits with her were great, I have to believe those soberly formed positive impressions have validity. So she's having an off day, these things happen. I admire her for naming it and having a plan. That's what I'd do. 

Plus I waited four months to get this appointment and took three hours off from my yes-in-2016-we-no-longer-get-sick-leave job.  Nothing like finding yourself blindsided without options to keep you in frozen place.

So forward things go. That's ok, right? It's an article of faith no one enjoys this, right? We can all agree on that. And as accurately predicted by the doc's negative self talk, she can't do the PAP today. The angle is wrong, it pinches like holy fuck. I am NOT in a mind frame to be chill about it, and I'm waaaay too tense. The only person getting that damned cold thing in me is me. After thankfully only two tries, she bails and has the blessed sense (I knew I liked her for good reasons) to call NAME, who comes in with the bubbly personality of a freaking cheerleader, bends over at the waist so she can look at me straight on, a la Detective Goran, and then gets down to it. As she begins prodding again, she asks how many kids I have. Doc lady and I answer together "None" and NAME begins commenting on how deep my cervix is, so incredibly deep. I know this because I can feel the damned speculum coming out my spine on the other side. Now we're back to veeery significant, pinchy intense excruciating are-you-fucking-kidding-me discomfort. I have no idea what she is doing or where she is in the process or how far away the finish line is, I'm only capable of gasping and grunting and trying not to 1. Cry 2. Tense 3. Punch 4. Run 5. Pass out. Then it occurs to me passing out might be the best choice.  Oh, yes, no kids, cervix so closed, very difficult, so much easier if you've had kids.  I'm being blamed for this whole nightmare, and I know that's fucked up, and it makes me mad, mad makes me want to cry, but a bigger part is just in whatever-you-do-don't-move-for-God's-sake mode.

The Doc is now upset enough that she looks uncomfortable, she's actually trying to soothe me by stroking my leg a bit, and that act of kindness both registers and makes me want to completely disintegrate, maybe cuz the person I came in counting on, I can't count on, and I don't have any idea who this cheerleader painfully up my junk is. It feels like we're all in a blender and nobody has any control over what's happening in this room... to me.  It's not good. And for a split second, it feels absolutely barbaric, it's the fucking Spanish Inquisition and nothing has changed.

Across this little narrative arc, part of me is watching me watch this. And another part of me is aware of doing so. And another part is counting how many different levels there are of me watching. And another is saying: you know what this is, this is dissociation, it's a trauma response.

Then it's done. We say what needs to be said. I cannot recall what that might have been. I get dressed. And here's where I land as I'm pulling on my socks:

1A. I'm bringing my own damned lube next time. Really, something thinner and more liquid. You could lube car parts with that thick shit. I don't use that crap on My pussy at home, don't see why we can't crack open a new bottle of the good stuff next time.

1B. I'm putting in my phone, in the contact for the doctor, next to her name so I can't miss it: "take the f-ing Xanax when you exit car".

2. I'm bringing my own damned speculum. It's gonna be the finest fucking plastic speculum in the world. I will find where to buy it. I will learn my size and once I do, I'm buying a box of em. I will happily overpay for this.  Fuck it.

3. I'm throwing down the gauntlet to the world: invent me a stealth speculum-dildo that I can insert my Own. Damned. Self. and then doc lady can maybe attach a handle to open it once in place. Man on the moon. Rover on fucking Mars. This can NOT be that difficult.  Want something done right, do it yourself.

4. I'm bringing My boy and during the paper dress wait, it is his job to turn Me on with every kinky skill and head trip he knows. And I'm telling the doc I'm not unlocking the door until I've had a good cum in the exam room.  I need to be relaxed and I bet that cervix will open up a little with a good warm cum.  Make everyone's life easier.  Why the fuck can't eroticism have a place in all this? Boy also makes me a sexy recording I play on headphones, so I have a backup plan.

5. I'm bringing a damned wedge pillow so I can tip my ass off the table properly and I'm write down that I gotta tell them to raise the table back, which will shift the historically deep, unbreached cervix down and make it more accessible.  I know I'm a Dominant,  but do I have to think of absolutely EVERYTHING, people?

I leave the office, get in the car. Don't really want to return to the office, I've been through the wringer here. Seems unwise to get on the rainy freeway just now. I'm hungry. I head for Starbucks for an egg sandwich and when I get to there three lights away, I'm falling apart. Shakey and weepy. Something akin to suddenly and intensely depressed. I eat the sandwich and wait it out, working to allow it and be compassionate and let it go. I go to the grocery store and seriously consider buying myself roses, but they are beat up crappy roses. I have standards. I give myself persmission to go to a real florist for roses that smell and look good. I go back, sit in the car, turn on the heated seat. And wait. And remind myself this is a trauma response. It's completely natural. It's just your brain coping with something scary and unpleasant that, hey good news alert, you already survived. There's no story. There don't have to be any emotions. It doesn't have to be anyone's fault. It's just energy, just your body discharging the adrenaline and epinephrine that dumped into your system when you wanted to run away, and couldn't, and it got stuck for a while when you forced yourself to endure. It will pass, you will live.

I was shot after that. I made it back to the office but I was done. I immediately noticed My filters weren't in place, so I made sure I didn't talk.  I deeply missed my now-moved-away massage therapist / healer. And I longed heartily for a gigantic corner bathtub at home.  And eventually, in a few hours, I became engaged in something related to the music I love.  And I forgot about it.

I didn't stuff it, I didn't block it, I let the wave pass through and then it was gone.

I'm very proud of that.

Wisdom To Know The Difference

Six weeks ago I wrote of My anticipation before a work trip that would allow Me to spend 24 hours with My special boy john, while Chloe his Madame was away on a tropical cruise.**  It was tricky for Me to fly (carry-ons only) with colleagues to headquarters Thursday morning for a very short overnight trip, and squeeze in a kinky play date that night while we all stayed at the same hotel and travelled in a pack. I had expended political capital to take some PTO and reserve a later flight back so that john and I could have Friday together. Things were popping in the office, but My boss was gracious about respecting My plans.

I had sent a FedX of important kink toys to john to transport from his side, and he had sent Me one of the two keys to his chastity cage lock. It was a bit nerve wracking, but both packages reached their destinations in time.

I got lucky and unexpectedly My boss travelled a day early, another colleague had a family emergency, so there was only one colleague to travel with. My Uber didn't show up when I left home, and I barely made the flight after being pulled aside so that TSA could decide for itself that the lavender bath salts john would be using in My pamper session were not actually explosives. So far so good.

I had extensively war-gamed the hotel check-in process, trying to figure out how to get a room both away from the colleagues and at the end of a hall to minimize the likelihood of a kinky-noises complaint. I knew I couldn't put a note into the corporate travel system and I didn't trust a call to the concierge to be handled discretely, just as a I didn't dare FedX the box to the hotel. It was all very stealthy. I had made it a point to graciously invite My colleague to precede Me through doors as we worked our way across the country, so that when we reached the hotel check-in, she was accustomed to Me waving her on... so I could hang back and scope out the situation.

The fates were with Me. She went to the left end of a long counter in a very open atrium where voices don't carry. I beelined to the extreme opposite end and in the process, caught the eye of a sweet young, seemingly gay man behind the counter who I felt would be the most sympathetic to My impeding request. As I caught his eye, I slightly waved him to the far end of the counter and asked if he would be available to help Me with a special request. He tripped on the carpet and said yes at the same time. With one eye discretely on My colleague just out of earshot, I quickly leaned in conspiratorially and said:

"That lady with the red hair is My work colleague. I like her very much but I need you to very discretely give Me a room as far away from her as possible and ideally at the end of the hall. Because I have a Life."

The young man readily caught My drift and played along, "You and me both, Sister!"

"Wonderful. Thank you so *very* much!  This is the name of My boss who has already checked in," I said as I discretely and quickly slid a piece of paper over the counter to him, "I need you to keep Me away from him to. And don't let My colleague know where the room is."  I smiled winningly.

The young man was clearly enjoying this. I was pleased and relieved that My past experience with gay men responding supportively to a Female Dominant was holding true. He asked several follow up questions about room location and I let him know My activities might be both loud and somewhat unusual, and I would just hate to disturb other guests in any way. This took his engagement in the conspiracy to a much higher level.

When it was all over, I had a room six floors above any colleague, in a laughably isolated location in the oddly shaped building. You literally could not get any further from the elevators. It was also a major upgrade.  Half of a suite, the other half unoccupied. I was actually behind two key controlled doors and had My own sliding door leading to a furnished patio overlooking the river.  It was fantastic.  I wanted so much to do Terrible Things to john out there.

All the logistical complications I had  foreseen continued to work themselves out, in that magical way One can never summon on command. The work meeting ran on time. The work dinner gathering was close to the hotel so john could easily converge with Me. The work dinner broke up early and transport was fast, so I had nearly the whole evening free.

There was only one teensy-weensy glitch in this otherwise perfect unfolding. john never made it.

He had mentioned pain several days previously and I had recommended he see a doctor about it. But Madame was out of the country, john was locked in chastity, and he didn't want to non-consensually expose vanilla medical staff to his chastity device, so he waited. But by the morning of My departure, he was in extremis. While I could not speak for Madame, I said that if he were Mine, I would want him to break chastity and seek help for what had clearly become a medically emergent condition.  And that is what he did. 

So as I spent the night in My posh, kink-friendly hotel room gazing out at the river across My 12th floor hotel patio, john was home recuperating in painkiller la-la land.

Last week I posted about My excitement over a new boy, wonderful in every way I could identify after a month of correspondence and three dates. This week that boy has vanished, as the enthusiastic, long-pent-up ones so often do. It is another case of everything great, except for just that one little thing in the showing-up department.

I wasn't thrilled in either case. I hate when I invest significant time and energy in an undertaking, really get My hopes up good, and it doesn't come to fruition. I just hate being disappointed.  But it happens sometimes. Interestingly, I handle it better now that I am a Dominant.  Being in the lifestyle gives us a vocabulary for control and gives us people and situations that invite, even necessitate, explicit talk about control and power. Being kinky makes power visible in My life, it gives Me X-ray vision to see it.  And as a result, I have a much clearer sense now about what is in My control and what isn't.  And though genuinely disappointed, I handle the disappointments better because I know now when to let go. Knowing how to have total control when I want it frees Me from reflexively wanting it and unthinkingly clinging to it.  It comes back to the serenity prayer. Being Dominantly kinky has given Me much more of "the Wisdom to know the difference."

Sweet john felt absolutely terrible about the necessity of cancelling, of course, and I found Myself in an unfamiliar city alone on a blustery Friday. It was a dear thing that he provided tour organizer service for Me, researching on the fly, figuring out what it made sense to do with the time and the logistics of navigating city, baggage, and airport departure. My dear boy couldn't be with Me in body, but I felt close to him nonetheless as I toured the historic district, sharing updates with him along the way, knowing he had walked the same route himself. A week later, the FedX of toys was back in My hands having never been opened. And the chastity key I had been wearing remains here, where it joins the small pile of other john momentoes, mostly short pieces of rattan that have broken off the canes he has made and I have used to whip him.

Perhaps one day, that story will be told.

** Chloe has mentioned planning for this play date in Her blog, and all arrangements were made with Her generous consent and blessing.

Excitement

All this garden talk is functioning as a form of self-distraction from My excitement at having met a new boy. It is early days for him individually, as well as for U/us as a pair, but I'm feeling some unexpected and different feels about the new start this time around.

I love New Relationship Energy (NRE), truly I do, but it's like an angora sweater for Me. NRE both feels wonderful and makes Me antsy-itchy, unable to block out the sensations. Patience is not necessarily My long suit, and getting to know someone new is absolutely a process that takes time... particularly when there are children, a new job, and it's the holidays. That he seems to feel similarly impatient makes Me feel wonderful, but doesn't make the itchy go away. NRE has a certain hungry, devouring quality to it, a desire to just be voracious about the deliciousness until desire is satiated. It's annoying.  Fantastically wonderful, precisely what I want, and simultaneously also really fscking unbearably *annoying* at the same time.

I feel like a five year old demanding My toy be returned.  NOW!!  I'm not entirely comfortable with that on some level. I like to think I'm a level-headed, reasonable person. Something about NRE feels deeply unreasonable.  Primal. And let's be honest, it's sufficiently early days that I am still trying to make a good impression, to build a base of trust. It isn't prudent to let the voracious Beast be seen yet.  It's enough that the rattling of Beast chains can be faintly heard from a comfortable distance.

Come closer, little boy. Nothing's going to hurt you.

The boy is on work travel right now, and I had him text Me a photo of him kneeling in a far away hotel room, to please Me fundamentally, and to give us both a feeling of connection. The first photo he sent had a look of deep intensity and concentration on his face. I had him take a second - smiling - and I'm enjoying flipping back and forth between them.  It's a kind of emotional parallax, for he is, of course, fully and completely himself in both.

Last spring, I gave up on one of the portals where I had a profile, then in August, I posted a new non-profile there... a summary of the things I find Myself saying to all the boys I meet online who aren't sound prospects. The profile of Me turned into The World According to Me. I figured by not trying to attract, I would discourage the many, and only a few worthies would surmount the hurdle.  I even specified they must read and report on a specific book before I would proceed with them.  This new boy is one of only three thus far to read the book, and the only one to submit a typed and thoughtful book report. It's become clear he has been watching Me for a while online, he has remarked upon the changes in the changed profile and he has remarked upon photos posted to another portal which were later removed. I'm glad he has been very deliberate and I'm glad he has taken the time to reflect on My writing for a number of months.  I wanted an earnest prospect, and I have one.  I am pleased.

I've had him do a little service for Me already, some schlepping, some vacuuming and sweeping.  It's much more fun than usual, because he is motivated and he is FAST.  It's like the scene in Mary Poppins where the nursery cleans itself while Mary sings. It's that feeling of driving a sportscar I have written about.  The concept of boy as force multiplier appeals to him, and he had said he believes I am worthy of having My force multiplied.

If Santa leaves nothing under the tree for Me, but the new boy pans out, I will have gotten everything I wanted for Christmas.

In the past, I might not have written that. I might have been afraid to jinx it.  But living out loud is working for Me, and I'm not going back.

Kiss My Two Lips

The riotous tulip bulb acquisition process went to the next level today at the garden center. Stopped by to get a wreath and wandered pleasurably among the holiday tents until coming to a screeching halt in a tent filled entirely with infinite varieties of tulips bulbs. Lovely, unusual things with fringe, peony-like petals, multiple colors, interesting shapes.  They say that every gardener with 10 feet wants 10 acres, and it's absolutely true that the longer I am at My beloved Better Home and Garden and Dungeon, the more I yearn for more land.  It makes Me crazy that the neighbor has four times the yard and wants nothing but grass! With another 25 bulbs in the equation, the need for hardware cloth to avoid squirrel scavenging is now acute. Then again, wouldn't it be a beautiful extravagance to force a few of these glorious bulbs at a time, all through the winter?

The amaryllis bulb has survived shock and sent up a strong shoot. I'm babying it with trips to the sunshine, and so doing has Me lusting after a bay window in the living room.  Definitely on the nice-to-have list, below the must-have: two west-facing upstairs windows that actually close properly.

It was a pleasure to hang from the front door My new holiday swag wreath of conifers, accented with boxwood and some berries. The plan is to visit My wreath lady at market on Saturday morning and acquire the main wreath of conifer and magnolia, so the swag can hang inside and give Me fragrance.  I confess to persistent illicit fantasies of skulking about the jurisdiction at midnight, snips in hand, swiping sprigs of holly and other desirable decoratives.  I rely upon the Saturday market to keep Me an honest Woman.

Bedding the Garden

It's November-ish here at last this weekend in the mid-Atlantic.  Yesterday I made a trip to garden center and came home with not only the two bags of organic manure I needed  (bio accumulation, folks!), but also a bunch of free burlap bags and about 60 crocus bulbs.

Without really meaning to, I've gone bulb crazy in the last week.  First, I went next door to where My now-departed elderly neighbor had a bed of fantastic, deep velvety purple bearded iris, just down slope from the dogwood. The new owner wants only the ideal suburban grass lawn, and has sadly pulled out the beautiful rose bushes, mowing over the iris patch all season long.  It was hard to watch, but I held My tongue and arranged to "help" achieve his lawn goals by pulling the bulbs in the fall. On hands and knees, I combed through the grass and assorted weeds and found eight spears that are clearly iris.  The bulbs were right at the surface where I didn't expect them.  Aren't they supposed to be about 6" under?  Oh, well, it's a well established and successful patch.  Now they have a new home in a large galvanized tub, and I hope that in spring they will bloom again gloriously for Me, in memory of the elder gentleman I barely met.  For this act of purely selfish transplantation alone, the new owner now introduces Me as an environmentalist.

Then I broke up two bulbs of hardneck garlic and planted the cloves, in hope of spring garlic scapes and expanding over several years to achieve total garlic self-sufficiency, on par with Italian grandmothers of the Old Country. Once I discovered the hardnecks last year, I immediately spurned their fractious soft-necked relatives. The garlic are sort of scattered around wherever I could find room in the existing containers, and I have no idea how this experiment might work out.  But this is the fun of gardening, sometimes you just try and see what Life wants to do with your efforts.

As I planted the garlic, I came across three different places in which a brown, softly bark-y little bulb had already put up a 6" green shoot.  Absolutely no idea what these are.  I suspect squirrels have buried them for safe keeping.  It's not impossible the squirrels are redistributing a pile of small tulip bulbs from 18 months ago, but the foliage seems too reedy for a tulip. I know of no tree that drops a nut like this. So it's take-a-photo and show it to the next master gardener I see at the market. Whatever they are, they are sturdy little buggers, putting out no roots yet.  I have dug them up and re-positioned several times, with zero ill effects.

Finally, the crocus. I got a bag of 25 mixed white, yellow, purple, and purple striped.  Then another 35 of two kinds with purple stripes.  I wanted more yellow for contrast, but sold out.  There are now two large enamel pans planted, each with holes punched in the bottom.  One is a lovely white oval with black handles, the other was once the drawer of iris-neighbor's old fridge, and I pulled it from the trash for its obvious utility as a container.  They are now in the yard, with hole-punched ends aimed down grade, and folds of netting over top to stop squirrel raids until I can get some proper bulb-protecting wire grid. The bulbs had all sprouted in the bin at the store so I may very well have 60 crocus with My Christmas amaryllis.

Despite all this planting effort, I have very much put the garden to bed for the winter. Nearly everything that won't winter over - or has proven itself unworthy of the valuable limited real estate (I'm looking at you, ever expanding strawberries!) - is gone.  Many containers have been emptied, the soil broken up, root detrius combed out, organic matter will be stirred in soon so it can rest all winter. The chard has been positioned under a line tied off to the fence corners, allowing Me to tarp the containers during an overnight cold snap. My main concern at this point is that the burlap lining the metal wire containers is failing suddenly, all at once, so that the plants cannot get a good drink of water and the soil is running off.  I need to pull two rosemary, re-line with fresh burlap, and re-plant quickly.  Transplant shock plus a cold snap might do them in, and I was very fortunate all three wintered over last year.  The three lavender were not so lucky.  The big chard needs it too, but I think his days are numbered anyway, so I'm not going to bother.

Hopefully, come spring, the yard will be leveled and it will be possible to install permanent raised beds, putting the container approach into My urban brownfield of a backyard.  I suspect the neighbors do not love this front yard vegetable container garden but, hey, that's where the sun is.  Sharing herbs and tomatoes has thus far staved off a revolt, and it does give everyone in the neighborhood something to jaw about over the fences.

Pain, Pain, Go Away

It happens sometimes that I wake up in pain. If I'm unlucky, it persists through the day, the night, and into the next. This is the legacy of a cartoonish fall a few years back that would have been a sure winner on a funny home videos show.

Massage has made all the difference in My recovery and is the most important element of My day to day comfort.  I like to have new boys talk to Me while they massage whatever I extend, so that I can assess their instincts and skill.  It's curious to observe whether My body's opinion about a boy matches the conclusion of My analytical mind. A long-term boy would surely be dispatched to some attend semi-pro classes. Sometimes I can look back and recall the moment when I heard a click or snap in My body and thought, "Uh-oh". Sometimes it's, "Hmmm, maybe throwing those two big bags of topsoil in the trunk Myself wasn't such a hot idea." Sometimes, I just slept wrong or sat at the computer too many hours.  Sometimes the pain is a house pet that comes and goes at will.

This need for pain management nicely tees up a core challenge for Dominants... accepting the limits of our power and control.  We don't really have total control of much in the grand scheme of things, but people on both sides of the slash get a lot out of the fiction that we do, and out of the process of making the world bend.  At M/s conferences, there is sometimes a class on how to deal with situations in which the Dominant falls ill, needs surgery, or is otherwise unable to sustain the previously-normal degree of visible control  in the relationship.

It's a somewhat different thing, though, to have to surface the issue early in the get-to-know you process. The illusion of power doesn't get the chance to take hold, and that can be a bit more reality than many new-ish boys are ready to cope with.  As I live with the pain, I'm coming to accept it as just another facet of reality. As the acceptance happens, I'm more comfortable presenting it when it arises. We're all middle aged, everyone has something by now, this is My piece of it. I'm hopeful that the pain also has the effect of weeding out earlier the boys whom time would show to be unsuited, leaving only the gems.

We Midwesterners like to think we are made of hardy, tough stock. No whining. Soldier on. But I found this mindset doesn't actually work very well in a D/s dynamic. I really can't swing a flogger when I'm in pain, and it's not in anyone's best interest to try. Hiding pain is seldom successful and creates a question about what else I might be trying to hide.  Yet announcing this physical weakness doesn't mesh smoothly with My self image as a with-it Dominant, or what I believe most boys are hoping for.  I had to get to the point of having compassion - for My pain, My need to complain more than I think I should, for the body that is no longer resilient in the ways I took for granted - before I could accept it enough to make it an oh-by-the-way when talking to a new boy.

Pain management has taught Me to ask for and better receive service.  It has cut some of those Midwestern roots of self-sufficiency out from under Me, and put more focus on community, another fine Midwestern virtue.  Service meant less when it was limited to things like serving tea. I like tea, but its absence meant little to Me, so its appearance didn't mean a great deal more.  But to have an important service provided, something I can't actually do for Myself, something like massage for pain relief, that's a different thing.  It requires Me to be fully aware of My vulnerabilities, to admit them in the moment (Dominants love doing that), ask for help (another favorite Dominant pass time), and to trust someone to meet a need I would prefer to not even have. It requires Me to do several things I'd rather not, in order to receive a wonderful experience I do very much want.  In fact, I find now that the emotional significance of the service I receive is directly proportional to how much vulnerability I am willing to share.

After all, what can you really give the person who has everything?

I can't say I have enjoyed the process as it unfolded, but I like where it has taken Me.

Sweet Irony

On the slaveofmistress-s blog, SOS' spring post about not ironing his Mistress' clothing got Me thinking about how I would react in the same circumstances.  I love ironing.  It's meditative and an unusually primal feeling, one that carries a lot of happy in it. I've even toyed with acquiring some of the old cast iron irons, and fantasized about using them instead of My delightful Rowenta.  When I visit Mount Vernon and other historic homesteads, I am always particularly fascinated by the laundry house.  When I'm feeling nesty and have a little free time, I enjoy ironing My collection of linen tea towels, folding and stacking them neatly all together, far away from their lesser cotton bretheren.  Last time I got so in the zone that I ironed the linen sheets.  I enjoy laundry generally, perhaps because I lived over 15 years in a 4th floor walkup without a washer/dryer.  There's just something so comfortable and homey about the faint sounds of My little euro, front loading w/d set, whirring away.

Only one boy has ever attempted My laundry and it wasn't successful, despite clear instructions, since he insisted on loading the washer too tightly, using too much bleach, as well as occasionally melting My spandex clothes in a too-hot dryer.  As you might imagine, he's gone now.  I have developed a progression of tasks I train with a new boy, usually sweeping/vacuum first, then dishes. Only after trust is very well established will I ever again let a new boy upgrade My iOS. Laundry is about the last task I would entrust, not just because of the financial impact of errors, but because I'm a very sensual person, and I choose My garments first on the basis of fabric.  If a garment does not have a nice feel on My delicate skin, I don't even consider taking it into the dressing room. Silks, wools, cashmere, pima cotton, linen of every application I can find... My carefully chosen fabrics give Me a lot of pleasure, and I want them baby-ed to stay that way.

I haven't seen the post on how Mistress S handled SOS's failure to iron Her work clothes two mornings in a row. It would be a big deal to Me. I have a bit of a linen fetish and slipping into a pretty linen blouse in the summer, fresh and crisply ironed, is a rare form of delight.  Sliding in between two ironed linen sheets for the first time is such a feeling of joy and well-being. I don't care to be called a Queen, but ironed linen sheets make Me feel like Royalty indeed.  When I go to kinky camp, I love walking around wearing nothing but a large, gossamer piece of pretty linen, which doubles as clothing, towel, and all purpose, poolside accessory. If I had instructed that a linen blouse be ironed and ready for Me to wear to work, and was disappointed, yes, that would be a non-trivial problem for the boy responsible.

Someone once asked Me what is My personal definition of luxury.  I have long answered that it is visits to pristine tropical beaches and custom made clothing/shoes.  Both of those fantasy images assume ironing... the linen dress and deck towel at the beach, the custom linen blouses.  I will even admit to lusting over a Miele mangle. No room for it, of course. But a wonderful boy who loves to serve Me, to whom I could entrust My laundry, and even My ironing... now that would indeed be luxury of the highest order.