My wife today suggested that when we start living together again, we should go to 24/7 domination and submission. Not in so many words — she’s doesn’t read blogs or hang out with other people into the lifestyle she doesn’t know the language. But, this is what she said today: “Sometimes I feel like we’re off-kilter. Sometimes I feel completely in control and sometimes I feel a lack of control. I need to have all of the control…all of the time. Is that bad?”
I have come to realize something important: BDSM has made me ask questions I never thought I’d need to ask. The most important off which right now is, “How exactly does one go shopping for a bit?”
This is the first time I think I’ve written about something other than me and the wife and our play-habits.
As a brief aside, I need to come up with some clever name for my wife, because referring to her by her role in the marriage is a bit off – I feel like it diminishes her a bit because of the value we attach to wife as an inferior or an equal, and she shouldn’t be diminished. She’s the whole damn show for me, the axis mundi, the princess who makes me beg. If I were feeling particularly shameless, I’d give her one of those capitalized titles, like Mistress or Master, Queen, Goddess. But those names sound awesome in the bedroom while I’m getting pissed on, but kind of cheesy outside of that rarefied environment. (I’m convinced that 99% of all sex is cheesy outside of the bedroom. There are bloggers who can talk about that stuff and make me hot as hell, but it’s a rare talent.) I was thinking about calling her Antonina, after the wife of the general Belisarius, since I go by Belisarius on Fetish Lore, and I go by Belisarius specifically because he was a strong, powerful man who rumor claims was the utter slave of his wife. But Byzantine history bores the shit out of everybody but me and sounds super-affected, so maybe not. Or perhaps I’ll just use her porno name, or an initial, or something else. Regardless, it can wait til next post.
Anyway, everything I tell you in this blog is true except the bits about my work, and that’s true, just left entirely vague to protect my real name. I suspect anybody who knows us in real life would be able to put together UndertheBoot with my real identity in no time just based on dates we visit each other. I fib about what I’m doing in private to real life people – on this blog, I’m dead set on being honest. But for the most part, I’d be surprised if any of the 30 people who read this blog are any of the people who know me in real life, but still, the Internet makes it a small little world.
Anyway, back to the topic: I’ve said before that I don’t know that I could easily sub out to another Mistress, or buy into the whole FemSupremacy “women are better than men and a man’s natural place is to serve thing.” I think I might be able to have another sub around me and my wife, but even that’s very theoretical, like, a year away, before we feel that comfortable enough to even think about other people occasionally making appearances. But we’re talking about dommes, and one of the reasons why I don’t know that I feel comfortable around other dommes is because, fundamentally, I don’t trust a lot of other women to the degree necessary to do this stuff with them or expose myself while I’m doing this stuff with my wife, because I don’t trust myself to pick them.
With the sole exception of my wife, the women I’m drawn to in relationships and friendships fit a certain profile: tough, strong-willed, pretty, borderline bipolar, and fiercely possessive of me.
I have a friend right now who is a really dear friend. She’s my girl. In the absence of my wife, she’s somebody I spend a lot of time with. She’s gorgeous, but I’m not really attracted to her, because she’s very mercurial. One hour we’re buddies, the next hour she’s leaving me alone in her apartment to go do something because she’s pissed at me or somebody else. She invites me everywhere, and we’re great pals, and we have a ton in common, but…she fits the profile. And she’s great as long as she’s the focus of my attention. But if one of my female acquaintances comes along, she, and I quote, “shoots daggers at them with her eyes until they leave.” There’s definitely an ownership vibe there, but it’s a high school ownership vibe.
This is who I know I would be subbing out to if I ever went looking for another domme. This is who I attract, and who frankly would attract me if I weren’t happily married. And it’s unhealthy. And it’s why I don’t buy into the whole “female supremacy” thing — I dig on strong women. My wife is a strong woman, and I literally worship her. But a lot of the strong women in my life are not “healthy” strong, they’re “kind of broken” strong, and I know that on some level, I can’t tell the difference between the two until things have already gone dysfunctional. Part of me fantasizes about my wife and I finding the local scene or going off to the big city and finding other people to mix with and maybe even play around, but I know that I just don’t trust myself around other women, because I get these false flags off of the wrong girls.
Now, is my docile friendship with these possessive girls related to my submissiveness on some level? That’s what I’m working through as I write this. I don’t know — that is the $100,000,000 question. I think I’m a nice guy outside of the work place. My job places a premium on me enjoying the scent of blood in the water and a certain cold-blooded predatory nature, but it’s something that’s wholly focused on my work, and in my personal life I’m easy-going. My wife complains that I let friendships go until they’re beyond salvaging, that I don’t complain until it’s too late to save anything, and I suspect she’s right. But I don’t associate that with my submissiveness — to be honest, my relaxed attitude is a product of growing up in Southern California, and my submissiveness is deep and dark and limitless, a product of an entirely different part of me.
Now, my wife — she’s not threatened by these friends. A) We’ve been married for ten years. B) She strongly suspects that these fierce and unyielding girls are tame little pussycats in the bedroom, and not capable of whipping me with a belt until I turn red or wearing a strap-on and breaking my ass in half. C) My wife is, perhaps because she’s so nice and sweet, very, very comfortable in her own skin. And most importantly, D) she knows the nature of my submission better than I do — she knows I need to trust and to feel safe before I allow myself to be diminished, before I allow myself to be annihilated by her will, until I’m just something that obeys and begs and hasn’t a scrap of pride. I want to be broken when my wife and I play — I want to be nervous and fearful and filled with all sorts of nasty feelings about myself because I’m begging someone to sodomize me and to whip me all over and to bind me and to just…utterly…own me.
In short, she knows that my submission has to be earned. Once you’ve got it, I’m yours, absolutely, but there’s a certain threshold you have to cross until you get there. Not every woman gets to call me bitch and have me lick her feet. We’re equals until I trust you enough to let you own me, and that knocks me ever buying into female supremacy wholesale. And that’s why I think this pattern of weird friendship has nothing to do with submissive me — I like these girls. They’re good friends. But none of them have what it takes to make me beg.
My wife does, though…
My wife read my latest blog. I like telling her things in conversation, but she and I both like the blog because it’s more personal — I’m totally exposed — and because she thinks the whole thing is really about her. She said, “Who wouldn’t like a blog about their husband being sexually obsessed with them?”
She read the blog, and said, “I love this.”
Does it please you? “Oh, yes.”
Are you interested in all of this? “Oh, definitely. But…”
What? “But…I worry about hurting you and you not telling me.”
Well, I want to be hurt. “No, I mean, hurting you too much. And you not telling me. Because I want to hurt you a lot.“
Will you hurt me as hard as you want if I swear to tell you if you go too far? “….oh, yes.”
What about the rest of the post? “I loved it. I’m surprised you want me to hurt your cock.”
Does it freak you out? “No, I didn’t say that. I just…didn’t know how much you liked that.”
I…do. “Good. Because I love it.”
(I’m glowing now.) “Honey, the thing about being marked? About me putting my mark on you?”
Yes? “I definitely want you to wear my mark. A tattoo. On your back, so I can touch it while I fuck you with my cock. So when you take your shirt off everybody can see it and I know it makes you mine. Your left shoulder, I have this thing about the left side. I’ll stroke it while fucking you.”
Oh…god. “That’s right, you like that, don’t you?”
Yes. Yes. Yes. “Yes, what?”
Yes…Mistress. “Good. I noticed you talking about the tape. What were you doing while you listened to that?”
Nothing. I wasn’t doing anything. “Good, because I didn’t give you permission, did I?
No. “Do you want permission?”
Yes. “I can’t hear you…?”
Yes, please, can I come tonight? “No. (laughs) Oh, how could I turn you down after that blog post about me? Yes. Definitely yes.”
Thank you. “You know what, honey?”
What? “I can’t believe it’s only been two months. Are we going too fast? Do you think the people reading your blog think we’re diving into this too fast?”
I…don’t care. It’s right. “I think that, too. Go get that claddagh drawn up, and I’ll email you in the morning with a treat.”
In the beginning of the conversation, she’s a normal wife. By the end, she’s my master. Oh, shit, I am definitely lost in this. She owns me. I’m off to draw my tattoo.
I am horny. And by horny, I mean I need to be hit in addition to all of the sex I’m thinking of. It’s weird how easily I went from just-a-sub-who’s-not-interested-in-being-a-masochist-at-all to being a sub-who-thinks-about-being-whipped when he should be paying attention at work.
I…need…to…be…whipped. I never could imagine wanting to hurt. I’ve decided I’m flying the wife down well ahead of schedule. Fuck the finances, fuck the work I should be doing that weekend, I need to go out, get her a plane ticket, fly her down, hit the fetish shop, and drop an enormous sum of money on implements specifically designed to humiliate and hurt me. I mean, it hit me about an hour ago, this wave of syrupy-rich-horniness, and it hit me in waves I’ve never felt. I want one of those weird medical devices to hold my mouth open while she fucks my mouth with her cock and I want to be pissed on and I want to be hogtied. I want to feel a riding crop on me, all over — my chest, my back, my thighs, my ass and oh-god-I-can’t-believe-it-but-I-want-her-to-hit-my-cock. Not hard. But just a quick slap. Or ten. Okay, maybe hard. Maybe very hard. No, definitely. I think I should definitely beg for some penis abuse above what she normally dishes out by clamping my penis and balls.
I want my face slapped. A lot. I want to be sodomized repeatedly, and whipped while it happens, and called names, and have my hair pulled and my facial hair yanked and to just be used. I want her to come over and over again as I pleasure her. I just want to serve and while serving feel a heck of a lot of pain.
If there was a way to smuggle some wooden cross-thing-which-we-don’t-have-any-clue-where-to-buy-or-even-find into the hotel room to tie me to, and then have her hit me with this lunge-whip I’ve been eyeing, I would do it. I need to be dominated, I need to be hurt, and then I need to do it all over again, like, ten times, until I can’t sit on my welted ass and my back is torn apart by fingernails and whipmarks. I think I’ll spend the next few days begging for it.
It has been a little more than two months since we started messing around with D/s, seven weeks or so since we first tried S&M and pissing and all of that lovely deviant sex. And I need it. I need more. What is she doing to me? We’ve been married for ten years, and we’ve had a passionate love life, but this - it’s crazy. Nights like this, she’s all I think about. I am out of control. We made a tape last time I saw her, and we couldn’t get the angles right and it’s shaky, the picture sucks, you can barely see us, but the sound — perfect. And it’s a tape of her banging my ass with her strap on while whipping my thighs and back with my nicest, thickest belt. I listened to it tonight, just hearing her say, “You like that?” crack. “Yeah, you do, oh, you are such a whore,” crack. And me making grunting noises and begging. And I would do anything to see her again.
And I want to be marked. Permanently. I want to wear her mark. A piercing, a tattoo, something, something she picks out, something that I can wear all of the time, under my suit, burning into my skin, a permanent sign of her power and ownership. I think maybe instead of a couple hundred dollars in sex toys and hurty things, I’ll spend some money on getting marked, with that claddagh tattoo I talked about getting at Christmas. Yeah. I mean, ten or eleven years of marriage is enough commitment where a tattoo is not a rash act.
Sweetie? I know you read this. Tell me what you want me to wear. Please. Mark me. Forever. Because welts and bruises just don’t last long enough.
The other night I was feeling rather…edgy, and I asked my wife for a bit of phone sex. We’re going to be separated for longer than usual this time around — six weeks instead of four — and a side effect of our new lifestyle is that my old porn collection just isn’t cutting it. (In addition, the average malesub story I encounter on places like Literotica tends to veer into a lot of cuckold and feminization stuff that I’m just not into.) The wife graciously agreed, and we marked out time when I’d be awake and she’d have time to herself.
For the record, my wife is different than me — she doesn’t really enjoy masturbation, even with toys. She can get herself to orgasm using a showerhead or some porn, but it just doesn’t scratch her itch like real penetration or oral sex does. In her inner-hierarchy of sexual need, penis-on-clit is first, oral is second, penis-in-vagina is third, anal is probably fourth, and then masturbation comes in a distant fifth. (In all honesty, I suspect she’d put oral on me above masturbation for her.) She’s able to live with her horniness in a way I’m just not, but she’s happy to help me out once in a while by telling me a sexy story about her, me and one of her friends or something.
Now that we’re into BDSM, the story was about that — we return from a Halloween party to our house, and she’s dressed all gothy. (My wife is very beautiful but she keeps it low-key, so the idea of her strutting around in a black wig with some white powder and red lipstick is just about insanely hot.) She dominates me, collaring and leashing me. She drags me to the bedroom, where she forces me on my knees and teases me — and here’s the bulk of the story is how she teases me, forcing me to worship her boots and legs as she pleasures herself — masturbating herself to orgasm while I pant and struggle. She pulls out a riding crop and her strap-on and whips me, then forces me to fellate her strap-on. Finally, she pops the crop into my mouth as a bit and takes me from behind while slapping my ass, back, and thighs. As I’m getting close in real life, she reaches around in the story and I explode in her hand right as I explode in real life.
Very hot. It hits just about every one of my own peccadilloes — the boot worship, my love of goth girls (obviously an artifact of coming up in a day and age when that sort of thing was still not cool, and the girls I dated as a teen punk were all SoCal surfer girls into college rock), not to mention the teasing, her masturbating, her control over me, the leash, the fellatio of her “cock,” being “taken…” She knows everything I like, and she pulls out all of the stops for the story, and I definitely came hard listening to her talk about it.
The problem is — and it’s not a problem at all, just something I felt like noting — is that the story is very much about me. I’m the center of attention. It’s not about her needs at all, it’s about me being teased and tormented. It’s hot, it’s awesome, but the submissive in me knows that I don’t want this in real life. I want our play to be about her. I know she doesn’t like masturbation, so why would I want her to masturbate? I know she doesn’t think of herself in goth attire, so why would I let her wear it during a session? (I guess “let” is the wrong kind of voice to use — how about “want?”) If she wants to do something, great, I’m there — I’m her fucking slave, I want to go along with her, I want to follow her head-first and headlong into her darkest and nastiest fucking fantasies, no matter where they go. But I want less and less for her to do things for me unless they also get her off, because it being about her, that’s what gets me off.
It’s the old power-vs.-pleasure problem — I got off on the phone sex, but what really takes me there is when I drown in her, when she’s got me tied up or she’s beating me or hurting me and ordering me around. I want to lose myself inside her. I want to, at least for a second, become nothing but a thing for her, to be property, to be an extension of her will. I know that sounds cheesy and fake and impossible, but it’s what I want — it’s why hypnosis fantasies turn me on — I want to exist only to do what she wants, even if only for a little bit. I’ve come hardest during phone sex when she’s just talking to me, ordering me to come and touch myself. When it’s her power manifesting itself over me, shouting, “Do it! Don’t make me wait, come!”
Now, none of this is a problem. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about. As we get deeper into this, these roles, of Mistress and slave, domme and sub, sadist and masochist, I find a lot of the things that I used to think of unquestioningly as being about me aren’t fun anymore unless they’re about her, and a lot of the big milestones I wanted to hit — the threesome with two girls!, etc. — don’t matter. It’s all about her. It’s all about being hers. I just want to get lost in her, just want her to go on a power trip and fucking use me and abuse me. It’s weird to think about it like that - to think of my pleasure wholly in terms of her pleasure and desires.
Ah, I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Or maybe I’m saying it just fine, but it’s not a question, just another realization of who and what I am and what I’m becoming.
I was reading this blog post a few days ago at A Place to Draw Blood Laughing and this paragraph in particular struck a chord with me:
If I wanted to, I could make all kinds of trickle-down analyses of how the roles of my parents led to my kinkiness, and so on and so forth. I don’t particularly want to, and I have no burning desire to know why I am what I am. It’s easy enough to see that their lives influenced my understanding of gender role fluidity, creating an awareness of mixed partnerships of responsibility and tradition rather than handing me off into the world with a simple role reversal. But I don’t think I’m a dom because I have a corporate exec for a mother. I also had a mother for a mother, you know, the kind of mother who makes really good Thai food and likes to play online Scrabble. In short, just a person with some labels attached to her, like me.
And while I didn’t think about it too much this weekend while knee deep in sex and submission and all of the fun stuff, I’ll admit that on the plane ride home, while holding the plane up in the sky with only my sheer willpower, I thought about it, a lot. Because Eileen is skating around my 800-lb. gorilla. The question that used to be phrased in my mind, “What’s wrong with you?” is now phrased a far more healthy-but-still-scary “How did I get like this?” and I still don’t have an answer. Read the rest of this entry »
I flew up north on the redeye and got to the Big Midatlantic City where my wife lives around midnight late Thursday night. There were half a dozen people on my flight, and they were all intent on getting out of the airport as fast as possible, so nobody noticed my wife and I passionately embracing. Deep, open-mouthed kisses, an embrace that was tight enough to make me gasp. I felt loved. I felt dominated. I’m a sub, it’s that feeling of closeness and submission that I crave. Sure, I like getting hit - I fucking love it. But for me, the submissive part drives the masochism.
I’m in the middle of my three day visit with my wife, and I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my last post, as well as the concept of the Evil Twin.
Back in the ‘60s and ‘70s, there was a hoary old television concept revolving around evil twins. Most sitcoms dug it up at least once, and in a couple of cases, the Evil Twin was a recurring character. Blonde housewife Samantha from “Bewitched” had her raven-haired and hedonistic cousin Serena who looked exactly like her; Jeannie from “I Dream of Jeannie” had one; hell, even Boss Hogg from “The Dukes of Hazzard” had a good twin.
I have come to the realization this weekend that I’m dealing with my wife’s Evil Twin.
My wife is “sweet.” I have openly told a few friends when they ask what we’re doing this weekend that my wife is going to beat me with a belt, and the same response happens each time: “Right, guy.” Because while a few friends may suspect I’m kinky, my wife is the very model of the sweet and happy suburban vanilla homemaker. She has an easy smile, she bakes cookies and cakes to relax, and she sings in the church choir when she’s not helping small children learn their vowels. She is, by anyone’s definition of the term, a good girl. A buddy of mine said, “Anybody who doesn’t like your wife is suspect. She’s the nicest person I ever met.” She doesn’t drink, she doesn’t curse, she cries whenever anybody wins a contest or whenever something good happens for them. (Extreme Home Makeover is off-limits.) She bustles. She listens to Christmas music whenever she can. She’s just plain nice.
This afternoon, everybody’s favorite nice girl beat me with a belt until my ass was a bright red after making me wait for the beating, naked as the day I was born, in front of an open window. Nobody saw anything from the low-traffic rural road our house overlooks, but it was the fear of somebody seeing which added a certain jittery frisson to the whole scenario. I was bent over an easy chair, my pants and underwear around my ankles. My ass was angled upwards, and then she showed up with one of my belts, looped around her hand, and started hitting. I counted after each blow, my voice quavering and getting slightly higher and more panicky with each shot. We’d determined yesterday that when she really, really puts her wrist into and gets a good “whap” on the belt, I can take six shots of it before it really begins to hurt and I want to scream a little bit. As a sign of my devotion to her, I had taken ten last night. Today, fifteen. She paused after the eleventh strike to ask, “Did I hear a safeword? Was that [the safeword]?” There was no safeword, of course; she was hitting me so hard that I was only capable of high pitched little grunts when I wasn’t biting down with each blow. She just wanted me to beg a little for the next few lashes. And…I did.
Oh, God, I begged this “good girl” for every single bit of pain she’s given me this weekend. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled to her, kissing and licking her manicured soccer-mom toes while begging her to draw blood with her fingernails, leaving jagged lines of bloody scratches all over my chest, and then I pleaded for her to piss all over my chest, the sting of her urine burning into those scratches. I begged for smacks to the face, clamps placed on the nipples, balls and penis, and at some point, I thanked her for playing a new game of hers: Submissive-as-object, where she puts on headphones and blocks the sight and sound of me with a pillow or sheet while watching a porno. I’m nothing but a sex-toy, and while she occasionally barks out an order – “Harder,” “slower,” “a bit lower,” “don’t do the thing with the circles,” for the most part it’s just her and her entertainment until she comes, at which point I’m allowed to sit next to her until she’s ready to try something else. It’s an interesting feeling to be so isolated while giving someone else pleasure.
So, yes, I’ve come to the opinion that my wife has neatly bifurcated herself into Happy Homemaker and Evil Twin. The happy homemaker went out to dinner with me and a friend last night and spent the evening teaching my daughter how to count, while my buddy and I chatted about fantasy football and politics at my old job. The Evil Twin turned to me while my daughter was talking to our friend midway through the meal, and whispered in my ear, “I am going to tear your ass to ribbons with that belt. Can you handle that?” I tried not to let my face display the mingled fear and arousal and simply nodded yes. Today, at my wife’s sisters house, my wife sang nursery rhymes with all of the pre-schoolers. On her way to go into another room to get a juicebox, she leaned into me, never breaking her smile or stride, and said, “Tonight, you’re going to get fucked with [her pet name for our strap-on].” All I could do is gulp and pray the pre-come and erection wouldn’t show through my pants.
All of this leads me back to my last post about The Big Scare…my nervousness about getting into BDSM because of all of the images I’d let into my skull about what BDSM “is,” like it was some monolithic lifestyle like the Boy Scouts or something. And that image, no matter how inaccurate of the larger subculture, informed both my wife and my own images of what we were getting into. We were careful to set boundaries before we did our first D/s session together, which came down to this:
1) No pain or violence to one another.
2) No collars, because collars are something you put on dogs.
3) No humiliation, because I’m her equal, I’m just letting her take control during sex.
4) No infantilism, cross-dressing or messing about with pee.
5) No ball gags or “pro-dommey” outfits. (I’m calling them that, her attitude was that she just didn’t like the accoutrements that she saw on TV.)
Those rules were mostly for her. I was right there with her on number 1 and 4, but I was interested in 2 and 3. But for her to be comfortable, I was willing to write all that stuff off. If I just got her to boss me around and let me lick her boots, I felt like, “Hey, it’s moreD/s than I’ve gotten in the last twenty years, it’ll be enough.” And our first session went according to plan.
But I’d underestimated our Evil Twins. Because the first rule to fall was number 1. Watching somebody flog somebody else is off-putting if you’ve never really messed around with pain-play, but we started with a little nipple-pulling and spanking, and by this weekend, my wife was lamenting the lack of a flogger or a riding crop in our arsenal, but was willing to make do with the belt. (If anybody knows who has a good selection of crops, let me know, because it’s her Christmas gift, she’s decided.)
Rule number 2 was the second one to go. At first after she vacillated on this rule, she insisted that we avoid an actual dog collar or choke chain and go with a slave collar, because she felt the dog collar was too humiliating to me. For the record, we were together for an hour after she decided to allow me a collar before she was gleefully fitting me with a choke-chain at “Petsmart” and then having a dog-tag engraved with my name and her own name under “Property of…” A few hours after that, she was calling me her dog and her bitch as she plowed into my ass with “her cock,” as she calls it, neatly taking care of Rule 3.
We’re still not interested in the child’s play or dress-up, but there was pee-a-plenty, so Rule 4 has gone away at least in part, and we bought a shower curtain this trip to make cleanup easier and let us move out of the bathtub and onto the floor of our room. (If anybody knows of any special mats or anything for this, let us know, please.)
As for the ball-gags, she’s still worried about blocking my airways, but she’s comfortable with dirty panties being used as a gag, and her first clothing purchase was a PVC corset and garter belt to wear under a Catholic schoolgirl’s outfit she bought, a pleasant nod to my own love of her dressed up like a dirty soccer-mom stripper.
All of the things that freaked us out and scared us weren’t so scary as we edged our way into the shallow end of the pool. We’re still far from the deep end, but we’re making progress. When I read a lot of other blogs – hell, just about every other BDSM blog I come across – and people talk about 24/7 or what they’re up to, I can appreciate that the wife and I are still newcomers. We’re still, as I like to call it, “amateur hour.” I mean, we’re not yet ready to enter Mistress160’s “best marks” contest or anything, although I’m quite proud of my little network of scratches and gashes and the angry pain in my ass as I sit here and write this. There’s no way I’m ever gonna tell somebody who’s been doing this for years that I’m as good at it as they are, or have the same pain threshold.
But all of the monolithic scariness that I talked about last blog isn’t that monolithic when the individual pieces are broken down into landmarks on a road-trip. I’m not saying we’re ever going to break some of the other boundaries – we don’t really want to, and we’ve got plenty of ground to cover with just what we’re doing – but a lot of the things that made us hesitant about doing any of this are actually insanely fun when we give them the old college try. My wife would never have dreamt of hitting me during our first session, but now she’s sneaking me every few hours to tan my ass somewhere with my belt. (While I was writing that sentence, she came out and asked me to type something up for her – I mentioned that it hurts to sit down after my last whipping, and she said, “Good.” And smiled her little home-maker smile, which is so much more ominous with an evil glint.)
So, it’s been a good weekend. And while we’re not in the deep end yet, we’re not out of our depth, which is just as important. We’re happy, and that’s all I want out of this.
Next time, probably a nice little report on the weekend and various fun things we haven’t done before.
I know this will make three blog posts in one day, but I suppose with me it’s feast or famine. But I read something today that really struck a chord with me.
”The Big Scare” is the blog post I’ve been trying to write for the last week, but just haven’t found the words. And then, today, I read a blogpost at Let Them Eat Pro-SM Safe Spaces, which is itself a comment on a post at Alas, a Blog . And both of the posts basically got me to the level of introspection I needed to write about “The Big Scare.” Read the rest of this entry »
