Pending pwner permission, this will be the last Broken Paddle post.
2010 has been such an amazing year, especially the latter half, and I scarcely recognize myself when I look in the mirror. Unfortunately, this is not because I finally lost all the weight I’ve been aiming to. (That’s what 2011 is for. I’ve been getting up at 6 am and going to the gym. Of my own accord. And that of a friend. ;-))
But I have dropped a ton of emotional and psychological baggage, and it’s a lot easier to hike uphill without arms loaded full of insecurities and regrets.
Mormons are commanded to be a record keeping people, but add this to my list of small apostasies.
I have no desire to chronicle these struggles for a silent audience. I’m a blogger more than a writer. A quiet exhibitionist more than an historian.
It’s been fun to tell these stories that are a small part of my life, but I’m an economist first, spanko second, and masochist third. I make my decisions on the margin, maximizing utility and minimizing dead weight loss.
This blog is a dead weight loss, and I can’t in good conscience continue.
Unless of course there is government interference.
I will, however, leave you with a parting gift. Sorry if you don’t support FetLife.
I’ve found most of my spanking partners on Spankfinder. I’ve had to sort through some pretty crazy stuff to separate the wheat from the chaff, but for the most part, it’s been worth it.
There is, however, one trend that has been bothering me disproportionately. (Or as told the pwner yesterday, unproportionally. Is so a word!)
I get first contact messages that go on and on about what a naughty girl I am, and how much a need to be punished. And it just rubs me the wrong way. Anything you may have read here notwithstanding, there is nothing about my profile that says brat.
I’m all for a little fun scolding whilst over a knee, or engaging in roleplay, and I am all for real punishments for real transgressions, but I am not a bad girl. I’m a good girl, goddammit!
I couldn’t begin to fathom how our relationship would even work if the pwner was telling me all the time, or had told me in our first conversation, that I am was a bad girl.
I understand that some girls get off on it, but they generally engage in overtly bratty behaviors rather consistently and are pretty clear about it in their profiles.
I might engage in bratty banter while over a knee getting a fun spanking (like at the party!), but I don’t brat for spanking attention. The pwner doesn’t play that game. Good girls get spankings and attention and what they want. Bad girls get grounded, ignored, and things they don’t want. And that’s how I like it.
Now I’m not saying I’m a stick in the mud. If it’s a Top’s form of affection to call someone ‘naughty girl’ every once in a while, I’m cool with that. Especially if it’s said with a smile and that look in the eye that says, ‘We’re both going to enjoy this,’ but as an opening line?
No. Really. Get a new shtick.
Story telling is such a difficult art. I’d imagined I’d come home from the trip and have so much say that a post would just roll off my fingertips.
As I struggle to come up with any words at all, it is clear to me that this is not the case.
Not only is my brain a jumble of… well… everything, but I am experiencing what can only be described as drop. I haven’t been much of a believer in subspace, but after experiencing my first bedtime spanking, I’m open to the idea that certain spanking and uses of mental conditioning can lead a girl to be very… suggestible.
And it’s pretty wonderful, I might add.
I’m not ready for detail yet. but I did have a freaking awesome weekend, filled with lots of firsts:
- spanking by a girl
- spanking of a girl
- experience with lexan
- consecutive spankings
- caning that hurt
And I’m sure there are some I am forgetting, but that I can even manage to get any of this out is a small victory.
What I really want to do is curl up in my nice warm, comfy bed and never get up again!
It struck me last night, in the midst of packing for our super-secret adventure that the week was mostly gone and I had not yet blogged.
In my estimation, the last entry is good enough for two weeks’ worth of posts, but the rules say once a week, and the rules are unyielding as I prefer them.
I’m sitting at the airport waiting for the pwner to arrive. I’ve already confirmed that our reservation is all set, and I am now using blogging as a way to distract myself from the massive amounts of squee that are threatening to burst from every seam of my being.
My good friend (and now mentor!) bottomgrl of FetLife fame and I were yesterday discussing how exactly the first moment of meeting would go. Were I meeting her here right now, I know exactly how it would go. There would be lots of shouting and hugging and ohhhhhhmyyyygosssshhhhh going on. Because we’re girls and we’re MORMON girls, and that’s how arrivals and departures are handled. There is very strict protocol to be followed.
But how does one great one’s pwner for the first time? Does one remain quiet and reserved, despite the massive amounts of squee? Is there hugging? We’re in public, so the totally awesome scenario of faceslap as greeting is not really an option.
Bottomgrl and I decided on a solemn handshake, if only for comedic value, but then she went and told the pwner about our plan and ruined it. What a ruining ruiner!
As I sit here visualizing it, I see in my mind’s eye a shy hello, and then… I really don’t know how it’ll turn out.
Knowing might be half the battle, but not knowing is exciting in its own right.
I don’t know much about this super-secret getaway in which hopefully many beatings will occur, but I do know that I’ll be telling you all about it upon my return.
With any luck, I’ll be sitting rather gingerly, or maybe even standing!
I once heard it said that we rarely play the villain in our own narratives. The relative anonymousness of blogging under a pseudonym helps me sidestep this phenomenon most times, which is why it’s easy for me to tell you this story and not worry that I come off as an overly bathetic idiot.
“The conversation with [the pwner] didn’t end early, as you had predicted. But it was a difficult one.” I’m having lunch with the Vanilla BFF, my old roommate, and one of our mutual friends. The dialog is between the VBFF and I.
“That isn’t at all surprising.”
“It isn’t? He says I act like my feelings are the most important thing ever.” I’m paraphrasing, but the gist is more important than exactness, at least in my pretty little head.
VBFF just looked at me, as if to say: Was there ever any question?
“You think he’s right?” I’m asking the question, but I already know the answer. I’m just not ready to accept it. But VBFF is a real giver. He’s always ready to break the bad news. Sometimes, he doesn’t even have to say it to say it. There’s a small pause, and it’s clear that this is one of those times.
“But I can’t help it.”
We both know that isn’t true. “Alright.”
God, that pisses me off. I want to talk about it. I want to flesh it out and be understood. I don’t need confirmation so much as acknowledgement. And this is outright dismissal.
Besides, he’s supposed to be on my side!
Although, if I were him, I wouldn’t be on my side, either. He’s fallen victim to the torrent that is my feelings more than once, and it’s never pretty. I am bipolar after all. We are damn good at emotional tsunami-ing.
The insidious thing about feelings is that they just seem so real. My perception is that they are not only always justified, but that they are also the MOST IMPORTANTEST THING EVAR.
But they lie. They tell me attractive (and unattractive!) little fibs and I am always convinced by them, despite any evidence to the contrary.
Back to the aforementioned difficult conversation with the pwner.
The conversation was meant to be all positive and constructive, before the uninvited, but ever present, feelings pushed their way in. I’m trying to grow in my submission, and it’s long been our goal for this dynamic to be more about me being there for and pleasing him, than about him “fixing” me. (I’m a broken girl. What can I say?)
And this conversation was supposed to help me see what that would be like. Except I have this small problem. When reality and my expectations fail to align, I have a tendency to shut down. The shutdowns have reduced by orders of magnitude over time, and the goal is to eradicate them completely, but we’re not there yet.
So, when the thing that the pwner wanted me to do was choose rationality over feelings, the feelings asserted themselves rather loudly, and I thought, “What the fuck kind of direction is that? And what does that have to do with anything at all?”
I really do have a point to all of this.
I’m finding more and more that submission is not at all what I thought it was, and oftentimes, the reality of it hits me really hard. And the danger to reject reality in favor of fantasy is strong.
For example, part of our owner/owned dynamic is that my money isn’t mine; it’s his, because I’ve given everything over, and what used to be mine is now his property.
In practice, this is usually more about control than possession. ‘My’ earnings are still effectively mine, though I am given direction on how they are spent.
Back when this was all new, I expressed dissatisfaction with how it worked, because I felt like it was rather fake. I felt like we said it was his, but acted like it was mine. I wanted it taken and spent in ways that he wanted and needed.
And the thought of it made me all warm and fuzzy, until the time came that we used “my” money on something that benefited only him. I struggled for a bit with a touch of resentment that I never actually expressed, because it would have been unbecoming and a tad ungrateful to do so.
I’m glad that I never expressed it (until now), because not just blurting out every thought that I have gives me the opportunity to process things and come to new understanding on my own.
Of course I’m going to struggle with things that are not what I would choose to do. They’re foreign and distinctly other. But they’re what I asked for.
It’s a little absurd to express a desire to be possessed by another, and then reject all acts of dominance. It’s like taking voice lessons, and then asserting that you already know everything at the first sign of constructive feed back.
I guess this is really just a long apology (in both senses of the word) to the pwner himself. I know sometimes it seems like I stand in the middle of the room, fingers in my ears, yelling ‘I can’t hear you!’ at the top of my lungs, but I don’t mean to. I’m learning.
Please don’t give up on me.
I’m going to be awesome someday, but I want to be awesome and yours.
I feel like a truck hit me, and not in a good way! Thank goodness for days off, comfy beds, and diet coke.
I’m aware that diet soda is one step away from poison and probably should be considered blasphemy, given how much I love to worship at the altar of sugar, but I like the taste, so I’m willing to commit apostasy in its name.
I’ve been quite neglectful of my blogging duties, especially since I not only got a spanking last week, but we also broke the paddle!
That’s right, I’m no longer identified by a misnomer. My ass has claimed spoons and spatulas and canes and bath brushes, and finally, its very first paddle. It wasn’t even a wimpy thin paddle, either. This was one of those thick bread board type deals.
Now to be fair, it did break on a seam, and it was made of bamboo.
When I picked up the pervertable at Le Gourmet Chef I did have a moment of hesitation, because bamboo is prone to breakage, which is why despite its prettiness, I know better than to pick up spoons and brushes.
But it’s a paddle!, I thought.
So, there we were, in the middle of an amazingly fun role play. (I can role play, I really can!) The pain was finally getting to that fun, fuzzy point where I just sort of give in and accept that it’s coming, instead of fleeing and struggling (that’s my favorite part!), and we had drawn a teeny bit of blood, but that is par for the course for my thin as can be skin, and then all of a sudden he stopped, and I was jarred from my happy place, none too happily.
“It broke,” he said.
“Yup, the paddle.”
“Yes way. Get dressed.”
I was so stunned and delighted, i didn’t even think to pout that my happy place had been bulldozed by shoddy equipment. I wasn’t done, but the paddle was. How could I argue with that?
Well, I could argue with that, and I did about ten minutes later, when in the midst of idle chatting, I threatened him menacingly with a hairbrush.
It wasn’t quite so menacing after all, until he literally threw me across his lap (I landed with a resounding “OWWW!”) and beat the everliving hell out of my ass with it, and then moved on to the bath brush, before sticking me in a corner.
Next time, I’m gonna use my belt.
I don’t recall the last time I blogged, but I do know it was more than a week ago, which means I am lacking in the blog and the obedience departments.
There was a time when blogging once a week would have not seemed like an insurmountable task; in fact, I used to blog two or three times a week with no prompting at all,
But that was back before everything got so darn… simple.
There is nothing noteworthy or complicated about my submission these days. It’s played out in forms of bedtime adherence and struggling mightily to walk five times a week and eating enough small meals to keep my metabolism from stopping altogether.
It’s pretty boring and amazingly simple, but agonizingly difficult.
I’m too accustomed to thinking and saying, ‘But I can’t!’ before I even start to think that maybe I can.
But it’s been laid on the line, in irrefutable terms. There are only two questions that matter now: 1) Is it possible and 2) is it necessary. The question of difficulty is irrelevant, no matter how large it looms.
So, now I am left with imagining possibilities instead of impossibilities, and I don’t know how I feel about it.
But that’s okay; feelings aren’t necessary anyway.
I’m not as out as some. Aside from the freaking hilarious incident with The Red Backpack, my family knows very little about my kinked life.
But little by little, I’ve told my closer friends the kinds of details that go beyond getting slapped around a little while getting it on.
I don’t remember the details of the conversation, but I remember where we were, how it felt, and his reaction when I told vanilla BFF that I had a predilection for being tied and beaten. I remember that he was quiet for a long while, and then for a bit longer, he was flabbergasted, trying to form sentences, but failing. And then it shifted to shocked, but impressed. I was the only “normal” girl of all his friends, but it turned out that I was less normal than the rest, but that was okay.
It was more than okay when I introduced choking and slapping and bondage tape to our infrequent trysts.
That was the easier side of coming out. As foreign as kink might be to some, for most people, rough sex is accepted, even if not embraced.
It was when I started dabbling in discipline that it became harder, I had these rules to live by, but I was afraid to tell anyone. And when I did finally tell Vanilla BFF a bit about it, he wasn’t too thrilled about any that affected him, so I stopped telling him and started making excuses. As you might imagine, the excuses didn’t exactly work for either of us.
And then I went and got owned.
And things became even more complicated, especially since the pwner doesn’t exactly mess around.
I wasn’t sure exactly how VBFF would take and/or understand all of it. He didn’t really take to it the first time, but a lot of time and growth had passed, and our friendship had become deeper and stronger.
And I’ve got to say, I’m pretty darn impressed with how intuitively he understands a lot of what we do, and how accepting he’s become.
He wasn’t exactly thrilled last night when I interrupted our phone call to ask the pwner a question and then proceeded to break off our conversation early because I needed to get some reading done before checking my email all that and getting to bed at a reasonable time, but he deals with it and is accommodating to a reasonable degree.
It’s something of a relief to be able to share with those I care about the things that make me me and the things that make me happy, and to be able to talk about the parts that I need an outside perspective on, because unlike pixels, friends talk back.
It’s really quiet in the closet.
Every year, Bonnie over at My Bottom Smarts hosts Love Our Lurkers Day.
Most years I miss out, only realizing after it’s over that it’s even happened. But this year, i happened to catch it in time. Yay!
From Bonnie’s blog:
We’re back again for our annual Love Our Lurkers celebration. Welcome to old friends and new alike. This is our community’s way of sharing the love with our silent readers. I know from my statistics that there are thousands of readers who don’t comment. If you are among this group, then today is for your day!
During last year’s event, 144 spanking-oriented blogs posted LOL messages and they received 2,627 comments. Better still, we met many, many great people. Quite a few remain regular readers to this day. Several have become successful bloggers in their own right.
While we may not see your face or read your words, we know you’re out there. Even in silence, your return visits provide a gentle affirmation.
I would like to invite you to leave a comment below. It can be as long or short as you choose. You can use a fake name or no name at all. What’s important is that you poke your head up far enough that we might see you.
One of the challenges I face when trying to keep consistent on my blogging is that I often feel like I’m writing into the void. But I know you’re out there! I see you on the stats.
LOL Day is a great way for you to just leave a comment to say hi, in a completely pressure free situation. I have no expectations for what might be said; I only ask that you say something.
It sure would lift my spirits to know you’re out there! Thanks for reading, everyone. 😀
Earlier, the pwner may or may not have indirectly brought attention to the fact that I have not blogged this week.
So, I’m blogging. It is a rule that I blog once a week, but as I have a personal rule that this blog be pretty straight forward and unfiltered, when there are important things afoot, that I wish to not discuss publicly, I often refrain from blogging.
But rules are rules, and I am working on following all of them, whether I like them or not, and whether I feel like I have a good reason to disregard them or not. Because it’s not my responsibility to decide why or if I should obey. Autonomy is not a privilege I have been granted. And that’s not an epiphany. It just is what it is.
But that doesn’t mean that I don’t have the privilege to disagree with the pwner’s viewpoints from time to time. As long as I am respectful and obedient, that is a privilege I have been granted, and one I am learning to exercise. It makes us both happier in the long run.
One thing on which we disagree is the level of attachment that is appropriate in our relationship.
While I completely agree with him that we want to avoid creating a debilitating dependence in which I am unable to function without him, I do believe that there is a level of attachment that is both natural and helpful in strengthening our dynamic, because if I am going to give him 100% of myself and genuinely relinquish my autonomy, I need to care in a way that goes beyond simple respect.
Caring is healthy. Caring doesn’t mean that if I don’t speak to him for a day or two, my world crumbles around me and I start wearing all black and never leave the house, cursing God for his cruelty. It means that I smile when the phone rings and it’s his name on the caller ID, or that when something funny happens at work, I share it with him so he can laugh, too. It also means that when I have a bad day, he’s on the short list of the People I Call.
I’m a strong, independent woman, whatever that means. I can fend for myself. I survive quite well in the day to day, my need for therapy notwithstanding. I don’t want to submit and be owned because I need it. I don’t need it like I need food and shelter and water and chocolate.
I hand 100% of myself over because I want to. It makes me happy. I know that these dynamics are not tit for tat, and I would be very unhappy if they were. That I can get anywhere. While I expect mutual respect (in the form that we determine), I don’t feel entitled to affection in return, though it does make my heart happy when it happens.
I’m not writing this as a way to extract artificial attachment from the pwner. If he wants to erect those walls that make it easy for him to walk away from anything or anyone at a moment’s notice, that’s his deal. I understand the value of a well built defense. But I’m trying to knock down my own walls as a matter of personal growth.
I’m not asking for anything in return for my attachment, aside from acceptance that I freely give it in a way that is healthy and flexible. I can take it back at anytime and give it to someone else instead, but I don’t want to.
I choose you.