Whether it’s the throbbing, sinus/hormone-induced headache or the prodigious amount of data analysis I’ve been conducting the last few weeks, my brain is in rare form.
When I sit staring at screens of data, I find my brain galloping off at a pace so rapid not even my conscious awareness can follow it. Its rate of algorithm development and pattern recognition exacerbates the swelling sensation of pressure from my headache.
Even when I try to take mental breaks, my brain continues to find patterns. I want to mathematically model everything: my behavior, the social connectivity of my twitter interactions, my philosophy of personal interaction. I find myself having devised a strategy for each of these things before even consciously recognizing I’m thinking about them.
While my brain is dependent on such complex pattern analysis, my daily existence is dependent on another kind of pattern: that of habit. I don’t have a daily schedule, but I do have modes of operation to which I’ve become accustomed, like checking my twitter feed, talking with certain people, eating specific things for breakfast. The absence of these habits are generally not troublesome but are certainly noticeable.
The result of this Rain-Man-esque mindset and lifestyle is a keen awareness of how I spend my time, the people with whom I interact, and making sure my body is in acceptable condition to keep my brain running. Patterns and habits. I’ve a growing awareness that some crazy shit occurs inside my skull on a daily basis, and if I could get my act together, some quite meaningful things might result. Getting rid of this headache would be a start.
Because I recently had someone reblog me defending the salvation army…
First you’re shocked, sad and confused about why your marriage is over. Then you get pissed you’re on your own again.
You finally realize you’re now free to date other people, but you have no idea how to even talk to someone else anymore.
You ask a friend to fuck you, just so you can remember what it’s like.
You get attached to him too quickly, because the idea of someone finding you sexually sufficient is so novel.
You crash, back off, and separate yourself emotionally.
You meet some awesome new friends and learn a lot about kinky sex.
You move away, ready to start an adventure with your new knowledge.
You crash again after realizing not everyone is as considerate of your feelings as you are of theirs.
You try again.
You learn what it’s like to have others try to change you, and how it feels to be the target of lies and manipulation.
You crash, harder than ever before. You start to rethink your approach, and worry you’ve been tying your sense of self worth to your sexuality.
You learn what it’s like to be with people who actually like and respect you, and get pissed that feeling is so novel.
You try again.
“Are you a teacher?” the little boy yelled from across the apartment complex as I walked to my car one afternoon last weekend. I stopped to think.
I’ve been employed as a teacher in the past, and will be paid to teach again in the fall. Avocationally, I’ve instructed many people about basic techniques in knitting, crochet, playing flute, and several of my other hobbies. I’ve been told I’m a “good teacher.” I like sharing my knowledge with other people.
What is a teacher but someone who is trusted to impart knowledge? I do not know everything, but I have opinions and am willing to share them. I gather information and know where to find additional insight.
I teach things about which I care deeply. I like to teach people about sexuality. I like to share my experiences, which may serve to titillate, but which are always delivered with a side order of lessons learned. I teach people who have not yet begun to delve into the depths of their sexual proclivities.
What’s the cliche—‘those who can’t, teach’? At the risk of sounding too much like Taylor Mali, I want to think that I teach because I can. I value helping others along this path towards greater understanding of themselves. It takes time, energy, and commitment on my part, though. Often, students diverge from the path laid out by the teacher. They outgrow my instructions and wish for different lessons. Too often, my investment returns only heartache.
Am I a teacher? Hell yes! Additionally, I am also so much more.
A few lovely ladies I know would be very amused by a story from this past weekend.
To fully appreciate it, you need to know the derivation of the term “pony nose pussy.” A few months back, I went to visit some of my favorite kinky folk. Sir had me on my back, pinned to the floor, with my skirt hiked up and him sitting on my abdomen. A lovely friend came over to examine my lady bits and found them freshly waxed. She called another friend over excitedly, and remarked that it felt “even better than a pony nose,” which is quite soft, velvety, and lovely indeed. Since then, I think of getting a Brazilian as “grooming the pony’s nose.”
The after party of a kink event this past weekend was a lovely affair, full of naked debauchery. I was walking past a group of folks discussing pubes when one female partier, already topless, pulled her little tutu down and said she’d just had her first wax ever and it felt quite odd. I commented that a fresh wax is amazing and feels like a pony’s nose. She was quite confused, and discussed it a bit with her comrades. I explained that pony noses felt quite amazing, and told her to compare with her bald snatch. I continued walking into the kitchen, only to hear her screech loudly a few seconds later, “IT FEELS LIKE A PONY NOSE!!!”
I’m so pleased to have brought joy to the lives of other pony-nose-loving ladies.
As I scrolled through my FB newsfeed this morning, I saw friends from high school posting updates saying things like, “You will be missed, my friend.”
No no no. What happened? Which friend?
Finally someone linked the news report from my hometown. I had not spoken to this friend in years, but had once spent a great deal of time with her, practicing and traveling for extracurricular activities in high school. Those memories of her seem so much at odds with the news report, which described how she had been stabbed by her husband in front of her daughter.
Tragic and violent. Where once she and I had been so similar, our lives had diverged and traveled much different paths. Her inscription in my senior yearbook thanked me for being so kind and offering advice and support, as I had for so many other people. My emotional reaction to this is indescribable. Friends on FB are posting pictures of us all from a decade ago, and I feel…sadness? Regret? Guilt? Happy memories, and it makes me smile to see images of her from long ago looking so happy. What if…?
A coworker just came into my office and said I looked sick. Yeah, I am kind of sick. Perhaps it wouldn’t feel so odd if I hadn’t already dealt with an emotional weekend. Perhaps I’d be more productive if I could accept, move on, and get some work done.
But it seems right to shed a few tears and contemplating the oddities of life. Katie is gone and doesn’t know I’m thinking about her, but she deserves my thoughts regardless.
stellabee said: If I ask real nice-like, will you teach me how to walk in those one day?
Abso-fucking-lutely, my dear! I tend to walk really fast normally, so I’ve gotta slow way down when I’m wearing bitches like those. Or any of the other shoes I post here, really.
I asked twitter how to improve my photography skills. I’ve gotten pretty good using my laptop webcam, but the angles are a bit limited, it’s bulky, and the camera quality is iffy. Here are some of the results for using a phone camera:
Amusing and true:
They look better with a tail plug in?
A bit more practical, including posture:
And refrain fm sitting on waffle weave cushions. Otherwise stand up, legs slightly apart, bend a little at the waist & bingo.
Perhaps even more practical:
I bought a tripod adapter.
And many responses about using mirrors, but how to do so?
Use the bathroom mirror to see the screen.
Including the best response, which I shall try tonight:
doggy, ass to mirror, phone between legs. ;)~
I went to a friend’s kinky birthday party last night. I convinced one of my dear friends to oblige me with a flogging. He has a great hand for impact play, and I was feeling quite pleased. Then, with my permission, he passed off the flogger to another friend of mine so she could experience giving a flogging.
Being the recipient of someone’s learning thrashes can be a challenging experience for a masochist. I like pain. I love flogging. But the real beauty of receiving said pain is the continual buildup. Physiologically, flesh receiving an impact experiences localized release of endorphins, as well as systemic adrenaline, and the real joy of receiving an extended beating session revolves around maximizing those effects. With an inexperienced top (the person doing the beating), the pain delivered is less controlled, less regular, and more chaotic. I’m finding it takes a lot of mental fortitude for me to manage pain to receive the type of physical release I crave. I rely on the rhythm and constraint of an extended scene to put me in a place where the pain works for me. That rhythm lies in the regularity of impact, crescendos and diminuendos of force, and focus on different parts of my body. The folk(s) working on me weren’t focusing on that, and it became torture instead of bliss.
I eventually put an end to it, much to my chagrin and the verbal jabs of those observing, because my mental space was disrupted and the joy was gone. I allowed myself to float down, more quickly than I’d like, into the afterglow, and embraced the mindspace and bit of peace I’d experienced. I offered to show a friend my marks on my ass, a few of which were already quite impressive welts. She took the opportunity to bite down hard on top of one of them.
In short, I flipped out. I lost my shit. I screeched, roared or howled—I’m not even sure. I had already mentally ended my receipt of that kind of intense pain for the night. I was not prepared for more. I was ready for aftercare, and simply wanted to stay giddy, happy, quiet, and hold someone’s hand. I was enraged. I felt so violated at having that last little bit of peace I’d retained ripped away from me. I tried (and failed) to leave the room and take a breather without attracting much more attention to myself.
I knew I had hurt my friend’s feelings, so then I attempted to do some damage control, but had already lost most semblance of order to my mood and my brain. I had scared myself with the ferocity of my reaction. Mood swings have been the bane of my life, and I hated myself for failing to control my reactions better. I made amends as best I could and settled down to watch a scene between a very experienced pair of kinksters.
I’m surprised, disappointed, but interested at the whole experience. I plan to talk to a few of my masochist friends about it. It’s an interesting conglomeration of feelings, both physical and mental, that apparently require a bit more analysis, effective communication, and care taken in the future.
Fucking learning experiences.
As a child, I spent a lot of time hoping for some goodness to balance out the bad things that happened.
Food for thought:
You know how it always seems like bad things happen to good people while bad people get these dream lives? What if it’s a balance issue? You hear about a need for balance all the time. Well, if a person is almost always good — being responsible, caring, open-minded, loving, supportive, helpful, etc. — then maybe something bad has to happen to him in order to maintain the good/bad balance in his life.
Just a thought.
We’ve known each other over a decade now, and have seen each other through various kinds of life events. Last month he called to thank me for helping to turn him into the man he is today. I was honored he would credit me. I don’t really believe in dichotomies, but I believe he is one of the handful of truly good people I know.
Sometimes, like today, he calls me for validation and support, which I am only too happy to offer. The need for today’s pep talk came from one of the usual sources of strife—love. He found out recently that his girlfriend was pregnant. The past tense is relevant here because she aborted before telling him.
My heart aches for him. My friend is a man who would’ve offered logic, reason, love and support to her while they dealt with the implications. My initial instinct was rage that he didn’t even have the option of weighing in on the decision to continue the pregnancy, and that was denied rights when it could’ve easily been a life changing turning point.
The decision, however, had already been made. He now struggles with the knowledge that, despite his love and respect for her, she wouldn’t allow him to help her. So much of this story has alternative interpretations (abortion, fathers’ rights, etc), and it’s assuredly more complicated than the details I relate here. But that simple fact—that she decided to stand on her own, rather than share this burden, THEIR burden, with him—is most definitely a tragedy.
Once again, it seems like my heart has been colluding with Jason’s across great distance and behind our backs, because I identify so strongly with these sentiments it hurts.
(emphasis below mine)
All that time that we waste
Worrying about the what
And the why
And the when and where
We could be enjoying it
Reveling in it
Taking it firmly into our arms
And kissing it
Letting our fingers get sticky with it
There is too much history
And not enough
Making of history
In our short frantic lives
Folks often ask me about the circumstances surrounding some of my experiences. Next up in my how-to series: how to have an orgy, or group sex. This one’s pretty simple.
- Find a bunch of people who are fun and DTF.
- Get naked.
- Find an orifice and stick part of your body in it.
I’ve made informed decisions which resulted in suboptimal outcomes.
I’ve made hasty decisions which resulted in some of the best opportunities of my life.
I’ve fucked some very smart people who eventually did very stupid things.
Lessons learned: Predictive power is virtually powerless. Adapting to alternate scenarios is a vital process, but even more resourceful people will learn to adapt their value structures to accept those alternatives.
That sounds a little hand-wavy, but it makes sense to me. I really needed to get that straight in my head. I’m going to take a deep breath and get some sleep now.