The Stone Shelter

So... Sadly, I am unsure just how many, or even who, may know something of me.

I have represented myself as a Dom. Because I was for a good long time. Even as a milk-breath pup, there wasn't just a whole lot of submit to me. But, eventually, I began to move to extend my own agency within myself to holding power over those I was involved with.

Granted, at the time I didn't have the lexicon to set into words just what I was doing, the labels. It just grew organically from who I was in my blood and bone and what I called out of those I interacted with.

I got a B.S. in a counseling field.

I worked in human service fields with the primary in detention work, but also a lot of work in such varied fields as mental health and mental retardation in group home settings, substance abuse rehabilitation, and victims of child abuse support groups. Hell, I even put in a lot of hours with the community services for the deaf.

And through it all, the running undercurrent was that I was the one in charge. I was the man with the plan, or was supposed to be. And I was also the one hung out to dry if the plan was disrupted by an inmate, client, resident... or one of the coworkers who were typically only different in the cut and style of their uniform.

It was the epitome of the stereotype of Dominant Mastery. And I grew into that role in my personal as well as my professional life.

But, the politics of the situation wore on me. And I wasn't getting any younger. It was time to look forward and plan for what next.

I got my M.Ed. That is a Master's Degree in Education.

I left human services behind and embarked on a second career molding minds. Those that weren't too moldy by the time I got ahold of them.

And still, I was the man with the plan. The one running the show. Or was supposed to be. And, yeah. The one hung out to dry if someone... students, coworkers, some jackass off the street, or whomever blew the plan.

Unfortunately, in my checkered past, I perhaps hadn't been as careful as I might should have been. And developed what they eventually diagnosed as either Parkinson's Disease or, perhaps, this new C.E.T. that is the new fad.

Physical abilities were the first to go. But, the mental decline followed.

Perhaps ironically, Robin Williams committed suicide while I was dealing with my own... new normal. And I would be lying if I said it didn't cross my mind to follow his example...

However, instead, I chose to walk the path peopled by such luminaries as; Ozzy Osborne, Alan Alda, Neil Diamond, Linda Ronstadt, Brian Grant, Muhammad Ali, Janet Reno, Bob Hoskins, Freddie Roach, Michael Richard Clifford, Ben Petrick, Maurice White, Billy Connelly, and (of course) Michael J. Fox.

It really suited me much better anyway since most everyone that knows anything about me (save for a very extremely rarified few in a position to know) have often confused me for a fighter rather than a lover.

After the death of my wife, I came out in the open about the lifestyle preference we'd lived for two and a half decades. Spent some time on a couple of websites.

I wasn't really looking for anything with anyone else, but just whiling away the time. However, others found me.... And decided they wanted to try belonging to me.

All save one were complete and utter fiascos.

It would be easy for me to sit here and say that it was because the ones that found me were obviously not submissive, not only seeking me out with all the temerity of a hunting hound, but badgering and haranguing me into giving them a chance, without fail over my objections. And not really understanding that it was my own waning abilities that I doubted.

What I had not credited, not until now, was that I had declined so far that I needed them rather more than they needed me. I needed them to give me a purpose, a reason to get up off the mat just one more time.

And that is not the behavior, not the mindset, not the heart of a Dominant. Not as I grew into the role and understood it for over three decades. Not as I enacted it in my professional, public, and personal life.

Yet, still, I tried. Because something in me had to try to be what I was, all that I knew.

And then, eight or so months ago, something happened. At first, we thought it was CoViD. It had all the earmarks. But, testing showed negative.

As best we have been able to figure out, I caught simple hayfever which flared into bronchitis. This, they think, triggered my takotsubo cardiomyopathy and the resulting pulmonary edema flared bronchitis into pneumonia.

I did what I was supposed to do, what I was told to do, and bunkered in to shelter in place.

However...

However, they believe that prolonged oxygen deprivation knocked me off the plateau for my Parkinson's I'd been clinging to by my fingernails.

It's easiest to say that I have "memory issues."

But, what is actually happening is that while I do have some short-term memory issues, my long-term memory is still eidetic. Eidetic memory is often, mistakenly, referred to as "photographic." It's more than that, however. At least, it is and has been for me.

When triggered, I don't just see what I've seen. Nor do I hear again what I've heard. It is not recall so much as reliving the moment. The world in it's current form drops away along with the intervening time and I am in that moment I am recalling, living it in it's entirety.

A useful trick when I was in control of just which file was pulled up at will.

The problem is, I'm now a passenger on this ride. I do not any longer control just which file is being accessed when.

So, yeah... I have... have been having... "memory issues."

It is also easiest to just say, "and hallucinations."

But, that isn't wholly accurate either.

No, what happens is that some random trigger drives my still eidetic memory. And I am stuck in a moment from my past, reliving my life at that point.

For a couple of months, I was stuck in some sort of mental time loop.

My late wife's son called me to check on me because they hadn't heard from me in a couple of months. I think I freaked him out just a little bit when I told him his mother, three years gone, was not home from work yet.

I played it off that he had woken me up, which he had. But, the truth was that she was here with me, waking and sleeping. I was bringing her plates of food. Holding conversations with her. Yes, having kinky as fuck sex with her...

Why am I telling you this?

Because there is a fatal flaw, a fly in the ointment.

I don't remember you. We hadn't yet met in the world my mind devolves to.

And there is more...

If I gave you my Skype... I haven't been able to access Skype in... almost a year I guess. Partially technical problems accessing it since my old tower computer started having trouble with it and Imagur and I don't remember what all now about the same time, when they started tweaking the coding for mobile users. 'Cause everyone except me seems to be doing this on a phone now.

But, partly too, I can't remember my username and password.

Nor the gmail and hangouts address that I may have given some.

In other words, if you sent me a message that way and I haven't responded, I never saw it. I didn't even remember I had it for a long while. And then, once it was recalled to me by the boy child (since that was how he'd been trying to reach me before he called), couldn't remember the address. And once he gave it to me, couldn't remember the password.

And, I'm truly, truly sorry if anyone has felt ghosted by me. Or harmed that I can not remember you even now when I am having a "good day" and remember The Cage even exists, much less my username and password. It was never my intent to just disappear up my own existence.

But,... well, I suppose any who really knew me at all would know I just don't do that. Not of my own volition.

This brings me to my final point.

It is time, and probably past time, that I bid the denizens of The Cage adieu.

Primarily, yeah... As I say, I really don't have any business in the lifestyle anymore. A Dominant that is not in control of themselves has absolutely no business attempting to assert control over anyone else.

And then there is my apparent inability to maintain connections anymore, unable to recall the people whom I am supposed to have a connection with.

Last, but definitely not least, Suddenlink by Altice has become outrageous in their CoViD mongering. The ninety-seven dollars monthly which I signed up for was a stretch. Two hundred and fifty dollars monthly is just not doable for me. Not even if my landlord hadn't suddenly increased my rent by 30% additional in an effort to drive me out. And, as I told one of their agents, they are a luxury that makes my life comfortable not a requirement, and one I can do without if it is inimical to my survival needs such as food and shelter.

So, why the Hell am I telling you all this? After all, I was basically all but gone already.

Basically, I don't know if there is anyone that might be wondering about me. Like I've said throughout, I can't remember you. But, today is one of my rarer "good days" when my mind is somewhat functional... And it seems like there maybe one or two that I was in reasonable contact with before my health robbed me of my sapience that might have wondered whatever happened to me.

So, if this is you, if you are seeing this, now you know. And I can only offer my sincerest, most heartfelt apologies that it was left so long before I did.

Either way, fare the well, denizens of The Cage.

And may the wind be at your back and the sun out of your eyes for a brighter tomorrow than yesterday.

 

 

So, yeah.  I figure I'm probably on the naughty list for life after writing up the story of Santa's slutty daughter Mistletoe "Misty" Kringle a few years ago, if I wasn't already.  But, I stand by my assessment that "it was all worth it, you voyeuristic, stalkerish, judgemental, breaking-and-entering, cookie-stealing, jolly fat bastard!"

Any road, I still go though the motions around this time for those who still have a shot at something other than coal and switches... and more than few who only think they know what naughty is.  So, if you're into that kind of thing, here's some snapshots of old Grumpus in his rockin' chair by the barbecue pit telling some Christmassy type tales aloud.

O. Henry ~ A Chapparel Christmas Gift
https://vocaroo.com/155KsPPk6mD3

O. Henry ~ An Unfinished Christmas Story
https://voca.ro/1ijloO4vv0sp

Terri Reinhart ~ The Fiercest Little Animal in the Forest
https://voca.ro/1hr5SZohPkPo

H.P. Lovecraft ~ Christmastide
https://voca.ro/1oxbScGtGuxq

Lewis Carroll ~ Christmas Greetings from Fairy to Child
https://voca.ro/19IUimCqpiwp

Stephan Leacock ~ Merry Christmas
https://voca.ro/1fCrirfqPeLc

O. Henry ~ The Gift of the Magi
https://voca.ro/1hh6VioDaqiA

Leo Tolstoy ~ Papa Panov's Special Christmas
https://voca.ro/11fbWA2qBU44

Mary Griggs Van Voorhis ~ The Boy with the Box
https://voca.ro/1eDtLaG2p9d6

Richmal Crompton ~ The Christmas Present
https://voca.ro/169A7KQGeaqK

Hans Christian Anderson ~ The Fir Tree
https://voca.ro/1lulaA0SpHXa

Charles Dickens ~ What Christmas Is As We Grow Older
https://voca.ro/1oVyFyXmAoaN

Twas The Night Before Christmas
https://voca.ro/1hE1Tp202Vbv

Twas The Night After Christmas
https://voca.ro/1Ah17lqqbA9c

Jim Butcher ~ Christmas Eve; A Dresden Files Short Story

(Spoiler Alert: This story follows Battle Ground. And mentions the aftermath of those events.)

https://voca.ro/1dVMOPPKkD3J

That's enough of that.  And all you're getting from me.  Go sit on that jolly judge's lap and convince him you deserve whatever else.  I'm gonna hang out here and wait for his daughter Misty to bring me the gift I want again this year.

No.

Here's the thing. People get all worked up about whether it is "Christmas" or "Hannukah" or "Kwanzaa" or "Holidays" or whatever. People fall into the lure of commercialism and traditionalism and whatever the Hell else.

But, going back into time, that isn't what it was all about back in the beginning. It was about gathering together to fight back against the shortest day and longest, darkest, coldest night with hope and joy.

And I admit, it took me a long, long time to understand that.

When I was a kid, it was like a Norman Rockwell exploded in our home every Thanksgiving after dinner while the Dallas Cowboys were on the television to be picked up and packed away once more on New Years' Day after the parades while the Bowl games were on. And I looked at the holidays with all the avarice of a child. What joy, what excitement, what was in it for me?

A couple of decades in, I was working the detention units. And you don't just shut down and send murderers, rapists, and thieves back out on the streets because it happens to be Christmas. Someone had to work, and that someone was me. And I got so incredibly sick of assholes who took the childhood avarice I'd experienced to all new heights and thinking I should treat them somehow better than they'd treated their victims because there happened to be Christmas decorations in the day room.

Yeah, welcome to the true naughty list, motherfucker, where you don't even rate coal and switches.

Christmas was just another day as far as I was concerned.

But, that changed. Not completely. I was still working with the inmates.

However, with enough seniority, I could have taken the Holidays off. I didn't. Instead, I let the ones who had to travel for Thanksgiving have that off, and the ones with small kids at home have Christmas. (The party animal drunkards could kiss my ass for New Years', though.) I learned how to give. Not material things, but spirit.

And then there was the woman I shacked up with and eventually married. So, there were aspects that would make PornHub aficionados blush. "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas..."

Eventually, I had enough of working the detention units. I worked a hotel for one year and, man, the murderers, rapists, and thieves have nothing on the entitled public! Although, in all fairness, I was pretty jaded by then. Perhaps, just perhaps, the majority of them weren't as bad as they came across. Unlike some of the previous posters, I automatically assumed that everybody I ran across was an egocentric little twatwaffle. It amazed me when I ran across somebody else who wasn't in it for everything they could get for themselves and their people but just gave and gave. Not of their money. Not things. That's easy. But, of their time, of their compassion, of their joy and hope. Of themselves.

Then, it was teaching at a local college. And with a couple of weeks off AND a bonus that was just almost an entire month's paycheck, Norman Rockwell was back. With a vengeance. Not for me and not for the wife. We were just fine with The Story of O Christmas that would make Santa blush and Mrs. Clause ask "so, what time will you be home, honey?" No, we did it for the other people in our lives, family and friends and the occasional stray we picked up that either didn't have anybody else or else couldn't be with who they had.

But, our checkered, often misspent youth caught up with us. We were reclassified as disabled and I became virtually housebound with her virtually bedridden. It was... a problematic time. Forget gifts and decorations, food and shelter was questionable more than once. Friends and family drifted off. And, yeah, our Private Christmas Porn became a ghost of Christmasses past.

But, we had each other, a dog, and four cats. And that was all the hope, joy, and peace (well, joy and hope anyway) either of us needed to make the longest, darkest, coldest time of the year merry and bright.

Then came a Christmas where I didn't have her anymore. Or anyone except my dog and three surviving cats. There were no decorations, but there hadn't been for years. There were no gifts given or received. But, there hadn't been much by way of those either for a number of years. Food (such as it was) and shelter (such as it is) were handled. Barely.

The next year was a Lit-mas for me. And it was all I really needed to lift my spirits during the long, cold, dark night of the soul. People all around the globe gave, not physical things, but of their time and their energy as we cheered each other, gave each other hope, brought each other peace...

Or so I thought at the time. But, the less said about old news, the better.

The next Christmas, though... last Christmas... when I'd given up on Christmas... was something unique in my experiences. Bob Cratchet would have been green with envy. (And PornHub would gnaw on its own liver.) Only myself, the dog, and two surviving cats were here in our den. But, reaching through the Aether through electronics (and via the post office), we found hope, joy, and peace in each other (not to mention some rather fabulous cookies and fudge!) to fight against the encroaching darkness and became lights for each other.

It's Christmas time again. Covid Christmas.

Or Hannukah. Or Kwanzaa. Or "the holidays." Or whatever you choose to call it.

It is the darkest, coldest, loneliest, most depressing, and oppressive time of the year. The time when our ancestors fought back against the storm raging without and within with joy and laughter and feasting and began the traditions handed down to today.

And, good people, if ever there was a year that NEEDED that cheer, isn't it this one?

Hans Christian Anderson ~ The Fir Tree
https://voca.ro/1lulaA0SpHXa

The day is going to come anyway. Do what you may to make yours a good day.

Regarding your naughty and nice list... it was all worth it, you jolly judgmental voyeuristic fat bastard!

Sincerely,

Little Johnny B. Goode

*****

Now for a little Christmas tune for all us naughty fuckers.

(Originally posted on another site:)

 

Good evening everyone.

I just wanted to start a thread to open a discussion about the different dominant types. I feel as though too many people have a certain image in their head of what a dominant "should be". I find this can be damaging to some new doms and also new subs because it gives the impression that if things aren't done in a certain way, it means they arent dominant or that if a Dom does act in a stereotypical/movie portrayed way, a naive submissive could easily be misused.

I will not claim to be worldly or know a ton about this subject either, I consider myself fairly new. I know that different types of dominants exist, but not the details of those different doms. So please, if you are a Dom, post below and describe your style the best you can. Or if you're a sub and want to brag on your dom and yalls style, go ahead! I want to learn from this post, and hopefully give a platform for others to learn as well.

Also, within this, do you personally believe there is a defined difference between a Master, Sir, and Daddy? I've heard many opinions and would like to hear more as a collective.

Disclaimer: I know one person doesn't fall into any one certain categories. Everybody has their own style and mixture. I just want to hear about everyone's personal experiences and opinions.

Sincerely,

A curious Sub

 

 

BDSM can get kind of confusing for neophytes. And I think the reason why is because it contains three aspects of variable distinction

• Bondage and Discipline
• Dominance and Submission
• Sadism and Masochism

 

Bondage and Discipline is pretty easy. Is someone being restrained in some way? Who is the one getting tied up, the bunny? Who is the one doing the tying, the rigger?

 

Sadism and Masochism, likewise, is pretty easy. Is there some form of sensation play going on and specifically involving one of the seven hundred and twenty-three (by my count) sensations that could be considered pain?

 

Dominance and Submission, though, can be confusing as Hell because it's ninety percent the mentality of the people choosing to engage in it.

 

***shrug*** I'm probably being overly simplistic, but for me my Rigger tendencies and my Sadist tendencies have some limited overlap with my Dominance tendencies because... well, because they are all within the scope of my personal interests. But, being a Rigger or being a Sadist doesn't really have much to do with me being Dominant other than that they all share some of my attention. What I mean is, if I didn't want to restrain her or hurt her just a little bit in all the best ways that she consented to, I would still be Dominant.

 

Again it's just my opinion, but I've generally felt that my Dominance was in its simplest form wanting to control what is happening and when. To me. To those I care about. To what is mine.

 

And I think that is just sort of part of the human condition. Isn't it? Wanting to control what is happening to us, to those we care about, to what we consider ours? Somewhere in there?

 

The question is, how do we go about it?

 

Well, again, these are just my observations. My opinion.

 

Thug. It's all about the force. If you don't get what you want, then beat the crap out of anyone necessary until you do. Well, maybe not always literally. But, there is a certain aspect of "might makes right." Of getting what is desired by being more imposing, of the threat. "Because I'm bigger and I said so."

 

Capo. There is still an element of swinging their weight around, but it's more about swinging the weight of the organization, the rules. "Do it my way, 'cause I'm the boss."

 

Smartass(hole). It's more about using intelligence as a club. "I've read more, obviously know more than you about everything, so it would be really stupid to do it any way other than what I'm telling you."

 

Legend (in their own mind at least). Stronger, smarter, richer, more powerful, more successful, and better looking than you. Just ask them. "Follow or find a footprint between your shoulder blades."

 

Colt. Young and brash, full of cockiness. Ten feet tall and bulletproof. Success is inevitable. Talking the talk before the walk. "The proof of my success is I haven't failed."

 

Iceheart. Or Steelheart. "Emotion is for chumps. Humor is for chumps. Talking is for chumps. Keep turning little cog."

 

Old Fart. Been everywhere, seen it all, done it all, got the scars. "Siddown, whippersnapper. Shaddup, pup. You're still young yet with no scars on your face."

 

Okay, I admit I was trying to be a little humorous. Each "type" has its pros and cons. (As well as different actual names in the original research I blatantly hijacked.) But, this wasn't really about the seven psychological types of world domination oriented personalities (at least their world). I just think that it's often overlooked on the way to bed.

 

And in all fairness, as I look back across the sandscape in the hourglass of the days of my life, I've been each of these types. (Albeit not in any certain order.) These days? I'm tired and retired. Or close enough with one interpersonal relationship left in me to try to sustain.  (In other words, don't look to me to tame your frenzy.)

 

Any road... So, in a BDSM D/s oriented relationship, I've typically identified myself (in retrospect) as one of the following different types at various points over the decades.

 

Primal. It was almost a battle of supremacy. While I was firmly on the Predator side of the slash, the Hunter, I don't really like the term "prey." You don't mate with prey, you eat it. And the gals who I Hunted... well, like I say, I wasn't interested in weak little tidbits hardly worth the chase. If I didn't have scratches and bite marks, wasn't just as marked as she was, then I figured it just wasn't that good.

 

Top. I had little thought for them beyond sex, fetish, and kink. Oh, don't get me wrong. I wanted them to have a good time as well as me. But, once we put our clothes on, that was pretty well done for me. They went their way and did whatever they did and I went on and did what I did. Until and unless we got together again for a little more. It was all about the flesh, the hormones, the body. Fuckmeat and wankfodder.

 

Pet Owner. Less person and more valued pet.

 

Professor. Or, maybe Mentor. It was all about the mind. Even when the body was also involved, which was rare as Professor or Maestro. This was (typically) a contract with a time limit. Once the class was done, so were we.

 

Daddy. This was my heart. Love. My vulnerability. Although... arguably, this is "my resting bitch face." I have a tendency to slip into that mode with purely platonic friends that I care about. It's how I express love. And I couldn't tell you the number of times I've had pointed out to me by a platonic friend they aren't my sub.

 

Master. This was the soul for me, the spirit. Twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week of complete and total power (and responsibility). Everything was mine (or was supposed to be). And I was responsible for everything. Especially the blame when things went wrong.

 

I realize that my definitions don't match up perfectly with what most think.  

 

For example, as "Daddy" I didn't feel comfortable initiating sexual play whereas "Sir" or "Lord and Master" you'd better have had your safeword ready.  And this confused more than one little/middle who needed the more forceful aspects that I would reserve for Top or Master. 

 

And I'm not much for punishment. Spanking for funsies? Sure. Discipline? You bet. I'm all for discipline. Especially self-discipline.  Punishment? Not so much. Tasks? Okay. But, if disappointing me by failing at the task wasn't enough of a punishment, then I wasn't the Dom you were looking for. Move along.  

 

And this whole concept of "making."  

 

Not knocking, if everyone involved is into it. Just sayin' I'm not. Too much like my old former career in the detention units, too much like work to be fun for me. I request and remind and if that isn't enough to get someone off the couch, knowing and understanding that their compliance would make me happy, then we probably weren't going to be a good fit long term.

 

The thing is... I didn't decide "this is what I am" and go off looking for something on the lower-cased side of the slash. Often times, in the heat of the moment, I didn't even have the label for just what we were doing. It just sort of sprung organically from who and what I was at the time in my balls and bone, in concert with who and what they meant to me, the resonance between us. What they called out of me.  

 

You see, each of these for me isn't just all about what I took, but also what I gave. And if I just didn't see them as someone I wanted to give my Mastery, to put in that sort of time and effort, to take that sort of responsibility for, then they might get Sir (Top).

 

And at the end of all things, I wasn't necessarily going to feel like giving this new one the exact same things I gave to someone else just because she slapped the label "submissive" on her own ass and wiggled it around tauntingly at me. As I told one that sent me a message unsolicited, "Dom you?! Lady, I don't even know you! Why the fuck would I want to go to that much effort for you?"

 

All I know for certain is that people are people and relationships are all about matching up what each is singularly to find some positive result as a unit for a variable length of time that may be too short or too long in retrospective terms. Compromise is all well and good unless it compromises who and what you are in your soul just so you won't be alone. All these decades later, I'm a firm adherent that it's much better to be alone than lonely with the wrong people underfoot. And if the only reason for being with someone is so you won't be alone, then it ain't ever going to be anything worth having. Trying to live a life based on "what the books say I should want, be, and do" (much less a nameless, faceless entity on the infernal nets) is a sure way to never find your own path to self-actualization.

 

Figuring out what you are, what you need, is laudable. Throwing out the baby with the bathwater when some aspect doesn't fit and ignoring what does or, indefinitely worse, trying to "live up to" some checklist in order to qualify as a specific label, on the other hand...

 

Any road, whatever label you might feel applies to you, may the sun be out of your eyes and the wind at your back for a brighter tomorrow than yesterday.

Well, that escalated quickly.

So, I was feeling well enough to actually sit up and poke around on these infernal nets a little bit. And I stumbled across this question (on another site).

22M here, trying to get clarity.

I already asked this on Reddit subs, but the posts were deleted by mods. Also, I dug around a little bit, and it seems no matter how many time women (not men) keep encouraging men to approach them (in a right and respectful manner) women are creeped out by men on a daily basis (most of the times, rightfully so). But sometimes, even our existence seems to bother women.

On the flip side, men are advised to keep interactions with women completely platonic and on-point. Some parts of the world, it’s downright illegal to approach a woman on the streets. A site-super of a construction crew at a uni told me that they were told by the uni-admin to not even make eye contact with women on campus.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to have a good time with a woman, romantic or platonic. But I don’t want to offend or scare anyone, and I certainly don’t want to get into trouble for that.

All of this is pretty confusing to me. Judge me however you want, but I’d like some clarity on this. [B][I]Should I keep my hopes up about meeting a lovely lady on the streets and hitting off with her, or is that only for Lit stories? [/I][/B]I’d like everyone’s opinions on this.

tl-dr: it feels weird asking this 40-year-old-virgin question on a thread where folks ask about sex positions, and other grown up stuff, but this is the last place I can think of getting an answer. I have nowhere else to find out about this.

Thanks in advance. For reading and/or answering.

To your health.

Ok. So, me being the helpful old soul, I smacked my gums and settled back in my rocking chair to tell about the old days when we had dirt and were glad of it to help this whippersnapper out.

Why?

No, seriously. Why would you want to walk up on some random stranger that you know absolutely nothing about beyond their physical appearance and strike up a conversation?

I will grant that it's been a few decades since I was your age, but I've never understood this one.

I made a friend in college. (Hard as that might be for some to believe.) He dragged me out a couple of times to hit up the dance clubs so he could meet chicks. And I just never understood. So, I'm supposed to spot some random stranger across a crowded bar and on the basis of nothing beyond her physical appearance I'm supposed to fight my way across to join the throng of hopeful hounds baying at her barstool with a watered-down drink that cost three times as much as if I'd hit a liquor store instead in the hopes of being able to shout something over what qualifies as "music" thrumming hard enough to make the walls vibrate? No thanks. None for me.

(The only one time that ever worked for me was the one incident where she got off her throne amidst her throng of admirers and joined me on the dance floor [mostly to get away from the fins circling]. Kate and I dated for about two months before she decided I was too much distraction from med school.)

Nor did I ever see the point in stopping every ten feet as I trekked across campus just because some girl that happened to be pretty happened to be walking past if I didn't know a damn thing else about her. Let some other catfish take the bait.

Oh, I might look my fill. And depending on my mood, might nod. Maybe even smile if she was lucky. Actual verbal greetings? No. Maybe... just maybe... the fifth or sixth time I happened to pass them. (If I even noticed them enough to recognize them.) The first time? Whatever for? They weren't dressing to impress me, but themselves. I was a bit more difficult to impress.

Now, if she stopped me, and I had time, I tried to be congenial. Or, if I didn't have time right then, I would explain that and offer to meet her at another time and place. If she showed, fine. If she didn't, that was fine too.

I was [I]busy[/I]. I was taking double a full-time course load, working two paying jobs and one internship. What little free time I had was taken up with my hobbies, practices and tournaments, or hanging out with a crew of six lesbians (three couples) that four of them looked like they had stepped out of a glossy magazine. And absolutely [I]hated [/I]when guys would stroll up and strike up a conversation as if they didn't have anything better to do than entertain some random stranger just because they happened to be pretty.

(Hell, it took months before misanthropic Holly accepted me as part of the gang, and that only after we shut down a dance club (and our college football team's bowl hopes) when seven fuckers couldn't accept "no" or even "fuck off.")

Ostensibly, I was living with my mother and little sister while I went to college. And I might have actually seen them for thirty minutes every third day. I had neither the time, energy, nor inclination to waste on some gal that only had superficial appearance ticked off the list.

Well, actually, technically I wasn't quite your age yet at that point, now I think about it.

At your precise age, I had graduated and moved off into the sticks so deep they had to pipe in sunlight. The gals who were actually attractive were either married to their high school sweethearts (usually their older brother's best friend), looking for someone to help raise the whelps from their first marriage, or had gotten the hell out of Dodge the day after graduation so they could be around guys they hadn't grown up with.

I did my thing. Picked up a second job. Picked up my hobbies again with new groups (I'd had to move six hours away). Added a few more hobbies that I'd been interested in, but hadn't had time for.

What I didn't do was sit around at home and wishing some gal would come to the door, bringing a pizza and begging for more than just the tip.

It worked well enough to suit me. In addition to friends, girlfriends, and lovers I never bothered to count, I had four that have gotten serious enough to merit engagements, and my late wife out of the deal. All as competent as they are beautiful, and beautiful in their soul as they are in face and form.

I have absolutely no idea how this... covfefe? corona? coved? What are we calling it this week? Any road, I have no idea how this crap with bunkering in place and everything being shut down is going to affect things. But, it doesn't really matter. Back in those days, the infernal nets were just a pipe dream of the basement boffins.

These days you can join any number of chats on any number of subjects that might interest you. With people. And at the end of the day, that hottie that gave you whiplash is first and foremost a person. (Yes, even the redheads.)

And if you end up getting along, then you've made a friend. Which is one more than you had. If they aren't in on the chats that interest you, it probably wasn't gonna ever be anything anyway.

Intimacy... sex even... Have some pride in yourself. Don't use a scattershot trying to find a decent cut at the meat market to give yourself to. Make 'em work for it. Make 'em prove they are beautiful inside or all they get is a polite smile, maybe a nod, and they can watch you drift right over their horizon in favor of someone that has more going for them than a pretty smile and nice tits.

In the meantime, figure out who you are in your balls and bone without some random person underfoot. Then pursue who and what you love about yourself. The ones you meet as you do will be much more worth your attention than some random street walker.

 

I thought I'd done a good thing here. Makes perfect sense to me anyway. Stop looking for Da One and just focus on living your life and making yourself happy as you become the best you rather than bending yourself into pretzels trying to be something you aren't. Right? With a heavy mix of examples to demonstrate what everyone means with that old adage "just be yourself."

And I got lambasted by a follow up commenter for being grumpy and crotchety. "I would say they were lucky if you didn't smile."

Well, I am Grumps. My eldest grandson named me so. And I get almost as big a kick out my handle as I did Love being dubbed "Granny Fish" for the eleven various sized aquariums we had. Almost. But, I just didn't see how that could be anything about what I said to this kid.

And my girl happened to call while I was puzzling over it. So, I read her the question and then read what I said. Twice since she kept falling asleep. Finally, she had to log on and read it for herself since I've got her too well trained and she will be zonked after only a paragraph or two of my voice. (We're NEVER going to catch up on Dresden at this rate!)

And the little imp agreed with the poster that I had come across as an asshole!

What the fuck, over?

Well, we discussed it, and argued it, and debated it.

 

It's not that I mind being called an asshole, really.  I long ago came to understand that I am one, accepted it and moved on.  I just didn't see how what I had told this kid, out of the kindness of my heart mind you, to help straighten him out was assholey.

 

And she pointed out that she knew me and knew that unlike what I'd posted, I was one of the kindest, gentlest people she knew with a ready smile and a kind word for most anyone I meet, not quite universally loved by animals and small children but close enough.

Which didn't help just a whole lot.

Geez, she made me sound like a fuckin' marshmallow.

So, when she finally settled down and stopped laughing at my outrage, I made her pull out one of the Hitachi wands I've given her. (I can't remember if we are on our third or fourth this year since we keep wearing them out.) She settled back and got into position.

And I switched to "baby talk."

"Is mean old Daddy making babygirl's puddy all squishy and wet?"

"It's because I'm an ass-s-s-hole isn't it? That makes your littly kitty all buzzy and squishy."

And on and on.

Meanwhile, my sweet little servant, my spicy little submissive, my beautiful babygirl is rolling all over the place laughing and can't keep the wand on her little clitty. I kept having to remind her (in my normal voice) to put it back.

And about the time she would start catching her breath, I would say something else in that smarmy "babytalk" voice and send her off into another paroxysm.

She finally had to safeword because it was "just too confusing, getting worked up and then you talking in that ridiculous voice that is just so wrong coming from you on so many levels! My kitty was saying 'yes' while my brain was going 'oh, no. No no nonono.'"

She started it! Telling me that first what I said to help the kid change his perspective sounded like an asshole (which I could accept, but just didn't understand how that came across) and then calling me a doormat!

 

Yeah, she doesn't know it yet, but I've got something truly diabolical planned for later.  As Filch would say, "there is going to be punishment!"

Eight sided die to pick the size dildo. Coin toss to see which hole. Twenty sided die to see how many minutes holding the clit annihilator (fuck the wand! Wands are for pussies!) while she uses the dildo she rolled for me.

If she safewords out of that, I'm going to have to mark a swing on one of the floggers or paddles hanging on the closet wall for her next visit.

Or maybe the six-foot braided leather bullwhip I use to maintain social distancing between her visits...

On second thought, I think I need to go onto Amazon and pick up a pair of rubber chickens to flog her with. Maybe a set of hulk hands (with sound effect).

"LDR privileges" are not a thing!

Me:

My sweet little spice:

 

 

 

 

And for all you Christmassy Cratchets:

"The Acid Pancake from the Abyss"... I'm going to pass, I think, since all that comes to mind is certain culinary miscues... smoke alarms... fire, flood, and famine...

Actually, I wrote a poem once upon a time. It was pretty dark. There were razor blades slid down into an abyss. I titled it "Chili." And the last line was a plea that she never cook for me again...

But, along the lines of movies...

I'm a "Potter-head."

In 1998, I was by no stretch of the imagination a kid anymore, married and working a career while finishing up my Master's degree in education, having moved on from my earlier thought that the counseling field and detention work might be a good fit for me. I was completely unaware of J.K. Rowling.

Until Mom purchased "The Sorcerer's Stone" (Americanized version) as my birthday gift that year.

Mom was an elementary school teacher. More, she'd read the book and saw a lot of me in Harry. I even had a scar on my forehead (although mine was from getting my helmet ripped off at the line of scrimmage and making the tackle anyway, knocking the ballcarrier unconscious).

(Personally, I think I'm more something along the lines of Hagrid, but Flitwick sized... "Hairy and mad, you say? You wouldn't be talkin' 'bout me, now would ya?" And then there are Dogzilla and the three Demon Cats...)

It was a gift. From Mom.

And, okay. It worked for a paper I was having to write for my last Children's Literature requisite. (Technically, it was supposed to be a Newberry or Caldecott, but I was just that fuckin' good. Not to mention stubborn, obstinate, determined, willful...)

So, I read it. More, I studied it.

And enjoyed it.

Not enough that I was waiting with 'bated breath for the next installment. Hell, I didn't even know there would be a next installment since I didn't really care all that much. It was a children's book after all. Laurell K. Hamilton, David Weber, Lois McMaster Bujold, John Ringo, David Eddings, Tracy Hickman & Margret Weiss (to name a few) were much more my speed for "mind candy."

Mom had that covered as the next was released just in time for my next birthday.

And the next released just in time for that birthday.

And the next released just in time for that birthday.

However, the next year, there was no new book. And I found myself oddly disappointed since I was certainly no child by that point, having gained my M.Ed and taken retirement from my first career in order to embark on something I thought would be a better fit.

Instead, they'd gone and made a movie.

Bleargh.

Let me explain.

The one and only movie I've ever judged to be every bit as good as the book was "The Abyss." Every other one has been... lacking. (And don't even get me started on how many ways they fucked up "The Sword of Truth" or "Dresden Files" or... Tanya Huff's work that I can't remember the series title and am too lazy to go look up at the moment. The television series don't just suck, comparatively, they "suck diseased moose wang" to blatantly steal a phrase from Jim Butcher.)

Only...

Only, this Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone didn't suck as much as most Hollywood gets ahold of and then decides to piss on all the fence posts until it's unrecognizable to anyone who actually read the book.

(And don't come at me with your arguments about the length OR special effects. I've sat through George Lucas films AND Kevin Costner "this shit is going to be over sometime today, right?" movies.)

And pretty much right up until they decided in "their infinite wisdom" to completely cut S.P.E.W., the Potter franchise movies did a pretty damn decent job of at least resembling the books they were made from.

Once I'd collected all seven books (eight movies), each year around my (and Harry's) birthday, I would set the movie matching the book up on the DVD player to loop and read each of the books again.

Flash forward a few years, and Mom had enough of fighting non-Hodgkins lymphoma after more than a decade and went on to see what is next. Both my wife and I were classified as disabled and unable to work, with me becoming largely housebound and her virtually bedridden. Our options for entertainment were... eh... somewhat more limited than they had been.

It was even more important, to me, to continue to re-read the books Mom had given me each year with the movie from the book playing on a loop in the background while I did it.

But... Love and I also had developed certain... idiosyncrasies with our sleep hygiene. Specifically, we could not sleep if it was... well, if "it was quiet. Too quiet."

So, we would set up movies in the DVD player on a loop.

The thing was... we were a little different in just what worked.

I was more "Chronicles of Riddick" or "Avatar." The Star Wars franchise... I couldn't tell you how long it's been since I had to stand if I wanted to stay awake through the intro music and scrolling screen of a Star Wars movie. But, pretty much anything with a high ammo count and explosions would suffice as a lullaby for me. So, pretty much any cheesy 80s action flick.

Speaking of which, I saw that Chuck Norris is wearing a mask. We're fucked. But, I digress.

Love, on the other hand... Oh, good God! West Wing. Criminal Minds. Law and Order. Grey's Anatomy. NCIS. For the love of God, how many boring assed legal, political, or medical soap operas are they going to inflict?! And why the Hell couldn't I have been claimed by a slave who liked "chick flicks?!" Those, at least, I could sleep through (and often did the first time through). Christ on a crutch, even Oprah, the Hallmark channel, or that Oxygen network would have been better! (Unless Dr. Phil was on that episode, since I couldn't sleep because I'd be too busy heckling "The Frat Boy.")

About the only thing we could agree on, that worked for both of us, was the Harry Potter movies.

We played them so much that we wore out two of the eight discs.

At the end of September 2017, her son and his wife were visiting and took me to Wal-Mart. Where I spotted some Harry Potter movies and decided to buy a couple of the two movie sets to replace the ones we'd used up.

On October 5th of 2017, just after midnight, I came out of the bathroom to find the television on some craft show. (I don't think it was the dude with the white man 'fro painting, but it was the same kind of thing.) Which also just didn't work for me. So, I opened one of the replacement DVDs and put in "The Chamber of Secrets" set to loop.

Love was already asleep. And I was asleep within seconds of stretching out next to her.

Eight hours later, or thereabouts, I woke to the movie still playing. And Love still asleep.

She'd had a lot of trouble sleeping, so I slipped quietly out of bed and into my computer chair beside where I sleep, where I sat for the entire day, waiting for her to wake up. With "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets" playing on a loop the entire day.

It was still playing at 1800 (six o'clock) when I decided that was enough sleep until she ate something... and discovered that she'd died at some point. And I hadn't known.

It was still playing as the police and the medical examiners came and investigated. And then wheeled her lifeless body out past me.

It was still playing as I sat there in a numb haze, making the requisite calls to let family know that she was gone. And after, as I tried to think what I should do, what I could do, what there was left for me.

I don't remember exactly when I shut it off, took the DVD out of the player, and carefully put it back in its case.

I neither read the books nor watched the movies that year.

One night, over a year from when I'd shut it off, I was chatting with someone I thought was not only a submissive but my little. She knew (or should have) that movie had been playing when my wife died, and just how much pain was attached to it for me. I had told her. We had talked about it. We had talked about it when my birthday came and went and I didn't read the books or watch the movies. That particular night, she was... call it babysitting. And the kid had picked "The Chamber of Secrets" to watch.

Part of being Daddy for me is that I am interested in what my little is watching, reading, or listening to. And even if it is not to my personal taste, I will read, watch, or listen to it with them (if they will share it with me and it is feasible). Hell, I'd broken my housebound streak to go to the movie theater at the same exact time to watch the movie about Freddie Mercury "with" her (a thousand miles apart).

It was painful, even considering pulling out a Potter, much less that particular one. But, she meant that much to me, my perceived role in her life meant that much to me, that I opened the dusty disc case and brought out the movie that had been playing on a loop the day my wife died.

I relaxed into the pain, let it wash over and through me, and was coming out the other side, actually enjoying not only this return to Hogwarts but sharing it with her... When a message popped up.

"The kid's asleep and I'm turning this shit off. I'm not watching it for the billionth time."

And brought not only the original pain back, but adding to it.

I stopped the movie and put it away once more, harmed irrevocably by this latest iteration of her callous, egocentric cosmology. And have been unable to watch or read those since.

Until...

My sweet little spice was here for her longest visit yet.

And in the latter days of her visit, mentioned that she'd never seen nor read Harry Potter. I paused and considered for all of a moment... We're only five books in on The Dresden Files, with several more to go. (We've been on the fifth book for months now as she keeps falling asleep after only a paragraph or two.) And I'm not going to drop a series and start reading a different series to her then try to come back to this one... Nope. If it's a series, I either read it all to my little before starting a new one, or we don't come back to it. Ever.

As for the movies...

***snort*** I have to put her in a full rig to get her sit still for a full thirty minutes, and then she's gonna fall asleep when she can't "shark mode!" Hell, when she's here, I have to strap her into her body pillow or I'll wake up to find she's not only slipped out of bed but out of the house!

And she wanted to try to watch all eight of the Harry Potter movies with only seventy-two hours to go in her visit? Maybe if we'd started the first day of her trip and done one per day, we could have set it on a loop and she might have caught the whole thing after about seven or eight playthroughs as she circled back from chasing shiny. But, no. Even two movies would be problematic unless I was prepared to catch her at the door of the restroom when I let her up for potty breaks and strap her back in.

***sigh*** However, she really, really wanted to. You could tell on account of how she not only said she really, really wanted to, but kept bringing it up over and over. Even putting on her special Gryffindor panties bought just for the occasion.

Yeah... I kinda suck at the whole "stern" side of Daddy. And after the sixteenth iteration, she wore me down. Although, in all fairness, it probably was the cute little Gryffindor panties hugging that spankable little tushy that did it.

And it was every bit the battle I had imagined. I kept having to pull her up by the hair from sucking me to make sure she was still following what was going on. And I couldn't tell you how many times I had to pause it as "I gotta potty" segued into "I need a drink" and then (three hours later), "I was hungry so I was making us some food."

But, somehow we persevered through the first four...

And hit a snag.

Somewhere back up there (a few hours ago), I mentioned that I'd bought two two-disc sets the weekend before my wife died. And that I'd opened the one with "Sorcerer's Stone" and "Chamber of Secrets" to put in the second that had been playing on a loop the day she died.

I'd never opened the other one I bought, containing "Order of the Phoenix" and "Half-blood Prince."

And I needed to clarify something before we went on. So, I went to find her in the kitchen...

And triggered a defensive response.

She could not hear what I was trying to tell her, what I was trying to ask, because she'd been triggered.

So, I did what I think any Daddy worth his salt would have. I held her tightly, kissed her on the brow, and apologized profusely for hurting her feelings.

Then went back, the movie still unopened, to give her some time and space, biding my time before circling back to what I needed her to understand and give informed consent to. Specifically, I was not going to open the, as yet unmarred, plastic if she wasn't going to be able to actually watch them.

When she came to me, apologizing for what she now recognized was an over-reaction, I gently broached the subject by explaining what I have set out here. That it was painful for me, thanks to Love dying and then Little One being so cavalier, but that she was providing a much-needed catharsis. Healing a wound. However, I was only going to be ready to open this unopened package if she was going to be able to sit through them and stay awake for them. Otherwise, we could do other things for her remaining time and come back to this at some future date. That I knew her limits had been tested by trying to binge them all, and it was my fault for letting her tease and tantalize me by shaking her little Gryffindor clad tushy at me.

Sobered, subdued, and more than a little shaken as she understood the gravity of the gift I was giving, and (to a lesser extent) the monumental gift she was giving to me, she chose to try to watch the rest with me.

We did make it through Order of the Phoenix and Half-blood Prince. However, Deathly Hallows was just too much.

She is back where she resides now. Probably getting a much-deserved rest. And is already aware that I've ordered The Deathly Hallows for her so that when it arrives, we might finish her introduction to Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Hogwarts in its entirety.

(As well as explaining just why the graffiti in Locke and Key, which we watched together, at the school that "Your letter from Hogwarts is never coming" sent me off into gales of laughter amidst declarations of "Oh, that's cold!")

While she understands just how much of a gift I gave to her, visiting that crucible of personal pain... I don't think she has yet grasped the sheer enormity and complexity of the gift she gave in return, healing a harmful hurt for me.

But, as I've been sitting here tonight, contemplating some of the posts I've seen, and the intricacies of these interests we share, I can't help but think it is often that way. That the lower-cased side of the slash, at least in the case of needy, greedy littles, often don't fully grok just what it is that they give to their Person. (Or how harmful they can be if they brat about the wrong things at the wrong time.) How much pain the stoic mein of Daddy can hide.

I... don't know if it could have worked, in my case, if she hadn't been sitting beside me, touching me through the first six, and in particular the second, fifth, and sixth. But, I think I can now do what I haven't been strong enough to prior to her... involvement, her existence in my world.

I think I'm ready to read the books my mother gave to me once again. With the matching movie playing in the background as I do.

(No, babygirl. Maybe later I'll read them TO you. AFTER we finish Dresden. Yes, I know you love me. Yes, I love you. But, Potter is still gonna wait until after Dresden. Now, tuck that lip in and put that flop-eared yeahbut back in its cage. No, ordering The Elder Wand for me to spank you with while wearing the Gryffindor panties won't work... Do I need to get my Dresden Staff you carved for me? And the unicorn hair cuffs to tie you to the fireplace mantel?)

Any road, I'm afraid that's all I've got on movies at the moment. But, best of luck with that Rock n' Roll Hobbit that Doesn't Know Mercy... Actually, I think I could have worked with that... except for the "too much realism" part...