The Stone Shelter

So, I ran across this question in the forums;

"When did you come to the realization of your submission or Dominance?"

This is an interesting (as well as complicated) question for me. And I started typing.

And kept typing.

And kept typing.

Nothing really unusual about that as any that know me also know that I'm a long-winded old gasbag who doesn't know a damn thing about "concise" beyond the dictionary definition.

But, reading over this one gave even me pause once done. And rather than fill up several screens worth of chatter the uninterested would have to scroll past, I decided to move it over to my blog instead and just post a link in the forum thread so that anyone not interested in spending several hours listening to Grumps reminisce meanderingly about the old days "when we had dirt and were glad of it" can just give it a pass.

*****

Pretty much right from when I was still in Pampers, there was little to absolutely no submit to me. I was very much a brat, and not the good kind that just does it for attention. No, I wanted to be in control of my own destiny, thank you very much. If I didn't see the purpose behind me doing such and so, I wasn't gonna. And even when I did (under threat of a heavy hand applied to my buttocks), I would do it my way.

Which didn't sit very well with a heavy-handed father and Head of Household who very much believed in the scripture about "sparing the rod and spoiling the child."

As fortune would have it, there were seven other children on the block that were close enough in age that our mothers would let us play together to give each, in turn, a break. I was the only male. And in that time and place, there were sociological factors that came into play that made "house" the favored game of the females of the species.

And in those pre-enlightened times, it just made sense to everybody involved that as the only male, I should be "Daddy" despite being the youngest of all.

I was three and the oldest was seven, so naturally, we didn't know anything about sex. At least I didn't. Yet. And it was never part of the "game." Although, coming home from "work" and being called on to administer punishments was.

(And, yes, I'm very well aware now that is A Bad Thing, "wait 'til your father gets home," but cut me some slack. I was three and being guided by a composite of my own experiences and my playmates.)

Then the King and Queen brought home a little fairytale princess as a sister for me. And Camelot was moved eight blocks to a new house large enough to hold the new addition.

And a neighborhood that our little family lowered the average age to somewhere around fifty. Even counting the teenaged brother and sister next door.

After years of "help" figuring stuff out, I was no closer to figuring out if their introducing me to sex (before suddenly moving away in the night after a visit from Mom) might have played a part in the eventual outcome or not before I just quit caring about ancient history and started worrying about "what next."

I am pretty sure, however, that the bullying I was subjected to once I began school did play a rather large part. As I say, I wanted to be the Master of my own destiny. And I was very, very tired of, no matter how I stood up to bullies, still ending up crammed into lockers or head down in trash cans, toilets, or whatever else was close to hand while no adults were around. And of being too small and sickly to do much else about it.

I didn't realize at the time that surviving their bullying was bringing a bully to life within me.

Years later, once I was out of the maladies that haunted my early years, and I was able to get outside and actually explore the kinesthetic intelligence I'd lagged behind in, an even stronger motivating factor than "chicks dig jocks" was that tiredness of being a target of convenience. Which I suppose might be somewhat forgivable.

However, I felt it was decidedly unfair that once I got fast and strong enough to make a fight of it, they tired of the game too quickly. I swear, you spin around and grab one guy's foot while he's doing a flying kick at your back, swing him all the way around, and then release him like an Olympic hammer throw, causing him to fly fifteen feet, headfirst into a swamp cooler hard enough to dent said swamp cooler, and suddenly no one wants to play anymore! So not fair!

I had years of rage bottled up and waiting to explode at the prick of a dropped pin. But, everybody got really careful not to drop pins my direction.

So, I started taking others under my protection. Which might have been somewhat laudable if I'd done so out of any regard for them. But wasn't since they were nothing more than an excuse. So, I can't really feel any credit for those years being the quietest as far as bullying and fighting only exceedingly rare since it was due to me being the bigger bully. Or at least faster, stronger, and meaner.

(And you really, really don't want to ask any questions about the one and only time a date rape allegation made it's way to my ears. You really, really don't.)

On the "gurls" front, however... that was a very confusing time. A lot of confusion. A whole lot of confusion as a lifetime (however short at that point) of experience said that some... a lot... of the things that held my quivering attention were way more violent than what I was supposed to be with someone I loved.

And even being uncompromising in my goals was a sign that I didn't love her as much as I ought to.

So, as it turned out there was one specific girl that I still consider my first ex-fiancee that we were really little more than an on-again/off-again platonic puppy thing. And more off than on. With her, I didn't compromise so much as I sublimated every aspect of my personality in favor of her whims, thinking that was what I was supposed to do. And in retrospect, it is absolutely no surprise that she spent those five years bouncing like a pinball between me and another guy that wasn't sublimating a damn thing.

She wasn't the only one during that stretch. Not by a long shot. There were a whole lot of others during our "off" times that I played around with. And with them, **I** didn't sublimate a damn thing. Or... well, okay, so I still sublimated "the worst." But, I was still very much the driving force in those... "relationships."

Thank God, for all our sakes, that little five-foot nothin' sixty-three-pound green-eyed strawberry blonde finally threw both me and the other guy aside in favor of a third we hadn't even known was a factor. And which she eventually married. Looking back, I did love her. And I am happy for her. But, I wasn't happy with her and wouldn't have ever been. Any more than she could have ever been happy with me.

Not long enough later, I fell under almost the same spell with the gal that I still consider my second ex-fiancee. With almost the same results. I was sublimating my entire personality to her whims. And she broke up with me eight times, only to come "allow me back" three days later.

And that same bottled rage from facing down bullies came boiling up.

No, I didn't beat the crap out of her. There are some things you just don't do. And for me, hitting a woman (or a child) in anger heads that list.

Although, there is a rather sizeable dent in a steel door of one of the dorms on Tech campus that I really would prefer not to explain.

Instead, I just refused to allow her back.

Or tried.

Until she showed up at my mother's house trying to play her games.

I won't go into details about what went on two miles out in the country on a deserted back road, or the next year, beyond to say that I did let her back in with the understanding that it was her last chance, and it was very much my way or the highway from that point on.

Again, I thank God that she retained enough of her soul to give me the ninth and final heave-ho. And that I was stubborn enough that I didn't allow her another chance when she tracked me down two years later. There was an element of anger and bitterness, of rage, that would never have allowed us to be happy with each other.

I'm a big believer in Consent. And for a long, long time I assuaged my conscience that she consented to everything done. But, how much did she really if her initial response was no and only changed to yes once I said, "so, we're done then?"

Not even weeks but just a matter of days after she walked away for the last time, I met a girl that I was absolutely smitten with.

And then was smitten by her lesbian partner when I met her.

Hey, they were both very smite worthy.

I know, I know. It almost seems like a collegiate rite of passage for a guy to meet a lesbian and hang around trying to convince her to stop batting south-paw. But, it honestly wasn't like that for me. For us. For me and that pair of lesbians. Or the eventual two other couples I fell under the influence of during that time.

I really, honestly admired and valued them as people and friends. (Well, except for misanthropic Holly who seemed determined to hate me on the principle that there was a dick between my legs.)

In a lot of ways I give credit (and blame) to those six lesbians for bringing me back from the brink of madness to a far, far simpler time when I was "Daddy" in an asexual game of "house."

And for bringing some love into my protective streak where before had just been an excuse.

Not that I didn't still enjoy the chance to let out some of that old bottled up rage, maybe even more than misanthropic Holly, when we ventured out and the inevitable Frat Rat decided that he was the proud possessor of penile pulchritude to change a lesbian's outlook forever... and couldn't accept, "no." Or even "fuck off, dimwit." Oh, no. I very, very much enjoyed the night we closed The Planet down, despite grumbles that Holly and I between us had cost the football team a bowl appearance with seven of their starting lineup being unavailable against our arch-rival.

***shrug*** No means no, motherfucker. Push her consent, and you gave me yours for whatever I decide to do to you and all your friends who decide "she wuz askin' fer it, dressed lack a slut."

But, as much as I enjoyed that night (and some others), even bonding with Holly over the outcomes, it wasn't the old rage that made me step to the square. It was love and regard and a desire to protect that outburned the unquenched desire to rain down pain and devastation. And, yeah, even Holly despite the fact that she tried to kick me in the nuts for thinking she needed "protection."

"Back-up, maybe."

There were... others during that time. Not many, since I was spending every scratch of my free time with a group of lesbians (that absolutely delighted in pretending they weren't in front of any they deemed unworthy of their honorary lesbian male friend), but a few. However, ironically, I couldn't seem to shift that gear between my platonic lesbian friends and those short-lived anything but platonic... whatever they were.

Sadly, we fell out of touch when I was carrying twenty-one hours in a final push to graduate and working three jobs to buff up my resume. And I showed up to "The Loveshack" one day when I had time to find one of their sisters living there and no clue how to find any of them.

Not that I ever expected us to be anything other than what we were. It just would be nice to know that my friends were happy, healthy, and above all safe, without me watching over their antics, kicking the shit out of any dumbass that couldn't leave well enough alone, and holding their hair while they puked from drinking too much... or that week when the nurse amongst them brought some cataclysmic virus home and all six were sick for a week.

As a part of my college major and minor, I'd studied sex the way most study math or literature. There weren't enough courses offered to qualify for a minor, but I took every one offered.

However, I hadn't had time for... ah... more practical experiences. At least more in-depth practical experience. As I mentioned, I was working three jobs (technically two paying jobs and one internship) while carrying almost double a full-time course load. And I was living in a small town thirty miles away with my mother and little sister (whom I barely saw) while I did it. What experiences I did have, all I had time for, were hardly one-night stands with very little in the way of relationship development.

Not that they were intended to be. That was just the way they fell out when the gal didn't have the patience to put up with me not having more time for her. And me unbending on my schedule.

And there was hardly time for me to fully explore things I'd picked up from classes that piqued my interest.

When I graduated, I found a job rather quickly that was based in another town. Classes were done, and I'd served out my two-week notices. And I had a free weekend before I could move into my new apartment six hours away.

I was bored, antsy, and eager to blow off some much-needed steam. Or sow some wild oats. Whatever. And had a burning curiosity about several things I'd learned about that I hadn't had time to try out.

I'm not proud of it. But, I tossed a "battle-bag" filled with everything I could think of I might need, and went out... and took the shotgun approach to find a woman. No, I didn't capture one at the point of a shotgun. What I mean is that I propositioned every one I saw that didn't revolt me until one said yes. Went back to her place.

And embarked on what was, for all practical purposes, a clinical experiment in which she (and her roommate by the third day) were little more than lab rats.

Again, consent is of prime importance to me. And they did consent. Maybe not individually to every single thing I did to first her and then them. But, they did consent. And I would have stopped at any time if they had withdrawn that consent.

However,... Over the years, I have wondered from time to time if they were possibly too frightened of me by that third day to make it clear they didn't consent to...

Well. Any road, as I say, I'm not terribly proud of it. But, when I cut them free of the bindings, pulled the cum soaked covers (mine and theirs) over their passed out, sexually wrung-out bodies, and locked their front door behind me as I left, I had a little better idea what I needed in the sack, what I wanted, what I could put up with, and what under no circumstances would I allow.

Went home and packed a borrowed horse trailer with my stuff, and headed off to my new career.

And went back to looking for the gal I would get the white-picket-fence, dog, and two-point-five children with.

After a couple of false starts ("You said you were divorced! Separated doesn't count!"), I settled on one that seemed at first blush to be the perfect one. A gal that had been pining for me for four years that I'd lost touch with.

In retrospect, what I thought was the love she felt for me was actually an obsession with the "good boy" I had been. And when we weren't fucking, we were fighting. And the only way we knew to stop fighting was to start fucking.

And it wasn't always clear just which was happening.

I wasn't happy. Neither was she. Though both of us would have raised our right hand with our left on a Bible and said we were. What we were was both loyal to a fault, and too damn dumb to know when it would have been smarter to quit.

But, hey. I was young, dumb, and full of cum. And as long as I could shove her to her knees and stop her arguing with my cock in her throat without her biting it off, I was determined this third engagement was gonna make it to the alter.

It didn't.

Remember how I said we were both loyal to a fault? Well, we were. Until I wasn't.

I've shared (and perhaps overshared) a few things I'm not proud of here. But, I am really, really not proud of what I did next. What I allowed to happen.

I was engaged to the girl that would become my third ex-fiancee. She lived several hours away, ironically attending the same college I'd matriculated from before heading off to follow the clarion call of "a salary." I was a clinically diagnosed sex-addict and co-dependent with a heavy leavening of depression. What this means is, after a hard day at work, coming home to a drink or five just didn't cut it for me. Nor did any other substance. The only thing that would work was some mad, passionate, monkey sex.

When another woman... the wife of another man and mother of two children by him... offered herself up to me, I didn't have the... willpower? Whatever it would have taken to say no.

Sex between us was gratifying, for both of us, in a way that it just wasn't with our chosen partners. Not least that her nymphomania momentarily sated and was sated by my satyrnalia.

However, both of us were stubborn to a fault. Both of us were resolved that we had already made our life choices and were going to stick to them. She was going to stay married to her husband "'til death do us part" no matter what he did. And I was going to go through with the wedding to the girl I'd bought a thousand dollar ring for.

But, we enjoyed the sex too much to give it up. Needed it too much to give it up.

For several months.

Until finally my conscience, that I'd stuck a ball-gag in, managed to chew through the restraints and make itself known.

Irony of ironies, we'd managed to "get away with it" for months... and her husband caught us the morning we'd agreed to break it off, fucked 'round the world for what was supposed to be the last time, and had dozed off during tearful good-bye cuddling.

Oh, how different my life might have been if I'd either kicked her out when we were done, or he'd just waited one more hour...

I said I am not proud of it, and I'm not. I said my conscience finally screamed loud enough to be heard over my sex-addict hard-on and it had.

Now, the guilt settled in. And had a field day fanning the flames of my depression.

I didn't know how to deal with what I'd done, poaching another man's wife in blatant disregard of promises I'd made to a girl that... okay, I wasn't happy with, but I'd still made a promise to.

My depression spiraled out of control. Even overwhelming my co-dependent sex-addiction. And I made a conscious choice to clear the decks in preparation for my demise by quitting my job, breaking off my engagement, and moving my junk back home to my mother's house... Which resulted in breaking up her second marriage to an abusive ass... but, that's not really relevant to the story at hand.

However, rather than taking the easy way out and eating a bullet from my own hand, I... took chances. Risks. Pushing farther and farther as I was just a little too good, a little better than I'd thought, and survived the last attempt.

What was I doing? Don't worry about it. All that is relevant to this story was that I was engaged in risk-taking behaviors that even the reddest redneck would switch from "Hey, y'all! Watch this!" to "Damn, son. You gotta death wish?"

Right up until that woman left her husband and children several months later and followed me.

I didn't love her.

Frankly, I resented the fuck out of her for spoiling my attempt to die with a clear ledger.

But some sense of responsibility force-grown in me by hanging out with those damn lesbians in the hothouse that was "The Loveshack" reared its head. And I put my plans on hold for a bit as I tried to get her able to stand on her own two feet.

But, only on hold as I had every intention of going ahead once she, too, would be okay without me.

Only... she never seemed to get there.

Oh, she was a damn fine woman. And any other woman should be proud to have her accomplishments. I was proud of her.

But, there was always... just something more needed. She was never quite safe enough. Never quite accomplished enough. Never... something enough for me to continue ahead with my plan.

Through two and a half decades until the day I held my beautiful butterfly's empty chrysalis and screamed my pain and rage at the ceiling of our bedroom and the heavens beyond.

Damn it! She did NOT have my permission. I was supposed to go first and leave her to pick up after me and continue her own amazing life!

And to add insult to injury, she had left me with a dog and three cats that now I had to stick around and tend in her stead before I could follow!

***sigh***

The thing is... I am a codependent sex-addict. That's not something that you heal, so much as it's something you develop coping skills to continue muddling on with.

And while I didn't know just how much longer I was going to be on this damn ride, I needed some sex to make it worth waking up in the damn morning since I had to anyway.

***shrug*** Wasn't a lot of point in looking for a fairy tale "happily ever after" since I'd had mine. But, a little "friends with benefits" (heavy on the benefits) seemed like a way to fill the time between dealing with the four-footed roommates' needs since I'd pretty well exhausted the possibilities of porn.

The thing is... if at any point in time, you'd asked me if I was into BDSM, I would have laughed at you. Of course, I wasn't one of those leather-wearing freaks who beat each other bloody for foreplay!

I just liked what I liked. And the ones I played with liked what they liked. And nobody bothered to label a damn thing, 'cause we weren't talking about anything. We didn't have the time to. We were too busy doing it.

Oh, sure. I tied up my wife and others sometimes. I choked a few as I fucked them. I used floggers, paddles, canes, crops, and an eight-foot-long braided leather bullwhip. I used nipple clamps, anal plugs, dildoes, and a wide assortment of other "toys" (or "tools" depending on who is asked). I used blades with a few and with one that needed it to the point of blooding.

And I was always, always, always the one steering. Craving to be master of my own destiny and, eventually, anyone else who fell into the sphere of my influence.

But, I wasn't one of those BDSM freaks.

And neither were the lovely, lovely ladies who shared themselves with me, least of all Love who earned her nickname by teaching me what love really was and how to. And I would fight anyone who said otherwise about them until only one of us was standing.

The thing is... no one outside of the BDSM crowd seemed to be alright with the things that I liked.

But, I wasn't one of those BDSM freaks. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.

Ok, so maybe I kind of liked some of the same sorts of things. Even needed some of the same sorts of things.

But, I was normal damn it. And so were my playmates over the years. Didn't everybody like those sorts of things?!

Apparently not.

It so happened that my wife was still alive when I stumbled into that understanding, although health issues had tabled the... ah... more exuberant explorations of the physical side of things for us as she was all but bedridden.

And she laughed her ass off about it when I mentioned to her that only the BDSM crowd on the site I was hanging around on seemed to have a clue how us normal people got our jollies.

And we fell to playful bickering which devolved into little more than "am not," "are too" before I finally decided to put her in her place once and for all. And went on a research binge designed to supplement my arguments.

Well, fuck.

Apparently, I was a Dominant. And worse, one of those Alpha assholes. With more than a sprinkling of Rigger and Sadist.

Well, fuck.

Fine. So, I was wr-... I was wro-... I was less right and I was one of those BDSM freaks after all.

A few months after her death, a gal managed to catch my attention. Only she turned out to be one of those DD/lg weirdos.

Oh, Hell no. I might have to admit to being some sort of Dominant as well as Rigger and Sadist, but I was NOT, most definitely not, some incestuous pedophile sicko!

She laughed her ass off over a long-distance telephone line. And to add insult to injury informed me that I was THE most Daddy Dom of any Daddy Dom she'd ever heard of.

And, once again, I went off spelunking on a research binge to prove to an uppity little smartass that she had no clue what she was talking about.

Only...

Well, fuck.

It is so damn hard to be Alpha Dom when you are consistently drawn to intelligent submissives that know more about labels and shit than you do.

***sigh*** Love even called me "Daddy." So, for that matter, did those six lovely lesbians from that platonic friendship years before.

My only defense is that I'd always been much too busy just doing what felt right to spend time labeling a damn thing. Whereas Love, Little One, and others had spent time not only fantasizing but reading up on it. First via "bodice rippers" and then, at the advent of the internet, chatrooms that I'd been much too busy for. And the only time a label becomes important is when you are communicating about it.

Which I hadn't, but had just gone with what felt good to me that she didn't not consent to and what felt good to her that I didn't not consent to. And the most communication was "more of that" or "ow! Fuck! Let's not do that again."

And there I was, tossed off into the deep end of the pool with Love's death and trying to find someone I could have a little "bow-chicka-bow-bow" fun with.

It didn't work with that "Little One" as nine months after telling me I was the most Daddy Domly of any she'd ever heard of, she screamed in hysterics at me that I was no sort of Dom at all.

I licked my wounds and moved on to another. And when that one didn't work, on to another. And then two and three at a time, trying to figure out what was missing, looking for one something would work with. Spiraling into a textbook Dom frenzy even as I touted in my writings that first and foremost a Dom should be in control of themselves until I'm ashamed to admit that I've quite lost track just how many "submissives" I was "training" around the world.

Until finally it struck me that I, who I now knew was either a Daddy Dom with Master tendencies or a Master with DD tendencies had reduced myself to less than a Service Top, a digital dildo for them to get off and then log off, returning to what was more important in their lives, and leaving me to find something else to fill the ever-growing hunger they left behind until it was threatening to consume me, leaving nothing but a pile of dust and ash.

It took waking up on the floor with my computer chair pulled over on top of me with no idea how I got there since the last I'd known I'd been dealing with not one, not two, but three little "submissives" screaming hysterically at me and several days in bed waiting for a stress swollen valve in my literal physical heart to relax again.

When I was once again able to sit up and log on, I wrapped things up with those I'd been involved with that hadn't wandered off on their own. Far better, I judged, to be alone for the rest of my days than continue trying to be what I knew I was in the off-line world, but just couldn't seem to make work on-line.

Except for one miserable little erstwhile playmate came crawling back while I was giving the last a delicate boot (but boot all the same). And this one just wouldn't take a fuckin' hint.

Fine. Okay. You want to be my submissive? Then get your pretty little ass over here. No more of this fucking around online. You will have your ass in my bed in the off-line world where I will fuck you until you scream your safeword. Or whatever you are... whatever WE are... you are not my submissive.

I didn't expect her to take me up on it!

Ulp.

See... the thing is, while I knew about this shit, in fact there was very little I hadn't done with my wife and/or others, and it was fun to talk through (now that I knew the fuckin' labels so I could) while we each stroked ourselves to mutual satisfaction, whether literally or figuratively... It had been a long, long time since I'd even had Ms. Grundy approved missionary position, more vanilla than Dairy Queen soft-serve ice cream, penis in vagina, actual sex.

My wife and I were both disabled. I was virtually housebound and she was virtually bedridden. She had exactly three spots on her that I could touch that weren't either numb or caused her pain; the crown of her head, her left cheek, and between her shoulder blades. And I'm not so sure that last didn't hurt so much as she needed that itch scratched.

I remember that we tried the last time two months before she died and it was an abysmal failure that we had to stop when it hurt her too much. Before that, I can't remember when the last time we were able to do that much successfully, but it had been close enough to a decade without any fetished kinkery.

I'd been very careful to constrain my talks with those various playmates to things I had done... but it had been a long, long time since I'd done them.

Ulp.

I was a bit disappointed in my performance as I was only able to train her for forty-seven unbroken hours that first time. (As opposed to a seventy-two-hour session with Love almost three decades ago.) But, time and infirmity had sapped me of some of my vigors.

Fortunately for me, she was perfectly contented with what I could still manage and has been back several times since for more.

However, while she is extremely well behaved in my physical presence where my hand is my collar and my leash is my arm, there is a certain... willfulness while she is there and I am here.

And no, dear. "LDR privileges!" are not a thing.

***sigh*** Only, I guess they are as I have yet to learn to project my Dominance across the miles via text, voice, and video.

But, that's alright. It really is. 'Cause she will come back. And when she does, there will be a reckoning. One that she will love every squealing moment.

What the fuck was the question again?

Oh, right.

"When did you come to the realization of your submission or Dominance?"

You tell me.

Was it when I was still crawling around in Pampers and willing to court a swat on the butt than do a damn thing I didn't want to do and didn't see the purpose of?

Or was it at the age of three when I fell in love with the role of Daddy, but didn't have the first clue that was a BDSM thing?

Or was it the age of fourteen, when I started stomping on those who tried to physically make me do anything?

Eighteen when I, in a fit of pique, rediscovered the "24/7 TPE" although I didn't have the first clue that was what we'd done?

Twenty when I rediscovered the joy of "Daddy" although I still hadn't a clue it was a BDSM thing?

Twenty-two when I "trained" that gal and her roommate I'm embarrassed I can't recall their names (if I ever knew them) or their faces? And then went on to a battle of wills that only in retrospect do I recognize as the Primal battle for supremacy it was?

The two and a half decades with Love that I explored Master/slave, Daddy/little, Top/bottom, 50s Head of Household, Sadist/smart-assed-masochist, and virtually every other aspect of BDSM without understanding that was what we were doing much less labeling anything?

The eighteen-month time period when I finally got around to labeling shit... and then failing again and again and again to make it work with one miserable little on-line subbie after another until I started to question not only my Dominance but the point of any of it?

Or the last fourteen months as Daddy Wolf for my sweet little spice of my twilight?

***shrug***

I don't know.

To a certain extent, I envy those that are so absolutely certain that "this" is what they are and evermore shall be.

And yet there is a part of me that can't help but think they don't know shit.

The secret of life, at least so far as I've been able to tell, is that once you stop growing, you start dying. And every single day is chock full of new experiences with new people... if you are brave enough to stick your head out of your shell and live it.

At a tad past the half-century mark, with classes and coursework piled atop life experience (both off-line and now on-line), about the only thing I know for certain is the same damn thing I knew skidding around on my diapered butt, that I will do what I damn well please. With the caveat that it can not broach anyone else's consent or safety.

But, despite more than a few rough spots, I've had a Hell of a good time kicking my tin can down the side of this gravel road, pausing from time to time to pick gravel out of road rash, and look forward to continuing along with it right up until they nail the coffin shut and shove me in the fire.

And who knows? Maybe this Old Wolf might pick up a new trick or three. After all, I just stumbled across something where they shot a cannon loaded with gummy bears at a girl's ass which does rather seem like a logical step from the flogger and Wartenberg wheel... right?

I can't believe such never occurred to me before!

I do believe in soulmates.

However, in my personal belief system, this label is applied to something different.

I, too, am aware of "The Symposium" when Plato had Aristophanes discuss the origin of humans as having a head with two faces and four arms and four legs. And for a long, long time I, too, ascribed that to the label of soulmates.

However, as with every life, shit happened.

Even setting aside all of the various people that I'd felt a soul-deep connection with that had then fallen out of touch, torn away from each other by this rushing torrent that we call life, I met a soulmate and married her.

And the story is supposed to go, "and we lived happily ever after."

But, this is no fairy tale. Not even as originally jotted down by the Brothers Grimm. It is life.

And I felt the soul wound as I held the empty chrysalis of my soulmate and screamed my pain and rage at our bedroom ceiling and the heavens beyond.

Frankly, at first, the only thing that kept me from following after was the dog and three cats that she left for me to watch over until the end of their days.

A few months later, I was unfortunate enough to meet the woman (in this incarnation) that I firmly believe is my Twin Flame.

We told each other our history and as we did, we each knew the history of the other even before it was told as if it were a memory. And, more, the fourth picture she ever shared with me rang my soul like a bell as I recognized the girl and woman that I had dreamed for over four decades. There was more. Much more than I care to try to enumerate at this point. Hell, I could have used us as a checklist!

I really couldn't say just what she might believe as she never once answered my queries on the subject, either subtle or not-so-subtle, as I fought tooth and nail for what I believed we were supposed to be for each other. But, she has other soulmates that she is committed to in this life. She has made that very clear. And even if she wasn't committed to them, I just flat do not appeal to her romantically.

Upset, angry, and not a little puzzled that I could have been so wrong, I went on a research binge.

And what I found shook my belief system to the core.

Twin Flames, what Plato was describing, are actually very rarely good romantic matches.

In fact, it is typically only in their last iteration, once the "runner" has grown enough, that they come together perfectly (although, not always non-platonically) as a signal that they have achieved all that they may on this wheel and are ready to transcend to the next level.

Perhaps fortunately, there was a different definition of soulmates that spoke to my core and shored up my fragile shattered heart.

It seems that over the course of the lives we have led, we create soulbonds with many people. Soul debts or karmic debts in some cases. And these soulmates are often better suited romantic partners, lovers, and even platonic friends than our Twin Flame.

***shrug***

I don't ask anyone to believe as I do. And am perfectly content to know that many who might read this would roll their eyes and think it "malarky" concocted to give a tired old man some glimmer of hope to hold onto on cold, dark nights.

And, perhaps that is all it is.

However, I know what I believe.

I believe I was married to one of my soulmates.

I believe I was engaged to other soulmates, lovers with others, and platonic friends with still others.

I believe I have met my Twin Flame in this iteration and it did not work. I regretted the time I had spent looking for her. But, at least once I identified her, I was able to turn my back on that Aristophonean dream.

Which is just as well as I went on to meet another soulmate who was also reeling from the loss of her spouse and a soulmate for her, who I couldn't love more, treasure more, value more. Who is much more suited for me, and me for her, than any other we'd stumbled into in the time since we'd buried the loves of our lifetimes.

And in each other, we found a healing balm for our soul wounds and happily ever after.

For now.

Again.

There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.     

Aldous Huxley

 

 

What is "good?" What is "evil?" What is "right?" What is "wrong?"

 

I would say that most of us probably feel, just as Justice Potter, that we would recognize it when we saw it, even when we can't set a verifiable metric to print.

 

But, do we really? Or do we come with a preconceived notion packed in our psychological and sociological baggage towed along behind us?

 

A couple of decades ago, I'd had enough of working the detention units and had taken retirement to try my hand at being a full-time professional writer. And I was pretty successful if the metric you use is the amount of writing done as I churned out a self-help book, five novels, twenty-two short stories, and one hundred and forty-four poems that were then collected in a chapbook of their own in just a few months.

 

On the other hand, if your metric is the amount of money brought in by said work, then it was an abysmal failure as I only managed to place six of the poems and the only "payment" was a free copy of the issue they were published in. And two hundred plus rejection slips for one novel alone. We had used up the entirety of my retirement to eke out what my wife was bringing home. And it was time for me to set aside my dream of being a professional writer, at least for a time, and find something to do that would contribute to the household.

 

So, I did what any angst ridden thirty-year-old retired (from state and county) detention officer with ill-understood Dominant tendencies, and a triple clinical diagnosis of depression, codependency, and sex addiction might have done. I threw all of my writings (and the carefully tabulated rejections) in the bathtub, shaved my waist-length pony-tail to the scalp and threw that on top of it, doused it in lighter fluid, and threw in a lit match.

 

My wife (and slave/little) was **not** amused as she came bailing out of bed at 0230, having to work at 0700, when the smoke alarms went off. And not just because she was biased and thought I was a pretty good writer despite her B.A. in English Lit with a minor in Women's Studies (or "Femi-nazi" when I wanted to get her riled).

 

However, in addition to being a little peeved off about being awakened, and so rudely, when she had to be at work (at the bank) in just a few hours, she did not understand why I couldn't just keep everything I had already written and continue writing and submitting my efforts while also doing something else to make money in the meantime. After all, it had been me who had told her, in no uncertain terms, when she left her husband and children behind to come be a slave to me in domestic bliss, that she would either go back to school after being out for twenty years and get a degree and then a career, or she could turn right the fuck around and go see if he would take her back. And she didn't understand the difference.

 

Do you? No?

 

In her case, she had primarily been a houswife and mother to two children while, occassionally, working jobs for a while (rarely a full year) to add a little extra income to their household. She had also been beaten down psychologically and emotionally, first by her family and then by the asshole she chose to marry the first time around that that was all she was good for.

 

Now, I've got nothing but respect for "stay-at-home-Moms." The great thing about working with other people's kids is that you can eventually send their asses home! But, we didn't have kids and weren't going to be able to since she'd had a doctor recommended tubal ligation after two successful births, one earlier (also doctor recommended) abortion, and several miscarriages. And her children had chosen to remain with their father.

 

And I am (or at least was) extremely low maintenance. Particularly in juxtaposition to the first asshole she married who saw marriage as meaning he didn't have to do a damn thing for himself once he clocked out of work. I am (or at least was) perfectly capable of seeing to my own cooking, cleaning, sewing, and getting my own glass of tea if I was thirsty. All I really needed her for was a bedwarmer and companionship outside of the bedroom. More the former than the latter as I was working two jobs, working on a graduate degree, and had a few hobbies that many might consider "eXtreme" and so wasn't home very often except to fuck, catch a nap, "shit, shower, and shave," and head out again in task appropriate clothing.

 

She had always been, and felt, underutilized and unappreciated. And while I was going to appreciate the fuck out of her, she was going to be even more underutilized with me if she just stayed home than she had been there where at least he'd left her a couple of kids to look after when he went on the prowl for something else to fuck after supper after carefully reminding her that she was so bad at everything that she was lucky he'd stooped to taking her on.

 

Not to mention that I needed to know that she was with me because she chose to be, not because of a lack of options.

 

***shrug*** Being a Sugar Daddy works for some, and more power to those (on both sides of the slash) for whom it does. It just was not going to work for me. I would support her while she found her footing, but she **would** find that footing. And if she moved on once she had found her footing, then I would move on to find someone who chose me with some more fucks under my belt. And sooner rather than later.  

 

I'm a teacher and trainer at heart. And, at the risk of sounding like I'm toodling my own horn, am pretty fuckin' good at it.

 

But, I never claimed to be particularly *nice* about it.

 

I slammed into her at full speed and carried her off into the deep end. Oh, I didn't make her start working. Not yet. I let her live on my dime. But, she carried a full-time load of college courses right out the gate (no easing back into school after a two-decade hiatus) and was required to spend three hours outside of class studying for every one hour in class. And while the A's she carried in her classes (except for Chemistry which she retook twice before I steered her away) were applauded, the quizzes I gave her were much tougher. And any answer she got wrong, she was then required to write out an explanation with ten outside sources cited to either prove or disprove the answer I gave.

 

***shrug*** While it was rare that she was right and I was... less right, it did happen. But, even then, she learned. And more, she learned how to learn. Or relearned how to learn as she brought her stagnated high intelligence once more back online by fulfilling her one-time dream of being the first in her family to attend college curtailed by an accident with a shotgun.

 

Once she'd gotten used to the pace, and wasn't so exhausted all the time, I kicked in my own brand of "life skills" that included everything from budgeting and balancing the checkbook to dog training and minimal veterinary animal husbandry to meditation and feng shui and back again.

 

Then, as her graduation from college loomed on the horizon, we leapt into necessary job-hunting skills and professional deportment.

 

Lest any think I'm presenting as "The World's Foremost Authority on Everything," I also cheated outrageously. Anything that I felt she needed to know more about that I didn't, or areas where she surpassed me (and there were), or areas that she was just interested in which I wasn't (and there were), I pushed her to seek out other avenues. Classes and teachers where available. Books and self-study when they weren't.

 

After graduation, she went to work full time. It wasn't in any way related to the college degree that she'd gotten, but I made it clear that I didn't care so long as she was working, bringing home an income and benefits.

 

Right around the two-year mark, she discovered a discrepancy in my bookkeeping. I was actually mildly disappointed that it had taken her so long. I mean, she worked for our bank for crying out loud.

 

I met her at the bank where she worked and, during her break, we met with a banker. Who added her to the savings account where I'd shunted every dime of her paycheck for the whole time she'd been working. Then removed me from the account. And gave her the paperwork to sign her children as beneficiaries.

 

On the drive home, I explained to her that as of that moment, she didn't need me anymore. Not for anything. That from that moment forward, she was with me because she wanted to be and no other reason.

 

She immediately dissolved into hysterics, thinking that I was getting rid of her.

 

It took about a day and a half, but I fucked that silly assed notion right out of her head.

 

And got her to understand that she was my slave and I was her Master. But, only because she chose to be, not because circumstances forced her to be. And that that was the only worthy slave for me, one that could be my full partner in crime as well. I was not her ex-husband who found it necessary to keep her from outgrowing my emotional and intellectual stuntedness.

 

Fast forward a few years to the Infamous Bathtub Fire of 2001 and my situation was very, very different.

 

I had always known I was the smartest motherfucker in any room I walked into. And, once my early issues were dealt with and I was able to start training physically, the toughest motherfucker, too.

 

But, my interests were too varied and tangential (other than sex!) for me to really make any mark in any one. I was the proverbial "jack of all trades, but master of none." (Other than sex!)

 

I had studied medicine because I was interested, but I was never going to discover a cure for cancer. Because I was also studying biomechanical engineering because I was interested. But, I was never going to be the one to come up with a replacement for Jarvik VII or artificial eyes that actually see or cochlear implant to allow the deaf to hear. Because I was also studying literature. And philosophy. And art. And Martial Arts. And music. And mathematics. And physics. And... and... and... and...

 

When I graduated from the intellectual smorgasbord of my college experience (the first time), I did so with a degree that I had, quite literally, forced the deans to swallow a degree "plan" (for some values of the term) that had little resemblance to the certified degree plan with substitutions for probably eighty percent or better of the required classes outside the core.

 

Why, for example, should I have had to take an additional three-hour statistics class when I had a five-hour monster calculus course on my transcript already? Why should I have had to take those two stupid grammar classes when I'd clepped out of both AND had three literature classes and one creative writing course on my transcript already? Or (my personal favorite) why should I have to take one more foreign language course when I'd already taken three in sign language before they, in their wisdom, chose to do away with the fourth after I was committed with the understanding that it would count as my foreign language requirement?

 

***shrug*** Depending on who is asked, I either gamed the system by getting them to accept other courses than what was clearly stated as requirements and managing to graduate with three fewer course hours than the requirements, or I gamed myself by taking courses that most from within my eventual degree considered much, much more difficult.

 

But, my point is not how smart I am or how I got away with something. My point is that I knew... that I recognized... that my weakness was being too fragmented and tangential. Of spreading myself too thin to actually accomplish anything, where my delicate bride had been underutilized.

 

I dealt with my weakness by diminishing unnecessary distractions where I could. And my dream of writing was an unnecessary distraction at that point if it wasn't going to be able to foot even the bill for itself, much less the necessities of food and shelter. It would be looming there in the shadows, my failure. Distracting me from what I was going to have to learn to do next since I couldn't return to detention work. Mentally or emotionally since I'd had good reasons for leaving it behind. Or fiscally, since I'd taken my retirement from both state and county when I'd done so.

 

***shrug*** It worked, since less than three days after the bathtub fire, I reported for duty as a hotel night auditor.

 

Which was an unmitigated disaster.

 

Oh, the auditing portion was absolutely no problem at all. I had, you might recall, studied calculus for goodness sake. Customer service on the other hand... ***blush***

 

In my defense, as much as there can be one, I'd learned what passed for customer service for me working the detention units.

 

"You need twenty-seven pillows to sleep? Well, here's an idea. How about next time you stay the fuck home with your twenty-seven pillows, princess, or else pack 'em?"

 

And don't even get me started about the night I showed up at a guest's door with a plunger and mop and told them; "Deal with your own shit. I have neither the time nor the inclination. And maybe you should think about that diet, big 'un."

 

Nope, that job didn't go well at all. But, fortunately only lasted two days short of a full year before I landed a gig teaching.

 

Which... okay, there was a learning curve that almost landed me on the street the first two weeks since I hadn't gotten just a whole lot better at dealing with people that actually had a choice in whether they were there or not. But, we worked it out. And there I stayed. Studying the subjects I was teaching, studying the art and science of teaching it, training other teachers to stand and deliver... I never had time to deal with the distraction of all but forgotten dreams of being a writer.

 

I'd chased my dream with all my might until continuing the chase would have been insanity. By Einstein's definition and most others. And then discarded it.

 

So, by my wife's perception, I'd supported her and pushed her in the pursuit of her dreams that she didn't really know if she wanted anymore. But, then I wouldn't allow her to support me in the pursuit of one that only a blind man couldn't see that I really did want.

 

By my perception, I took a broken girl and woman and mended her, giving her the chance to chase her dreams while also moderating those same dreams (such as making her give up on being a forensic scientist when Chem 101 didn't work out the third time). And I had moderated my own dream when reality made it clear that it just wasn't going to work in that time and space.

 

Who was right? Who was wr-... wr-... less right?

 

Both. Neither.

 

Perception is a lifetime of experience packed in the emotional baggage we carry with us that we use to mortar the brick of facts.

 

Put another way;

 

There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.     

Aldous Huxley

 

Several decades ago, I recall reading a study that showed just how unreliable witness statements are. I can't remember exactly where, or when (which bugs the shit out of me as a once eidetic brain is turning to tapioca in my skull), but I think it had to do with the efficacy of witness statements utilized as probable cause and legal ramifications. I apologize, I would be clearer and even cite it if I could.

 

But, the germane part is that in the study of traffic accidents, no two witnesses could present the same factual information without coloring it with their own perceptions based on a myriad of factors from where they were standing to their height to... well, cultural bigotry and bias in some unfortunate cases.

 

A pretty smart guy had this to say on the subject;

 

Perception is strong and sight weak. In strategy it is important to see distant things as if they were close and to take a distanced view of close things.     

Miyamoto Musashi

 

Just how you do that, I don't actually know. I've been working on it for about thirty years now. And many times along the path, I've thought I was close. Only to have some joker come along and rip the rug right out from under my feet when I was unwise enough to let my perceptions overwhelm the factual evidence.

 

Believing what is said even when it flies in the face of what is actually done is one of the worst culprits for me.

 

And I should know better.

 

Hell, I worked with criminals who would lie to me about the weather outside if they thought they could get away with it and there was something in it for them. And they didn't often manage to pull the proverbial wool over this old wolf's eyes.

 

And yet...

 

And yet, not that long ago (at least in cosmic terms), I was played a fool by someone that I believed was a friend and fellow Dom who was actually nothing more than a narcissistic emotional sadist who got his jollies by using people, myself included, as pawns on his gameboard.

 

Would I have fallen for it if I'd been able to stand in his presence, to taste the breath of his lies in the air between us on my tongue? I like to think I wouldn't have been taken in.

 

But, it didn't matter as miles lie between us and all I had to work with was text. Words. Until his actions became apparent when he made the play he'd spent months setting me up for.

 

My error was compounded as I believed the words of others that claimed to be taken in by him, hurt by him as well. Only to eventually discover that they were still his game piece, and were allowing themselves to continue to be used by him to continue to inflict what changes he could in my world once actions put the lie to their previous words.

 

People that I had thought were my friends and a few that I had thought were something more were revealed to be the pawns of either the king or queen opposite me as their actions also put the lie to their earlier words.

 

A wise man would have found a way to end the situation there. So I believe.

 

I also believe that I am not a wise man as I evidently didn't when I thought I had tipped my king over and strode away from the gameboard that I had discovered spanned multiple sites.

 

I was unwise enough to allow someone who'd once been close to me back inside my iron sheathed ceramic coated walls. Someone that I believed had found her way home after being taken in by his maneuvers.

 

Circumstances evolved in such a way that she pulled away once more. And at the time, I believed that it had nothing to do with my erstwhile opponent or his court, but had fallen victim to our own perceptions of factual events. Her perception being that I'd abandoned her during a time of need. Mine being that she had abandoned me in a time of need.

 

Who was right? Who was... less right?

 

Once I calmed down and got some space between she and me and the hurt, I didn't know. Over and over and over, I played the events in my head, reviewed the words exchanged. And still I wasn't sure. As a Dom of whatever stripe, I've always acutely felt a responsibility which turns to fault at less than perfect execution of a plan. Even... or perhaps particularly... when that plan fell due to the actions of a willful submissive.

 

I should have been smarter. I should have been stronger. I should have been faster. I should have been better. I should have made certain that domino couldn't fall.

 

And as a result, my ruminations had almost brought me to the brink of believing that she was right and I was wr-... I was wro-... I was less right.

 

Almost.

 

Until...

 

Members of that erstwhile king's court came flooding out of the woodwork. And the timing became suspect once I realized I hadn't heard a peep while she'd been back in my life, but only resurged once she was gone again.

 

And, a compounding factor, friends who I hadn't realized knew any of the players so closely other than me began name dropping. And not the principals, the power pieces, but the pawns, the friend of a friend of a friend of a lover of another and were, somehow, privy to points that I wouldn't have thought they would be.

 

***shrug*** I tend to associate with the more intellectually gifted crowd, finding intellectual dullards to be humdrum at best and taxing at worst. Ergo, it's hypothetically possible that they put pieces together from observation rather than that which runs faster than the fleetest horse.

 

But, still... the timing was questionable enough to mount my suspicions and take them through a seventy-two-hour training session with chains, whips, flechettes, and barbed-wire bondage.

 

And I heard accusations that the promised stone shelter is unavailable during a storm where my perception was they were the gathering storm.  

 

I heard accusations from erstwhile submissives that I am just another faux Dom that abandoned them when, as my memory served, they abandoned me in favor of someone else that, apparently, didn't work out and then wanted to "come home" only to find their room given to someone who has been there for me every step of my path of recovery from perceived games and lies and abandonment by those same submissives offering up accusations.

 

Which of us is right? Which of us is... less right?

 

Both.

 

Neither.

 

I don't actually know.

 

There is a legal theory that I think applies to the dynamic of D/s, although it is typically used in military courts where the rank and file can be excused for following the orders of higher-ranking officers. Ergo, if a submissive has surrendered her will to Her Dominant, then should she not also be expected to follow orders.

 

And, perhaps now the former members of his court have rebelled and cut themselves free en masse. And there is no actual continued manipulation from His Throne. Perhaps the friends who caused me to eye askance by knowing more were actually concerned about me and not fresh pawns being moved to the attack.

 

Perhaps I am the asshole for not listening to explanations, choosing instead to ignore further attempts at communication after feeling previous attempts were lies and manipulation ergo these must also be.

 

Perception is very much where you are standing and who you are in your hard kernel.

 

From their perception, which can't help but be (and I almost hate to use this word) shaded by the fact that they present as submissive where I present as a Dominant, even in the cases where they weren't my submissive but friends, I made a promise that I then failed to keep.

 

From my perception, regardless of presenting as a Dominant to a submissive who might have been mine or just a friend, the promise I made to be available to talk to was, very carefully, conditional that my hard limits weren't tromped on by lying to me, abandoning me, or lashing out at me or those I care about with the intent to harm. Even for a friend.

 

From their perception; "But, you're a Dom! You don't get limits. That's a sub thing."

 

From my perception; "Yes, Dom(me)s are allowed limits. We just don't call them that, but use 'training' instead."

 

From their perception; "But you're a Dom you're supposed to always want to go further than I do. I'm the one who's supposed to say no, I don't want to go there."

 

From my perception; "Have you met yourself? Forget that Christian Grey candy ass. The Marquis de Sade would say, 'Oh, dear. Oh, dearie me.'"

 

From their perception; "Well, okay. But, you aren't allowed to leave!"

 

From my perception; "I didn't. I'm right where you left me. I'm just not allowing you to come back and graffiti up the walls that I've just gotten clean from your last visit. The new tenant wouldn't appreciate it."

 

From their perception; "You were supposed to wait for me while I checked out everybody else and their dog to make sure you were the one I wanted to give my complete trust and the gift of my submission!"

 

From my perception; "You repudiated my gift of Dominance and moved on to another and then another. Why would I think it would be accepted any better now?"

 

From their perception; "I need a Dom(me) to sort out all the problems the last jackass left me with!"

 

From my perception; "Never expect a Dom(me) to clean up after some other asshats party. And particularly not a Dom(me) you chose to leave to go to said party. Get your house in order, meaning take out the trash from the last party, before inviting anyone else over for so much as tea and biscuits. If you need help, ask some submissive friends for help picking up the pieces before presenting the shattered mosaic as a gift."

 

From their perception; "You didn't think I was worth waiting for."

 

From my perception; "You didn't think I was worth waiting for."

 

Our perceptions are different because where we are standing is different.

 

So, who is right?

 

Well, obviously I think I'm not... less right. Or else I'd change it.

 

But, I do worry that I may have my head buried so far up my own perceptions that I need to get a skylight installed in the navel.

 

However, I also wonder if others pause, whether before or after a diatribe, to consider that theirs might be too. (Uh. Up their own. Not mine. This hole is a no-fly zone. "Negative Ghostrider, the pattern is full.") I sit and read what this Dom has done or that one. And, less often, what this submissive did or that one.

 

And I am reminded that it is always easier to see the splinter in someone else's eye than the plank in your own.

 

Am I saying that everyone else is obviously full of shit? Hardly.

 

In the absence of cold hard facts (always murky at best when it comes to a person's intentions and motivations), all we have to operate from is our perceptions.

 

And as such, I think it behooves us, whether Dom(me), submissive, "fence-humper," or those without a slash to pause and remember that Hitler, Mussolini, and Genghis Khan (and their followers) all thought they were good and right also.

I posted just a bit ago over in the forums about something that in the course of my response I mentioned that in my experiences I have to deal with her needs, then my needs, then I get my wants, and then she gets her wants.

 

And I went on to give a thumbnail explanation that;

 

First, I have to make sure her needs are addressed. Even when this means that my needs, my wants, and her wants may not be.

 

Once her needs are met, then it is time to get my needs met. Even if this means that my desires and hers might go wanting.

 

My wants only come into play after both of our needs are met. Even if this means that her wants don't.

 

Her wants only are regarded so long as they don't violate her needs, my needs, or my wants.

 

What I left out...

 

Well, what I left out could be a book. Hard needs, soft needs, soft limits, and hard limits. I didn't mention limits at all. Partially because it wasn't that sort of post. Mostly because I was already (as usual) giving more to chew on than the question actually asked.

 

But even when it came to needs, I didn't break it down into hard needs and soft needs.

 

For me, based on my experiences, it was my responsibility to first recognize my own needs, desires, and limits before I could even think about taking on a submissive's needs, desires, and limits.

 

And I wasn't always astute enough to recognize them coming up before I plowed face-first into them. As I mentioned in this post, on another site, a couple of years ago about limits...

 

*****

I admit that for me, as "something-other-than-a-submissive," probably 97% of my "hard limits" are something I didn't like the last time I did it and won't consider doing again. And, okay, I've done quite a few things that I didn't particularly get off on because the one submitting to me needed it, or at least thought they did. Blades come to mind.

 

 Puke and shit are a definite hard limit. Can't do it. As a toddler, if I made the mistake of looking in the toilet after I took a dump, I was going to call the dinosaurs. And that hasn't really changed. Love thought it was hilarious that even after over two decades of marriage, I couldn't have the door open to the bathroom whichever of us was using the facilities to void. Not even to pee. Hell, it took a decade for me to be able to relax and take a shit with her in the house. Blood, even menses, is not so big a deal. At least so long as I'm not sticking my face in it. But, puke and shit. Unh-uh. People two blocks down will be vomiting in response to the sounds coming out of me.

 

 

 Humiliation, degradation, and emotional abuse is a hard, hard limit for me. Either direction. Can't do it. Won't do it. Won't even allow my partner or potential partner to humiliate, degrade, or emotionally abuse themselves. I understand, better than most, that there are some people with this need. I'm just saying that I can't and won't be a party to it. Period. Paragraph.

 

 

 Risky play... even up to some minor body modification... is a bit of a soft limit. It's not something I desire, but (in a few circumstances) I've been known to "unleash the beast." But, only in the instance where it is a hard need on my submissives part and we have an established relationship. If, on the other hand, it's something that comes up on the first date, uh, no. This is me walking away. I include breath play in this as well as blades and electro, anything that has the potential of being damaging if misused.

 

 Cheating... I don't know. For me, it's not necessarily cheating qua cheating, as in having another partner, that is a hard limit so much as lying. Lying, about anything, is a hard limit for me. Period. If you lie to me, then you are effectively saying that you have contempt for me and my intelligence that I could possibly figure it out.

 

 Love, bless her soul, lived under the Sword of Damocles for twenty years because she had accumulated two strikes. And being American, I'm a firm believer that the third strike means you are fucking out. I'm sure that probably sounds harsh to some people, but it is that much of a hard limit for me. That I would have walked even a week before she passed, even with all of the love and history we shared, if she had lied to me once more. And she knew that and accepted it. And never lied to me again.

 

 

 Which is not to say there may not have been things she didn't say. What some people refer to as "lies of omission." *shrug* I've never been much of one to worry about secrets so much. But, if your mouth is moving and sound is coming out, it had better be the truth and nothing but the truth.

 

 And, of course, I am not submissive. Not even a little bit. Not even a switch. About the fastest way to get me not to do something is to even hint that I may have to. We made the mistake of trying to tie me down once (just once!) early on. I broke the girl's headboard. Um... and... well, let's just say that there is a documented case of me looking down the barrel of a gun and telling the wielder he may as well pull the fucking trigger, 'cause it wasn't going to happen. 

 

 This is not to say that I'm not a huge fan of her initiating sex. (Assuming she can find five seconds I'm not already headed that way when she is.) But, I can't recall a single time that any female I was in a relationship with (and a couple I wasn't prior) "made a move" that they didn't then find they had just saddled up a whirlwind.

 

 For reasons that I won't get into in public forum (but have hinted at elsewhere), coming at me with a penis, even a fake phallus, is a good way to lose it. I have actually been a part of sessions with more poles than holes, but I made it very clear that if a dick came near my ass, mouth, or hand, I would be keeping it in a jar of formaldehyde. I don't really care if that guy is taking that guy in the ass or mouth. I just can't and won't and see absolutely no need to apologize for letting my history rule me there any more than I expect them to apologize for liking what they like.

 

 

 Abandonment... Ok, so way, way back when, I was involved with a gal who I still think of as my first fiancee. What we actually were was an on-again/off-again (mostly off) all but platonic boyfriend and girlfriend (explaining that would take five times as long as what I've written so far). And I did the whole "right here, waiting for you with open arms" routine. For four fucking years! Right up until she got married to someone I hadn't even realized was in the running. My second ex-fiancee broke up with me eight times and convinced me to take her back before I put my foot down and told her the next time, she'd better be sure she meant it. After that, I pretty much went with the three strike rule.

 

 

 Which, by the way, Love didn't get her two strikes for two lies. One was a lie. One was breaking it off.

 

 

 Striking me, even open-handed much less with something is an automatic two strikes. A woman, I will walk away from. A man... well, let's just say he'd better be damn sure it's something he's willing to kill or die for, 'cause I will be. (Yes, I'm a chauvinist and won't hit a woman in anger, even to hit her back. Oink. Oink.) I have (and do) make allowances for training in self-defense. (Which has always been mandatory as far as I was concerned if I was going to be sitting around worrying about her.) But, not in anger and not even in play outside of training scenarios will I accept being a punching bag.

 

 

 And considering I have broken bricks with my hands, feet, and head, if she does want me to strike her for fun, she is just going to have to accept it if I am not willing to strike her as hard as she might wish. I don't do closed fist or kicks at all. And if I'm going to swat her ass, and I determine that what she wants is too hard and would risk damage, then she's just going to have to deal with it or find someone else. NO lasting damage is a hard limit for me.

 

 

 Consent is... Well, I can, and have, played out a quasi-non-consensual fantasy for her after some very careful contracting. But, I categorically require that informed consent be more than implied. And quite often will call a timeout to re-ascertain if there is any doubt in my mind at all from her non-verbals.

 

 

 I freely admit that, with very few exceptions, most of these are limits that I have learned with experience. And, yeah, like most I did once upon a time make the "rookie" mistake of saying that I was up for anything and thought I meant it. (I had no idea that bodily waste was a thing at the time or I would have listed that right from the go word. 'Twasn't pretty.)

 

 

 As far as right up front... Well, no. I mean, it hasn't ever been something that I've brought up while sitting over coffee while trying to figure out if we liked each other more than just some nice scenery at work. Typically, I guess I've pretty well addressed it when it came up. I don't know. I mean, I'm willing to allow that I may have some Dominant tendencies, but I still stand by my assertion that there is very little beyond... well, vanilla I suppose that I actively require. Unless maybe it's her allowing me to hold not only the keys to her body and heart, but to her soul.

 

*****

 

It's okay to laugh. Hell, I laugh at myself all the time. And what I don't know if most people get is that when I mention I've been doing some form of BDSM longer than some reading this have been alive, what I really mean is that I've had the opportunity to make just about every mistake imaginable at least once.

 

Hell, in my early years, I readily admit that I was stupid and lucky more than I was smart about jackshit. Such as the first time I included choking and breath-play. It was more by sheer dumb luck than by design that I had already been certified in first aid and cpr up to the Emergency Medical Tech level and puttered with two...mmm... no, three of the eventual seven martial arts I kicked around in a bit. And so knew a bit more about what was what and everybody walked away under their own power when done.

 

And I shudder to think, whenever I read a news item about someone being injured or even killed, just how easily that could have been me back in the beginning when I didn't even know enough to know just how much I didn't know but thought I knew everything I needed or wanted to know.

 

But, yeah. All this time later, I know what I need, what I want, and what I won't put up with.

 

However, that's just the beginning.

 

Then, I also need to learn my submissive's needs, desires, and limits.

 

And, the thing is, I don't care how many submissives flow through a Dom(me)s hands like sands through an hourglass, you don't know this submissive until you know her/him. No matter how many you've known. A submissive is not a submissive is not a submissive. And may not even be a submissive.

 

Did that confuse you?

 

What I mean is that self-styled submissive is not even giving you the Genus, much less the species, but maybe the Family s/he belongs to (to borrow from the Biology tree). Each has their own history that went into making them who they are in their blood and bone with their own limits, desires, and needs. And knowing what another, or a dozen others, or a thousand others have and hold as a desire versus a need does not tell everything about the one in front of me.

 

As her Dominant (and only ever "her," sorry fellas), I have to know her well enough to know the difference between what she needs and what she wants. Even... or perhaps, particularly... when she is not in a position to judge the difference between what she truly needs and what she just wants. And I can only do this through time and a lot of conversation.

 

A whole lot of conversation.

 

Okay, so I admit that I do have a rather subtle (but vicious) streak of Sadism to my make-up that makes having a miserable little subbie squirming as I make her actually talk through these things and vocalize such that she's been taught "good girls don't want such, much less talk about them" is... mmmmm, so piquant.

 

But, I've learned the hard way not to take a fucking thing for granted when it comes to the depth of understanding of some new playmate. And if I don't know that she knows exactly what she is letting herself in for... then, she can just wait until I do.

 

And, yeah. I've gotten a lot of criticism over the years from little "submissives" that just wanted me to take them and just do to them without so much of the talk, talk, talking before.

 

Or put another way, they wanted me to give them what they wanted when I was holding out for what they needed first.

 

That's why I'm the Dom. Because what I say goes in my sandbox. And if they don't like it, they can take their shovel and pail (and that hideous Fifty Shades of Grey book) and go look for an InstaDom elsewhere.

 

The irony is that I've been told by several that I am no sort of Dom. Because I wouldn't cave and give them what they wanted.

 

Which has been the source of no little frustration and amusement for me over the years.

 

Nope.

 

As a Dom, first I have to know what my needs are, what my wants are, and what my limits are. Then, I have to take the time to find out what her needs are, what her wants are, and what her limits are.

 

And anyone that says they don't have any is just naive and innocent enough that they don't know there are people in this big, bad world who will push them to them and past them if they can get away with it.

 

Also, anyone that can't respect your limits or your needs, whichever side of the slash you are on (and even you "fence-humpers") is not worth the time and effort of you stepping up to try to meet theirs. Be you Dom(me), sub, switch, or more vanilla than Dairy Queen soft-serve.

 

 

***shrug***

 

I don't know. I readily admit I don't know a damn thing when compared to the librarian of the Acacia. (The library, not the shrubbery for those saying "Ni.")

 

And when it comes to the umbrella of BDSM, there are as many ways to practice as there are relationships that play under it.  And if I wasn't invited to play, then I get no say.

 

I just know what works for me and the ones that things have actually worked out with me. And wanted to clarify in case anyone stumbled across my forum post that began me down this track and figured I didn't say enough on the subject. (NOT, I hasten to add, something I get accused of often.)

 

Anyway, may you have what you need and enough of what you want to make yours a very good day.

(Pasted from another website posted during a discussion on psychological D/s)

After my last post, I continued to think about this thread. And some things I left out.

I know, I know.

"What? The kitchen sink?!"

I was thinking about moveable goals. And mutable rewards.

When I was still knee-high to a grasshopper, there were... issues that kept me from exploring the kinesthetic developments my cohort were. Issues? My issues had issues! Hell, I had volumes! I owned a running subscription! However, eventually, I grew out of it all, thanks to a couple of inquisition's worth of medical treatments and that best medicine of all: time.

As I was able to get outside more and do the things that everyone else had been able to do almost since they slid feet first into this plane of existence, I was... perhaps a little spoiled as relieved parents (and extended family) gifted me with all sorts of sporting paraphernalia. (As opposed to the books that had been the constant up until that point.)

Amongst that paraphernalia was a basketball goal.

Now, it so happens that I suck at basketball. Oh, at one point I could rip the net at will from the opposite baseline if I chose. Not that I had a chance that often since I also didn't often let an opponent drive that far. Unless I fouled. Which I did. Not a lot. Just five times per game. Coach probably didn't help much since he pretty much gave up on teaching me any finesse and just said "you have five fouls and they have five starters. Make 'em count."

But, this was about that moveable goal. Or, to be more exact, the expandable goal post.

When they first installed it, they did so at the lowest point. Which was pretty cool. Even my runty little ass could slam dunk just like the guys on TV. And I did, too.

Then, they raised it a notch. Okay. No problem. I could still slam the ball like a touchdown spike. (Er... wait. Touchdown? There may have been more than one reason I didn't do so hot at basketball...) Notch after notch, they would raise it. First, until I couldn't reach it just standing on my toes. And then, until I couldn't reach it jumping. Until finally, it was the regulation height and I had to actually work to learn to throw it up there.

"What in the fuck is your long-winded point, you old gasbag?"

Well, up until now, my point has been that having the ability to shift a goal can be a good thing. So long as the goal is shifted prior to the outset of the game so that everyone can clearly see where it is.

All right, so let me back up and take another swing from the batter's box.

(Batter's box? Yup. Told ya I sucked at basketball.)

Even before I was healthy enough to start running and playing like normal children my age, or even being outside much, my genius mother got me involved with animals, and especially dogs, for reasons that I've gone into ad nauseum elsewhere for those masochistic enough to want to know.

And something I picked up from training my dogs was that if you promise a treat in exchange for a specific trick, if they do it you give it.

Or else, they will not exhibit the desired behaviors consistently. Why would they? They don't know if they are going to get the treat or not since you always promise it, but don't always give it? They don't even know if they are exhibiting the desired behavior or not if you don't set the goal for the given task!

However, there are some behaviors that you don't want to become dependent on treats but be adopted into their overall behavior without turning them into a little beach ball. For these, there is a way to gradually remove the treat as the reinforcement for the behavior (although praise should never be removed). And the key to that is the word gradually. The same way my parents raised the pole on that damn basketball goal.

Also, there are tasks that are... too complex to break to a puppy all at once. So, you break it down into smaller, more accomplishable goals. For these, also, there is a way to gradually increase the expectation, the goal, until they are exhibiting the entirety of the desired behavior.

As another example, while I was first transitioning from a scrawny, runty, nerdy little bookworm with health issues to "jock," in the spring (around here back then anyway), if you were in athletics, you ran track. Period. That was the only option for school Athletics. Fall was football, winter was basketball, and spring was track and field. Oh, there were other options available, and even some through the school. But, if you were in the class designated Athletics, those three were what you did.

And Coach, in his infinite wisdom, decided to put the shortest motherfucker on the team (yours truly) to running fucking hurdles! Dumbass! Not him. Me for actually putting up with it for almost two years before my other testicle dropped and I told him in no circumstances was I ever running hurdles again. Or high jump either. And if he even looked at me with that stupid pole for pole-vaulting in his hand, I was gonna shove it up his ass. Sideways. (For the record, I was "punished" by being put on the distance team. And not only loved it, but excelled.)

But, while he was trying to make me run hurdles, he did the same thing as my parents did with that basketball goal. Starting me at their lowest height. Then, gradually, raising them notch by notch until they were regulation height. I was also growing (although not as much as most), so my gait was changing. "Wait, was that seven steps or si-... fuck!" **crash** So, there too, the goal was shifting as I had to constantly relearn the gait and then the leap. (And, yes, I had to fuckin' leap them. None of that Olympics style gliding over jack shit goin' on here.)

But, my point (as much as I ever have one) wasn't solely about athletic goals, but goals in general.

On the psychological front, when I was.... mmm... high school-aged for certain, although it may have started earlier, "Psych" became a thing. I don't mean Psychology. That's been around for a long, long time and I'm not quite that old to have changed Jung and Freud's nappies. Nor do I mean the television show Psych with the hidden pineapple in every episode as a slacker with better than the best attention for details convinces everyone he is psychic. No, I mean this (in my opinion, idiotic) game where people would try to get people to believe something was true that actually wasn't and then yell, "Psych" and laugh if one was gullible enough to believe it.

I despised that game. And, yeah. Probably partially because at the time I was stunted enough in my interpersonal intelligence that I was usually an easy mark. But, more because it just seemed like a way to make lying socially acceptable to me. (Come to think of it, that is probably where I learned to associate lying [one of my three hard limits] with disrespecting me and my intelligence...)

One of my best friends absolutely loved that game. And I seemed to be a ready target for him to sling bullshit at and see how much I would swallow. Until I stopped listening to him altogether. One day, when he asked me about it, what had happened that we didn't hang out anymore, I told him point-blank "it was because I couldn't believe anything that came out of your mouth. So, what was the point in listening to you at all when I had better things to do with my time?" Getting back to sports for just a moment, Lucy kept moving the damn football after conning me into trying to kick it.

In college, during those counseling classes that I mentioned in my earlier post, we discussed a lot about interpersonal authenticity and trust. However, we were also in training to be counselors. And as such, there were, of necessity, boundaries in place about how much we would reveal of ourselves to our ephemeral future clients. In a nutshell, we had to learn to reveal very little about ourselves, while making certain that everything we did choose to reveal about ourselves was one hundred percent verifiably accurate. Or, more accurately, could not be verifiably disproven. We had to be trustworthy.

We also learned rather a lot about lying. We learned that our ephemeral future clients would lie to us. Sometimes because they were embarrassed about the truth. Sometimes because they were telling only part of the truth and omitting salient details that would have changed the narrative. Sometimes because even they had no idea they were lying as they presented what they thought was the whole truth, from their perception.

In effect, I learned to beat that stupid "Psych!" game. Rather, I started learning there, in those college courses. But, once I left my original intent to be an MFT/ST and swung off into the detention units, I necessarily honed that skill to an edge sharper than Occam.

What? You don't think inmates lie? Perhaps especially to the people holding the keys and trying to keep them from acting out in their behaviors learned up to that point and frowned on by larger society? Puh-leeeze. The overwhelming majority of them would have lied to me about the weather if they thought they could get something out of it.

Here's the thing. When someone lies all the time, and everyone around them lies all the time, their perception is going to be that everyone lies and therefore you must be a liar too.

So, the first step in what I mentioned in my earlier post when I began to get into their heads, was that I had to present myself one-hundred percent factually and honestly, with absolutely nothing presented that they could then disprove. Because they would try. They would look for the place where I lied, even a "small, little white lie." Their ego needed to find it. Because if I didn't lie, then not everyone lied, and therefore their own lies were a choice that they made whether through lack of courage or an attempt at manipulation.

Does this mean that I told them everything about me? Fuck, no! Get real!

I had my life threatened on an almost daily basis. Which I didn't really sweat too much. Hell, I habitually gave an address and a weekly time frame when I would be there, waiting for them. The ones that showed up found me there, right during the time frame that I had said I would be... making a little extra cash demonstrating just how much I was holding back at work during (strictly speaking "illegal"... don't look at me like that) back-alley...ah... ***cough*** sporting events. Something akin to modern MMA. Distantly kin.

However, I had also had my family threatened as a matter of course, periodically. And that, I did sweat. Very much. Everyone knew I was married. And happily so. But, no one, not even co-workers, knew so much as her name or what she looked like (no pictures, even in my wallet) or what kind of work she did, much less where she worked or where we lived. (As it happened, she worked in banking. And one night when I was followed from work... or attempted... by what turned out to be local Treasury as just a matter of course fact-finding... Gosh, were all of our faces red.)

If it didn't pertain directly to the job at hand and my relationship to them, then they not only didn't need to know it, but they weren't allowed to know it.

And, yet... everything they were allowed to know was factual and thus undisprovable.

More than that, when I said I would do something if certain conditions were met, I did that thing when those conditions were met. Without fail. Or, in the rare events where I did fail, early on, I learned to watch what I said I would do, and make certain I could do the thing I wanted to say I would if the conditions I set were met. If I wasn't sure I could, then I didn't say I would.

Likewise, when I segued from detention work to teaching, I kept to the drill. My students didn't need to know the overwhelming majority of things about me and my life outside of the classroom (no matter how bad they wanted to know). But, what they were allowed to know had to be one hundred percent verifiable if they went to check.

And, if I said I was going to be somewhere or do something, then I had to be there, doing that thing. If I was limping on a re-broken fibula with three broken ribs, so long as I was conscious and moving under my own power, I had to be there. Because I had said I would. No lies. No half-truths. No excuses.

In my personal life, and particularly the facets where the D/s spectrum of BDSM came into play...

I wasn't always completely open, depending on the relationship I had with my submissive. I didn't bother her with every little niggling detail that I would pay attention to for her fun and enjoyment, for example, if she didn't need to know it and the knowledge would have spoiled her enjoyment. But, everything she was allowed to know, everything I revealed to her... about me, about us, about what I was doing to her, with her, and for her...had to be completely verifiable. (Notwithstanding purposeful illusions such as blade play where I spun the illusion that might be the edge of the blade she couldn't see but felt against her vulnerable skin rather than the blunt spine or back.)

Moveable goals have been optimal. Giving me the opportunity to set the bar just a very little higher to stimulate the growth of the submissive having given herself into my care and tutelage at the time. Setting the bar at its maximum height from the get-go can be discouraging for certain personalities and be perceived as setting them up for failure. Instead, I like to begin with easily achievable goals, then gradually transition through goals they have to stretch themselves to obtain until we reach the maximum capacity. I think by doing this, it stimulates growth. Absent growth, we tend to stagnate and then decay. (Whichever side of the slash we are on, and even "fence humpers" or those for which there is no slash.)

Mutable rewards have also been optimal. Giving me the opportunity to keep things fresh and interesting rather than allowing the "reward" to become so mundane as to be considered not worth the effort expended in reaching the goal.

However, it's been my experiences that within the D/s framework, those moveable goals and mutable rewards should be clarified, particularly if the goal and reward are changeable, to the mutual understanding of all parties before the current iteration of the task begins, else the perception can be that a lie was told, excuses given, and trust can be damaged.

If I don't tell her what the specific reward will be before she begins other than one of my choosing, then it's one thing and within the parameters of trust-building for me to determine a reward that I believe suits the accomplishment.

If she requests a specific reward, without me telling her she is allowed to, then it is with the parameters of further establishing the mental Dominance and submission for me to point out that is not her choice, and that I will reward her performance as I accord it worthy.

However, if I told her the reward would be something specific, even that she got to choose her reward, then failing to follow through on the expectation that I purposefully set once the task is accomplished... That just feels too much like that abhorred "Psych" game.

Similarly, if I tell her what the goal is, even pushing her to set the goal herself, then I should stick to that set condition (and make her) for that iteration of the task. Whereas if I purposefully leave the end goal open (i.e., "until I decide enough") then I get to choose a little more just when we will stop (in lieu of her safeword, obviously).

I think to do anything else puts both sides in a position where the psychological underpinnings of a successful, trusting D/s relationship can be too easily damaged.

If I know her like I should understand her in order to present as her Dominant, then it might be acceptable to offer to exchange the reward for one that I know she prefers. However, even then, I think (for me) I would have to make that her choice if she was willing to "trade up" or stick to the originally promised reward. Which, I also think, would undermine the Dominant/submissive mindset we were trying for. Ergo, I think (for me) I would have to forego this "upping the reward" as well to maintain the balance of "you are mine to do with as I please" and "you can trust me."

I don't know. I readily admit that I'm probably overly simplistic about some things. (A great many, I'm sure.) But, I think that there is a way to engage in mind-fuckery where trust isn't damaged and still press the boundaries of our psychological Dominance and submission in order to strengthen it and deepen it.

And a way that will snap back like an overstretched rubber band.

At least in my studies and experiences.

And the foundation lies, I think, in finding ways to shore up the cornerstone of trust that the mindfuckery doesn't incorporate lies and misdirection. Which, in my misspent checkered past is typically that the goal and the reward are established before the game is afoot. However those goals and rewards are established, whatever mental tricks are employed prior, once the game begins, it is what was said would be. Anything else is "Bait and Switch." To me.

But, hey. At the end of the day, I have no say if I wasn't invited to play. And if it works for you and yours (or Yours), then more power to ya. So as long as everybody involved gives informed consent and is able to walk off the field under their own power when the game is done, play on, you kinky as fuck ducks. This world needs a lot more fuckin' and a lot less fuckin' over.

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

(Originally posted on another website in response to a thread about the psychological aspects of D/s.)

 

 

Take it for what you will, but my two cents is this:

 

 BDSM stands for Bondage and Discipline, Dominance and Submission, and Sadism and Masochism.

 

 Bondage and Discipline is easy to tell. Is somebody being restrained in some way? Who is the one doing the restaining and who is the one being restrained?

 

 Likewise, Sadism and Masochism is easy to tell. Is there some form of sensory play going on, and in particular is one of the one-hundred and twenty-seven distinct flavors of pain involved? If so, then who is the one causing and who is the one on the receiving end?

 

 Dominance and submission, however, is not so clear cut. It's all in the mindset of the people involved. Sex does not necessarily play a part in it. In it's simplest form, it is about one doing something to please the other. So, where does it cross that threshold into being a form of D/s relationship?

 

 Frankly, when either of the parties involved recognize that what is being done is being done for the pleasure of the Dominant party. And, the Dominant partner taking steps to have the submissive party do what they wish.

 

 Frankly, this may mean doing nothing but sitting there, on a metaphorical throne, and just by their sheer presence instilling a desire in the submissive to please them.

 

 In my checkered past, I did go the college route of studying relationships, psychology, sociology, counseling, and sex. My intent was to go on to get a Master's degree and eventually hang out a shingle as a Marriage and Family Therapist specializing in Sex Therapy.

 

 However, as a clinically-diagnosed sex addict, I realized that me as an MFT/ST was a whole lot like handing a three-year-old a loaded flare gun. You don't know what will happen, but you do know it will make the papers.

 

 So, I wandered off another direction professionally. Specifically, I went to work in the detention units.

 

 And, at first, sure. There was a certain... something for me in controlling these guys. Several of whom were a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. I told them when to get up, and when to go to sleep. I told them when they could talk, and when to be quiet. I told them when they could eat, drink, piss, and shit. Every moment of their day was strictly controlled and regimented.

 

 And when they didn't do what they were told, I made them do what they were told. And I'm sure back, in the beginning, it must have held some appeal for me, the making. Otherwise, I wouldn't have stuck with it since my first-night training there was a riot.

 

 However... That sort of thing paled for me. When someone does what you tell them to out of fear of you, they have no reason to continue doing it when you are not right there, in their face.

 

 And a moment of relampego swept through me as I understood that if they were only doing it while I was right in front of them, getting in their face, then I wasn't controlling them. They were controlling me. They were making me get in their face to make them do it.

 

 What I needed to do... what I eventually learned to do... was to get inside their heads. Control the mind to control the man. (Or woman. Although, I preferred as much distance between me and the female inmates as I could get.)

 

 For probably the latter three-quarters of my career in detention, I had absolutely no problems on my shifts. And when I was called in to assist on my days or nights off, all I had to do was walk in the room and a full-blown riot would stop.

 

 Why?

 

 Oh, if the riot had just stopped, then it might have been because of my reputation as a hardass who had taken a pistol away from someone aiming it at my face and pistol-whipping their teeth out.

 

 But, it didn't stop there. They would start cleaning up the mess they had made when I asked. (And note that I didn't order anything. I asked.)

 

 Not because I was doling out any reward. Nor was I doling out any punishment. And only in increasingly rare circumstances the further into my career was I the consequence of their action.

 

 It was because I had learned to get inside their heads and stayed there enough that disappointing me was a self-imposed punishment for them. And a half-absent, "Good job. Thank you" from me was all the reward they needed.

 

 After retiring from detention work (and getting a graduate degree in education), I eventually wound up teaching at a local college. And quickly learned to do a modified version for my students.

 

 Oh, again, I had a learning curve since it wasn't really appropriate (according to the Director) for me to require the students when they were not actively working to sit with their feet flat on the floor, fingers laced on the table in front of them, and their eyes on me wherever I was in the room.

 

 And my restraint training would have been very inappropriate!

 

 But, we worked it out as, once again, I managed to get inside their heads and guide them. Even when I wasn't physically present. Even in other classes. Even after graduation.

 

 Looked at in a certain light, although our relationships were (of course!) platonic, I was, in effect, a Dominant for a couple of thousand (and trained Rigger for several hundred, although I categorically deny being Sadistic in my professional life) and went on, in both careers, to train others.

 

 That was professionally. And if you disagree that I was a defacto Dominant for the inmates, students, and trainees, then that is certainly your right. It isn't my place, nor my desire, to make you think anything specific, so long as you practice thinking and often. It is your right to be wrong just as much as you wish.

 

 However, in my personal life, I was still very much Dominant.

 

 I understand that there are some, many in fact, who are submissive in their personal life that are anything but elsewhere. And I'm not knocking anyone for anything. I'm just sayin', "that ain't me."

 

 Hell, while I do drink from time to time, I've only been drunk once in my life because I couldn't stand to cede that control and swore: "never again." 

 

 Any road, my point is that even in my personal life, I was the Dominant partner in whatever relationship we might be discussing. Whether platonic friendships or anything but platonic playmates. It's just hardwired into me and I can't be anything else. The absolute most I have ever managed was to just... try not to leak. But, typically, relationships... even friendships... with another Dominant personality who actively tries to wrest control from me just aren't going to last. Even fence humpers (switches) are going to be problematic if they try to switch roles with me.

 

 And I took what I learned in my college courses, in my career as a detention officer, and in my career as a professor into the streets... and between the sheets.

 

 B&D, while I have practiced it many times, is not what made/makes me Dominant. That just made me her Rigger or Disciplinarian (should I choose to play that way).

 

 S/m, while I have practiced it, is not what made/makes me a Dominant. That just made me her Sadist (should I choose to play that way).

 

 Taking her roughly, while I have practiced it, is not what made/makes me a Dominant. That just made me her Top (and both of us extremely satisfied when I choose to play that way).

 

 I was/am Dominant because I was/am a reliable guiding star to set her compass by, a sail to give her movement, and an anchor to keep her from flying off into danger. (Should she choose to avail herself of what I am.)

 

 However...

 

 However, I have been called out for not being a Dominant. Repeatedly, in fact. Which has both exasperated and amused me. Primarily because they decided that I was not a Dominant because I wasn't doing what she wanted.

 

 Drink in the irony for just a moment.

 

 No. If I was swayed by what you wanted, then I would not be a Dominant. I would be a Service Top at best. While your needs are of paramount importance to me, even above my own if I had acceded to being Your Dominant, your wants are far down the list behind mine.

 

 "Well, you don't give me tasks!"

 

 Um. Yes. I did. I told you twelve times today to drink water. Five times you said you weren't thirsty and the other seven you drank anything but water. Soda. Tea. Alcohol. All of which actually dehydrate you rather than hydrate you. Why should I possibly put myself out to come up with another task when you won't do the one you've been given? I didn't ask if you were thirsty and I specifically said water because I did have plans for tonight that were going to require you to be well hydrated, but since you can't accede simple requests... What you mean is, I didn't give you any fun tasks you actually wanted to do.

 

 ***shrug***

 

 A Leader without any followers is just a guy out for a walk.

 

 However, a Dominant is still a Dominant even if a specific submissive doesn't submit to him/her. And a submissive is still a submissive even if s/he doesn't willingly consent to submit to a specific Dominant.

 

 

 Different strokes for different folks and all that. I just know, for me, she is not my submissive and I am not her Dominant unless I am so deeply nested in her head and heart and soul that I understand her completely and even when I am not physically present, still she needs to please me by completing the tasks laid out for her and any other that she sees once she comes to understand my mind, my heart, and my soul as well.

 

 So, nah. For me, I don't think these preceding posts in this thread are off the mark. The psychological aspects are really where Dominance and submission lies. Without that psychological factor, you may be a kinky as fuck duck, but I struggle to see the Dominance or submission in what is happening.

 

 But, again. I have absolutely zero interest in being the bedroom monitor for happy fun times that I wasn't even invited to. So, whatever flips your and your partner(s) switches, whatever you want to call what you are doing, so long as everybody walks away under their own power when done, have fun, kids.

 

 I would say "don't do anything I wouldn't," but you've probably guessed by now that's an incredibly short list. (And one that usually results in some asshole like I used to be telling you what you will do, what you can do, and what you won't like how it turns out if you try for the next twenty years.)

 

 Any row you have to hoe, make yours (and "Yours") a beautiful crop today.

(Originally posted on another website in answer to the title question.)

To a certain extent, you get used to it. But, only to a certain extent.

Back a decade ago, I was... Well, I suppose it's not bragging to say that I was pretty well regarded in my chosen field(s). First as a detention officer and then as a Professor, I would be called on to not only handle more at the facilities where I worked than any other two, but would often be called upon to travel to other areas for days and even weeks. On top of that, I led a pretty active lifestyle with friends, family, and hobbies that included what some people refer to as "eXtreme."

A lifetime of abusing my body and pushing through injury, illness, and pain caught up with me as it has a tendency to eventually do when you don't expect to live to be old, don't really have any desire to, and don't make plans for it. I was doing a hundred and twenty down life's highway and some joker threw on the emergency brake.

I watched as first my employers found other people to take up the slack. Hiring two and three people to do what I'd done. But, any small sense of accomplishment that it had taken so many to replace me was short-lived, as however many it took, I was still replaceable. And very soon the calls and visits looking for my input stopped as the people replacing me grew into the roles they had assumed and made it their own and I became obsolete and irrelevant.

Friends drifted away in droves as I became increasingly unable to keep up with the decidedly non-sedentary interests we had once shared. Perhaps the first tournament and trophy or two that would have been mine, I had some mention. But, again, it wasn't long before I was replaced and forgotten to the annals of time.

Family was too busy seeing to their own demands and interests and weekly calls or visits became bi-weekly and then monthly, and then only on special occasions.

But, that was alright. It really was. Because I still had the woman I had thought enough of to marry who had also thought enough of to marry me right by my side. Ironically also trapped in the four walls with me as her own health spiraled out of control just six months after mine and she became not only housebound but virtually bedridden. But, we had each other. We had love. We had common shared interests that we could still manage with her in bed with a hospital-style bed table.

Until one day, I woke up to find I didn't. That she had left, not only me but this plane of existence. Leaving me with a dog that I take full responsibility for and three cats that were so not my fault. Or my choice beyond that I married the stereotype of the Crazy Cat Lady.

Someone shared a joke with me lately that I can't quite remember how it goes. But, the gist of it is that God asked a German Shephard what he thought was most important and allowed the dog to take a seat on his right due to his answer. He then went on to ask a Doberman what he thought was most important and allowed the dog to take a seat on his left due to the answer. He then asked the cat, and the cat said, "I believe you need to get your fat ass out of my chair." Or something like that.

And, boy, is that fucking apt for the assholes my wife left me with.

But, I probably needed it as they ganged up on me and bullied me to not only turn my face back from the wall but actually get my ass up out of the bed and see to their needs.

Talking with my Dad (who lost his wife twenty-two days after mine) every day for an hour helped some until he died on the following father's day. But, it was hilarious since he would complain about how no one cared and yet every single phone call would be interrupted several times by other people calling him or coming by to visit him while he (over the telephone) and one other person on the entire world that I communicated with via email would be the only people I spoke to at all for days and even weeks at a time until I could manage to get my ass out to go to the store. (Typically for pet food.)

All of this went on years before we even heard of COVID, mind you. And I would say something about it here or elsewhere. And people would comment that I should get out and do things, not understanding. And as such is probably largely irrelevant beyond the fact that I've had a bit longer than most to think about how to deal with being alone and trapped.

And I understand that these days are a little different. That now the rest of the world is trying to learn the lessons I had to pick up over the last decade. How to fill the idle hours, trapped and alone.

I can remember a friend of my father's, callously (or so it felt at the time), telling me "now you have the freedom to do whatever you have always wanted to do, but didn't have the time."

***shrug***

She pissed me the fuck off with her inept delivery during my time of pain. But, I am forced to concede that she may have had some small point in her cavalier way.

Talking with people was a good start for me. Or rather listening to people talk about what they were interested in. It didn't matter so much if I wasn't really interested in it. And, more than a few times, because I was interested in the person, I became interested in something new that I hadn't thought I would be because I'd never taken the time to pay attention to it before.

Pets are, yes, wonderful. Or can be. They listen great but don't communicate beyond basic needs very much. (Not much different from many on Lit, now I think about it.) However, it is my opinion (for however little it may be worth), that if you take on a pet, you are making a covenant with not only the pet, but with God (or whatever name you choose to attribute to the greater power) that you will continue to care for them and see to their needs even when it is no longer convenient to do so. Even when the discomfort surpasses the pleasure, their needs surpass your ease.

My books have been a comfort to me, even as my mind and focus have deteriorated and I often have to flip back because I look up and can't recall what I read the page before when I once devoured War and Peace in sixteen hours on a "lockdown" shift.

I can't rely on internet, telephone, or even television, I have found, as my provider (that I was unwise enough to bundle it all through) has been intermittent at best (now that they finally "fixed" what they fucked up a month ago) and I can't even watch an episode of a show on-line without so many pauses that it takes four hours to get through a thirty-minute episode. (And I've had to learn to type up any responses in Lit in notepad and paste them in when it comes back in a half-hour or more... if I still think it's relevant to the conversation that has most likely moved on in my absence. Even phone calls typically consist of ninety percent static and me yelling "What? If you said something, I didn't catch it!")

***shrug***

At the end of the day, you are you. You do have interests. You do have skills. You have what you CAN do. And, judging by my own history, there just isn't a whole lot of sense in making yourself more miserable by dwelling on what you once could without a second thought.

Take down that box of jumbled pictures from the top of the closet and put them in some semblance of order if not actually in photo albums.

Do you like to draw? Draw something. It doesn't really matter if you are no Rembrandt, Van Gogh, or DaVinci. Or even Georgia O'Keefe. It doesn't matter if you will eventually share it with us, or only with him, or keep it for yourself. The important part is that you do what you feel, what you love.

Do you like to write? Write something. It doesn't really matter if you are no Shakespeare or Chaucer. Or even David Eddings. It doesn't matter if you will eventually share it with us, or only with him, or keep it for yourself. The important part is that you do what you feel, what you love.

Do you like to take pictures? Take pictures of something. It doesn't really matter if you are no Jimmy Nelson or Mario Testino. It doesn't matter if you will eventually share it with us, or only with him, or keep it for yourself. The important part is that you do what you feel, what you love.

Creation takes more time, thought, and consideration than destruction any day of the week. Find that kernal of creation in you and nurture it. And, as I have said, the important part is that you do what you feel, what you love.

Learn something new. I really don't care if you are in the top 98 percentile of the world. So was I once. And you don't know everything about everything. Or even everything about any one thing. Pick up a new book. It doesn't matter if you always wanted to read it or never even noticed it before. It doesn't matter if you can devour it in a matter of hours as I once could or it takes you weeks as it does me now. The whole point is that you are just sitting there like a lump anyway.

Watch a new show or new movie (if you can get the damn television and internet to cooperate). Sure, it may suck stale pond water. But, you don't know that until and unless you check it out. And it just may be that no matter what other people are saying about it that it will tickle your fancy in some way.

Exercise. You know what? I really don't give a flying fuck if all the public gyms are now zombie-pocalypse zones and even going outside when other people are outside is to step outside of your safety and comfort zone. There are things you can do in the space between your bed and the wall beside it. Don't know what? Well, LOOK! Or, better yet, create your own! What CAN you do that will engage your muscles and tire you the fuck out physically, and make you stronger and feel better in the long run? I may not be Jack Lalane. And I may not even have as much on the ball as you anymore, but even I was able to think of stretches and calisthenic exercises I could still manage. And, you are (demonstrably!) brighter and more resourceful than someone whose brain has been slowly turning to tapioca in their skull for a decade now.

When you can safely get outside, do so. Even a quasi-vampire like me can have some seratonal and melatonal benefits from letting my skin absorb some vitamin D occasionally despite the migraines. The safety of your backyard if you have one. Your balcony if you don't. Just open the windows if nothing else.

Not to belittle Covid or Corona or whatever we are calling it since I am only gradually coming out of an informational vacuum during intermittent connectivity, but stress has always been a bigger killer. And the stress of loneliness is a silent assassin slipping up to your bedside as you sleep.

However, in my experiences (and only in my experiences), you don't have to be lonely, if you can make yourself into the company you want to keep. And share your interests with others who also have the same interests (when the fucking phone and internet work!) to make friends (and enemies) with people who share that common interest, but don't rely on them to be there when their own interests carry them away.

Because at the end of the day the portal at the beginning and end of this dream we call life is only one soul wide. The only difference is what or who we take time or make time for in the inbetween. And since they have their own lives, responsibilities, and interests drawing them away from time to time, the only person that you can count on to be with you twenty-four and seven from beginning to end is yourself.

And when the person that you love, that you are fortunate enough to have some of, comes back to you, it will make them happier. Happier to have you. Happier to come back to you. Because you will be happier.

Any road, I don't know that I actually contributed a damn thing. Or if I just spent hours thinking about and typing about something that someone else will think is a bunch of bullshit. But, you know what? It doesn't really matter. Because it made me happy, occupied my time, and kept me from feeling the stress of loneliness and boredom for the time I was piddling with it. And everyone else is perfectly within their rights to argue with me, ignore me, or agree with me as they feel.