For My Friends Who Are Sad…


In case you can’t see the meme

10 Things to Say Instead of ‘Stop Crying’:
1. It’s okay to be sad.
2. This is really hard for you.
3. I’m here for you.
4. Tell me about it.
5. I hear you.
6. That was really scary, sad, etc.
7. I will help you work it out.
8. I’m listening.
9. I hear that you need space. I want to be here for you. I’ll stay close so you can find me when you’re ready.
10. It doesn’t feel fair.

[A cloud cries tears into an ocean; a small sailboat carrying a bearded person holding up a bucket is on the waves; each wave contains one of the things to say.]

FFF 3 – 2-23

Older and wiser, that’s me.  Um, older anyway.  And lighter!!  Like 2-3 pounds lighter!  How cool is that?

Did I tell you that the medication they gave me made it 100 times easier to not binge on carbs and sweets?  Yeah.  And somehow, it’s easier to exercise, probably because I’m not still carrying around the burden of guilt for binge eating.  That was a heavy load.

They (the doctor) could have suggested I start this medication over a year ago.  Instead, they were all, “Diet and Exercise.”  I thought it was emotional eating and laziness.  Um, apparently not.  All that chastising myself I did – for no good reason.

I’m trying not to think too cynically, but I can’t help wondering why, if my cholestrol’s high, they’re in a huge rush to give me meds, and when it’s  a med that would make the diet thing easier, they want me to rely on willpower.

And it’s not just me.  When my mother was already deep into Alzheimers she had a sudden period of eating everything in sight and gained weight at an incredible rate.  Her doctor prescribed this same med and she quit eating everything and lost weight.

Sigh.  Ok.  Whatever, all that matters is it’s helping.

I am not more organized, in fact, the lack of organization in my belongings is worse, but i’ve been on the road so much i haven’t been able to keep up with anything.  Shrug.  It should slow down in March.  And if we end up moving in March or early April, there will be whole new opportunities for organization.

Ok.  Work. I need to get to work, now.

But i was thinking yesterday about spankings.  Good girl spankings.  The kind administered by an expert, who knows how to make it build so that you slide gently into subspace without ever having to feel overwhelmed by pain.  That kind of spanking.  Sigh…  i miss that.  And i’m still holding hope that someday…


On the Occasion of…

…my 62nd birthday, it seems like the appropriate time to celebrate and count some blessings.

  • I may have some health issues, but I feel pretty good most of the time.
  • I have a job I mostly like that pays well.  I have enough of all the material things in my life – and more.  Much more than I need, and a whole lot of what I want.
  • I have a lovely daughter and even lovelier grandkids.  They are thriving.
  • I have a partner who’s a good person and who cares about me.
  • I was in New Orleans this week.  🙂
  • I’m off work today! It’s a warm and sunshiny day!!

CW:  Domestic violence

In other events, I was

  • In NOLA,  in a hotel room next door to a loud, angry man, who was berating his girlfriend/wife for having gotten them LOST – like she ALWAYS does – and making him walk all over New Orleans.  YES, he was FUCKING ANGRY!!!   Being someone who gets lost ALL THE TIME myself, it caught my attention.  The verbal berating went on for a long time and I kept wondering if he was going to hit her.  He didn’t, but the yelling continued off and on for a couple of hours.  Apparently this proved that everything wrong was her fault, not his, and no, they weren’t going back out that night, he didn’t care if she was hungry or if it was her birthday, she was not stable or she wouldn’t have gotten them lost, and they weren’t going out there and get lost again.  I did tell the hotel clerk, and they quieted down for a while, but then he would rev up again.  I could barely hear her, and it was probably just as well.  It reminded me of long gone years and my first husband’s rage.  I know what it’s like to tolerate that, and it made me sad to hear it.  I’m sending her lots of energy and love today, and would invite you to do the same – love and strength for all the nameless women with angry husbands.  And I guess him too, because when I read it now,  and remember the things he said, I hear so much anxiety and fear.   Sigh…


  • In an airport, a man started telling me about how he’d been traveling for work for 39 years.  He said he’d been on the road this time for almost 2 weeks, but he was going home that day.  His marriage was important to him. and he wasn’t going to lose this relationship.  A bit ruefully, he added that he’d been married twice before, but this time they’d been together 17 years and he wasn’t going to lose that.  I wanted to ask him why this marriage was different, but it was time to board my plane and I was afraid it was going to be a long conversation.  Besides, this way i can make up my own answers.  Just seems like there’s a lot there to ponder…

Hope your day is as lovely as mine is going to be!!


But I Don’t Want To

“But i don’t want to, Sir,” i say, and even i can hear the whine in my voice.

He nods, his eyes moving across me, taking in every aspect of my naked body, kneeling in front of him.  “Are you safe-wording?” he asks.  “Cause I’m pretty sure that “i don’t want to, Sir” is not your safe word.”

“Noooooo.  No, Sir, I’m not.  I will do it, you know i will, if you insist.  I just – i don’t waaannnt to.”

He nods, “That’s ok, silly girl, you don’t have to want to.  You’re welcome to tell me how you feel, but you don’t get to decide what you do or don’t do.”

I hate that those words go directly to my pussy, which heats and throbs as if he’d just touched me.  i don’t get to decide.  That feels like such a gift, and yet it can be so hard to obey.

“I can help motivate you,” he says, “I don’t mind.”

“Oh – oh, Sir, um, no, Sir, that’s ok, i don’t need help getting motivated, i promise,” but i can tell it’s too late.  He’s opening the drawer of the little end table next to him.  i close my eyes, but when i open them he’s holding the nipple clamps.  The ones i hate, of course.

“Pinch your nipples, please,” he says.  “Go ahead, get them good and hard.”  My belly clenches, pussy throbs, and still i look at him with what i hope are sad eyes pleading for mercy.

He laughs.  “That’s five with the riding crop,” he says, “Come on, girl, pinch those nipples, get them ready for these.”

I obey him then, of course, five with the riding crop is a lot, and as i pinch and tug my nipples, my pussy responds more.  I think i’m so wet i’m going to leave a puddle on the floor.

He puts them on quickly, the frigging clover clamps, and attaches a weight to the chain that dangles between my breasts.   I whimper – it hurts most when they first go on – and when they come off.

“There you go,” he says.  “I know this might feel like I”m punishing you, but that’s not the point.  The point is to help you feel your submission.  I want you to move into that space of awareness of who you belong to and how willing you are – even eager – to do what I ask of you.  Am I asking you to do anything that will harm you?”

“No, Sir,” i say.  My nipples are beginning to hurt a bit less, still throbbing but becoming numb.  He knows this too well, leaning forward, he tugs gently on the chain, causing fresh pain to radiate through both nipples. i cry out.

“Thank me,” he says.

“Thank you, Sir,” i gasp, and discover that i mean it.  He nods.

“Are you ready for those clamps to come off, girl?”

I am and i’m not, because that’s going to hurt all over again, and i’m feeling just submissive enough to say, “Whatever you want, Sir.”

“Good girl,” he grins and things fall into place for me.  Why am i even making a big deal out of this?  I do love pleasing my Sir, and it’s not that much to ask, what he wants me to do.

He stands, moves to the back of the room, and takes something off the table.  I know it’s the riding crop, so i’m not surprised when he comes back to his place on the couch with it, tapping the palm of one hand.   His voice is even more gentle now.

“I’m going to take the clamps off,” he says, “and then we’ll wait about a minute for the pain to ease up.  When I tell you ‘down,’ I want you to bend over, arms in front of you, face to the ground, so your ass is raised high for me.  Clear?”

“Yes, Sir,” i say.  My whole body is alert and ready to obey him.

Clamps off – OH!  Oh, oh, oh, oh!!  As the blood flow rushes back into the nipples, the pain is almost overwhelming.  I want to grab my nipples, hold them, rub them, but i know better.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he says.  Quickly, i do as he says, although this not only thrusts my breasts forward, it seems to increase the pain.  “Good girl,” he says, “I love the way you’ll take the pain for me.   I love that you use the pain to submit and be my good girl.  Now, down.”

Glowing with the praise, i move my arms in front of me, lower my forehead to the ground, raise my ass.  I feel myself relax, open to the pain that’s coming.

The first slash, in the middle across both cheeks, is a shock.  i had decided not to scream or cry, but i knew right away that this was a lost cause.  The second one lands across my sit spot and my right knee raises off the ground, as if that would help me escape.

“Hold still,” he says.

The third one lands across the back of my thighs and i cry out, i can’t help it.  But i hold still.  He is waiting between blows to allow time for the pain to sink in and be absorbed.  I wish he would just get it over with.

The fourth lands across my cheeks again, crossing the welt left by the first one so that a point of extra pain blossoms in the intersection.  i am crying,

His voice is soothing, “I know it hurts, just one more, you can do it, and then we’ll be done.”  He moves to the other side of me, the crop falls a fifth time, managing to cross at least 3 of the welts already rising on my butt.  I rock on my knees, a sob escapes me.

“There you go,” he says, “all done, come here now, come here to me.” He sits on the couch, i raise up and move toward him, still on my knees.  He pulls my head into his lap, strokes my hair, wipes the tears off my face.  He rubs my nipples, which are still tender, and traces the welts on my ass with his finger.

He slides his thumb in my mouth and i suck gently.  I move my head as if i would put my mouth on his cock, but he stops me, taking my hair in one hand to hold me still.  “Not now,” he says,  “now it’s time to do what i asked you to do in the first place.”

“Yes, Sir,” i say, and i’m glad that i sound eager.  “Naked yoga, coming up.”

Saturday Sunshine


In case you couldn’t see the meme:

Mary Oliver: “I Worried”

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

FFF 2-16: It’s Official…

i am officially diabetic.  Or, as I pointed out to the somewhat officious nurse practitioner who broke the news to me, i am “a person with diabetes.” That is the more person-centered language that’s preferred in health care these days.  This was after I heard her tell someone down the hall that she had “a raging diabetic” in her office.  Not raging in the sense of angry, apparently she was trying to impress on the other person just HOW egregious it was that the pharmacy had FAILED to give me a glucometer.

I thought “raging?”  Not really.  But definitely in the “over the line” category.

You know, it’s not like i didn’t know this could happen.  I’ve been “borderline” for a long time, and even inched over but was able to talk my way into deferring any action.  Like, you know, medication.  But they kept wanting me to cut sweets and carbs and exercise more and… you know.  Here i am.

CW:  I am about to talk about people with diabetes and it won’t always be very nice.  Feel free to skip to the end.

I grew up with grandparents who had diabetes, late onset, type II.  A minor refrain of “Ohhhh, I shouldn’t have any of that cake – – – –  ok, just give me a tiny piece,” ran through my childhood.  It didn’t stop them from eating a little pasta or enjoying their lives.

But for some reason, i hated it when they talked about their “sugar.”  “You know, I got to watch my sugar.”  “I think my sugar’s up.”  “I think my sugar’s down.”  I don’t know why that icked me out, but it did.

After my first divorce, i was in a relationship with someone who had “that blood sugar.”  He was about 15 years older than me, thin and wiry, but he was always talking about “I better eat ,” “I better not eat,” “I gotta watch my blood sugar.”   And pricking his finger to test his level about 12 times a day.

i mean, honestly, i didn’t mind when we were still having great sex, he could have talked about his blood sugar all day long.  But once that was a faint memory, it grated on my nerves.  It didn’t help that he blamed his lack of performance on his diabetes, when in reality he was burning out his aged libido fucking some little tootsie where he worked.  (Ooooooh, still a bit bitter i see.  Hmmm, and i thought i was truly over that.  Sorry.)

Anyhow.  Breathing…

The thing that irritated me the most was when he (ok, he had a name – we’ll call him Tom) would talk about how he better not do something because of his blood sugar.  He’d prick his finger and carefully insert the slightly bloody strip into the machine and then annouce with due gravity, “No,” shaking his head woefully, “No, I better not go, my blood sugar’s up.  I mean it’s not dangerous – yet – but I better stay here.”

“What is it?” I’d ask anxiously.  “How high is it?”

“It’s 190,” he might say, “and even though I ate about an hour ago, still, it should be a lot lower than that.”

It got so bad that I’d google the level he told me, just to see if he was likely to die or not.  I won’t make any harsh judgements here, right?  But i assure you, he is still alive and well, married to his tootsie in another state.  Living happily ever after, I mostly hope.

But – back to me – today, when the nurse showed me how to check myself.  It was 178 and she tsked and frowned just enough to let me know this wasn’t good.  But when I looked at her stupid chart?  They want me to be under 180 an hour or two after meals.  Which I WAS.  So please do not act like i’ve just busted the bank for high blood sugar.

She assured me I could still go out to eat.  Seriously.  And I was very good, I just nodded and said, “Ok, good to know.”

i have to keep frigging records – every day – and i have to bring them back to her in two weeks so she can look at them and tell me if I have to test more often.  You all.  I’m at the doctor every damn week, sometimes 2 or 3 times a week.  That’s ridiculous.  i feel like my health is being held hostage.

Ok, i know it’s my own fault, for my own good, blah, blah, blah.  I know i’m still pretty lucky in most ways, and I’m sure it will be worse before i actually die.  I know it’s not too late to make a difference.  If you are tempted to lecture or preach in your comment, please resist.  Comments with the theme “poor baby” will be most appreciated.

And here, for your entertainment, are a couple of images from google – with the prompt “raging diabetic.”


Right – the A in Diabetic is a pizza, I’m pretty sure the E is candy.  And the quote?

The three toughest fighters I ever fought were Sugar Ray Robinson, Sugar Ray Robinson, and Sugar Ray Robinson.  I fought Sugar so many times, I’m surprised I’m not diabetic. 

– Jake LaMotta

And yes.  This means i have to do better at FFF.  i already know, thanks.  🙂


Once upon a time…

This is a true story.

Once upon a time, about 2004, i was still in my late 40s and just beginning to get interested in the real world of kink.  i was newly aware that a whole bunch of people were doing things that would thrill and delight me and didn’t end up with me naked and chained to the wall in a basement somewhere.

There was a man named Michael – well actually there were two of them, one went by Mike and I’ve written about him before. The other was Michael, and I don’t think about him as often.  But ‘nilla’s story here reminded me and I thought I’d tell the story of what was maybe my first introduction to BDSM.  First in real life, that is.

I met Michael on the phone line – I don’t guess they have those anymore, but back in the early 2000’s you could set up a little intro message on this phone line.  People would listen to each other’s messages and if you weren’t interested, you hit “3” and moved to another message, but if you were interested you hit “1” and could leave a message for them.   That’s actually how i met my second husband, but that’s a story for a different day – or maybe never.  Anyhow, you left a message, and sometimes they messaged you back and sometimes they didn’t.

So Michael’s intro message said something like, “Hi, this is Michael – and there was a pause – just for a moment – and then “All. Tied. Up.  And that’s what I like to do, tie ladies up and please them…” and i don’t remember the rest of it, but his voice was like silk and i was totally fascinated.

So we chatted.  We chatted on the phone and he casually talked about bondage – rope – and crops and cuffs and all kinds of things that made me wet and wetter.  He would tell me to touch myself, tell me how to do it, and then, just as I was about to cum, he’d say, “Stop.”  I’d whimper and he’d say it again, in his most commanding voice.   “Stop. Stop touching yourself NOW.  No more touching.”

So i would – i’d stop touching myself, delighted with how wet it made me and how it thrilled my little submissive soul.

He took his time asking me out, waiting me out in the way that dominant men have.  By the time he invited me to meet him for a drink, i was dying to meet him.  i wanted to experience all the things he talked about – so much.

We met at a bar, in a suburban strip mall.  I had a glass of Chardonnay, i’m sure.  He had a coke, explaining that he didn’t drink if he was going to play.   He was nice enough looking, an ordinary looking middle aged man with dark hair and a slightly receding hairline.  Slim, with blue eyes, and a nice smile.

We chatted, and soon i began to wish he’d quit talking about mundane things and talk about ropes and whips and all the kinky things instead.  i begin to wish he’d touch me instead of chatting nicely about movies and his job.   Yes, this is who i am, and i was a little bit appalled at myself, but you know.  What submissive girl wouldn’t revel in the idea of being introduced to these pleasures that she’d only dreamed of?

Eventually – but not until i was dying for something to happen – he said, “Did you want to play a little bit tonight?”  i thought i was going to explode right there, of excitement and anxiety and so much want-to and just a little bit of better-not. But i kept my cool (a little bit anyhow) and i said, “Play?” in an appropriately coy and curious voice.

“Yeah,” he said,  and went on to explain that we could go to a hotel, or just go to the car.  He assured me he wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want but he had some toys he could show me, if I wanted to.  No pressure.  We could wait til the next time we saw each other, or we didn’t have to do anything ever.

“Oh, um, yes,” i did want to play a little bit, but maybe better not go to a hotel.  So we went to his van.  Just the front seat, not even the back of the van, parked in the darkness on the side of strip mall.

There are lots of things i don’t remember from that night, but there are a few that i remember as vividly as yesterday.  My breasts exposed, as he flicked my nipples, lightly, with the tip of a crop.  Really, just seeing the crop threw me into some kind of major submissive ecstasy .  He stroked the inside of my thighs with it, JUST LIKE Story of O!

Ok, maybe not “just like.” But it seemed really close!

i can remember how he looked, how i watched him, fascinated, as he toyed with me.  Watching him watching me.  Getting wetter.  And wetter.  My face flushing, breathing erratic.  Moans and whimpers.  Oh, my.

i don’t remember ever being played with like that before.  You know, i’d been married and divorced already, and was a child of the early 70s and the sexual revolution.  I had some experience.  But most of it was men greedy and in a hurry, trying to hustle me through the preliminaries so they could fuck me.  This was a man in control of himself, in control of me.

He caressed me with the flogger.  Made me ask permission before i was allowed to touch his cock, hard and throbbing.  Stroked me, petted me – oh, it was lovely.

Time passed – i didn’t want it to end, ever – but eventually, he told me it was time to stop, late, time to go home.  i sighed, i whimpered.  “When you get home,” he said, “you’re going to still be really wet, really hot.”

i nodded, still snuggled up near him, yes, yes i would.  “And you’re going to want to play with yourself, you’re going to want to cum.” i nodded, yes, definitely, i would.  i could barely wait.

“No,” he said, pulling back from me.  “NO playing with yourself when you get home.  NO touching yourself.  Is that clear?”

I was shocked – like he’d thrown cold water all over me, but i recovered quickly.  “Yessss, yes, that’s clear.”

“Wait until I call you,” he said.  “I’ll call you tonight, when I call, I’ll let you cum.   But not before then.”

Quickly, i acquiesced and got what was not the first “good girl” of the evening.  Sighing, smiling to myself, thrilled, i drove myself home carefully, throbbing and wet.

i got ready for bed, clutching the phone to me.  Hot and wet and frustrated, waiting for his call.



Finally, i broke down and called him.  i could NOT believe he was doing this to me.  He’d said he’d call.  Seriously!!  He needed to call!

No answer.  So I waited some more.

Eventually, i resigned myself to the inevitable.  He was not going to call.  Bastard.

i cried.  How could he do this to me?

i felt abandoned and betrayed.

i know, that was silly.  But BDSM pulls on those demons, all those anxieties that live deep inside us.  It pulls them up into the light of day, whether we want it to or not.

The next day he called – and he laughed at my frustration.  Laughed.  He said, “When i saw you were calling me, i knew i had you.”

That outraged me more than I can possibly tell you.  After all his frigging talk about trust – bullshit!!  i didn’t say it to him, but i thought, “Fuck you, and fuck your ” I knew I had you…”  You’ll never have me.”

We stayed in touch, more or less, for a long time, while other relationships started and ended for both of us.  He was mostly a nice guy, just not actually my nice guy.  We almost played several times after that, and he bought me a vibrator – it was blue, kind of medium sized, and had a clit stimulator too, which was the kind of thing i didn’t even know existed.   He had been shocked that I didn’t already have one.  i said i was too freaked out to go to an adult store myself.  So he came to my work, took me out for lunch one day and gave it to me, which was just super sweet.

There’s not an actual point or moral to the story, unless you want to make one up for me.  But ‘nilla’s story – chapter 11, where our heroine is left to simmer in her own juices overnight, made me think of it.