(No.  Not smiley faces.  Similes.  Also, I give up on the font Comic Sans.  It hates me and it hopes I choke.) 

Fashionably late to the party as always… I’d like to take a minute to discuss what makes someone “real” in terms of submission.

While I know this conversation (argument?) is old as all hell, it was recently talked about by kaya (that’s post 2, methinks), morningstar, and swan. They all had insight and/or managed to incite (lookin’ at you, Tess – and I can’t even begin to explain how much I adore you). I imagine I’ll do neither. I might manage to repeat things or be redundant. (See what I did there?)

I mean, I have my ideas. I even have my judgments. I don’t hold to them particularly strongly unless I class you as a hopelessly inept jerkface. (It’s a handy little classification, if I do say so myself.)

But for some reason, the whole thing strikes me a little like the concept of “going green.” There are roughly ninety billion things you can do to go green. From Reduce, Reuse, Recycle to buying a hybrid car to converting traditional home energy systems to Earth-friendly alternatives. And on and on and on.

And going green seems just like submission in BDSM. Some people add in activities and rituals that aren’t huge departures from their normal lives. Some people dedicate themselves to learning, asking questions, incorporating anything and everything they can until every facet of their lives revolves around this need to BE green. Some people have lived with elements of it for their entire adult lives because it’s just natural for them, and they (or others) encourage that behavior because it feels so darn good even if it’s hard. Some were made aware of it in childhood, or found themselves with guilt for doing (or not doing) certain things, and they didn’t know why. Some people feel it is necessary for their happiness, and it helps them feel like they are in the right place on this planet. Some people feel it is fun and rewarding, and they do it as often as they can, but don’t sulk up a storm when they can’t. Some people just don’t have the time or desire to invest in making any attempts so they don’t.

Obviously, going green is something MOST people would agree is “good” for everyone which is not the case with submission/BDSM, but I trust you all are clever enough to see what I’m getting at. Or at least to play along with my insanity. If you’re a regular reader, you’re well aware that I’ll take either with a smile and gratitude. 

There are pissing contests in the green world just as in the submission world. Are you green ENOUGH, dammit?

But, damn… It’s almost always a lose-lose. You can live in an energy-efficient underground dwelling, bicycle everywhere, grow your own food, eat as a strict vegan, use baking soda to wash everything from your clothes to your hair, freecycle, and give every extra dime to organizations promoting a healthier environment…

And you know what?

There is STILL going to be someone out there going, “Oh yeah, bitch? Well I wipe my ass with a rag when I shit, so I don’t ruin the world with toilet paper refuse LIKE SOME PEOPLE I KNOW! Put that in your hand-blown glass pipe and smoke it, motherfucker! May you rot in hell for being a terrible, wasteful human being. Green? My ass is greener than you are.”

And YES, there are instances where raised eyebrows and “Uh, pardon me, but I do believe ur doin’ it wrong” will be warranted. Like when the guy who recycles his beer cans but lives in perpetual AC, drives a gas-guzzler, and hasn’t touched a vegetable in three years says, “I’m doing everything I can, man, to help the environment! I am so green!” Because, no. Just no. In fact, die.

But I have to think those of us who dedicate ourselves to being green are the only ones who care about HOW green someone else is. Everyone else is going, “Buh? You are all helping the environment… I don’t get the issue…” And, with submission in BDSM, everyone else is going, “Wtf. You all seem pretty submissive to me.”

It’s only because we all sit around endlessly discussing methods, philosophies, extreme measures, failures, goals, interests, etc. that we all end up racing for a ruler, unzipping our pants and whipping our our proverbial penises.* I’ll be the first to admit, though, I’m a fan of penises. I’ll totally watch the show! Whip ‘em out, everyone, I wanna SEE! I’ll even join in.

Because I’m totally guilt of it too. Please don’t think I’m saying I’m above this. I’m a total bottom-dweller, to be quite honest. I’m just also capable of observing my own idiocy in a (slightly) objective manner. And on occasion, I indulge that ability.

* I’m nine inches, bitch.  Flaccid.   *air guitar*

I’m feeling lonely, irritable, and ignored.  Rather, I AM lonely, irritable, and ignored.

To the point where I read blogs where someone mentions in passing they slept well or something and the blogger uses the word “happy” and I begin storming around my brain all “IS IT REALLY NECESSARY TO BROADCAST YOUR HAPPINESS LIKE THAT YOU INSENSITVE COW?  GOD!”

Because I’m rational and mature.

Antonio has some stuff going on… Ranging from medical to family to no-definitive-origin stuff and… Well, I’ve been ignored.  A lot.  For months. 

Emails and talking on the phone?  Down to a couple brief emails a day, and a 5 minute “goodnight” conversation before he heads to bed.

Nicknames?  Gone. He isn’t using them anymore.  No kitten, cunt, sweetheart, nothin’.  For weeks.

Sharing his feelings daily, keeping me up to date on anything I could do, just randomly rambling at me in email about things?  Hahaha – no.

And I’m telling you, it WEARS on me. 

When I have trouble, I head right to him (usually belly-up).  I show him my wounds, I ask him what he thinks I should do.  When he has trouble, he retreats to lick his wounds and recoup on his own. And don’t get me wrong, he’ll ask for help if he wants it or needs is… It’s just… He doesn’t really want it and I can’t offer him anything he strictly needs.  He’s a very independent, solitary creature, and he’s made it this far in life because he does not require the help of others for emotional support.  If he needs practical support of some kind, he’s a smart man and of course he’ll seek it out.  (i.e. – He’s not pigheaded. If he had to go to court over something (he doesn’t) he wouldn’t waltz in there with no lawyer because omg, he needs no one!)

But here I am, a thousand miles away… My worth in terms of practical support?  It’s pretty low.  I can’t offer him much of anything from this far away – no hugs, no blowjobs, no meals, no silent company, no hopping-up-and-getting-everything-he-could-possibly-need all day long.  I suppose if he felt like moping and wallowing in his misery verbally, I could listen to him do it.  He’s just not QUITE that emo. So I’m sort of… useless.

Great feeling for a girl like me, lemme tell ya.

And… I know I’m not imagining it.  He’s told me why he’s acting and feeling the way he is, and he’s told me it has nothing to do with me – it’s just stuff he’s got to work through on his own. He’s confirmed that he’s spending less time and energy on me.  He’s confirmed that he’s withdrawn.   (He also said, and I quote, “You didn’t melt down and become a useless heap of goo, and I’m very proud of you for that.”  *beams*  Is anyone else amused that becoming a “useless heap of goo” is basically the standard reaction I would have if I felt him withdrawing extensively?  Codependent, anyone?  Whatever, he’s PROUD of me!  *glee!*)

Anyway… I know the only thing for me to do is just Suck It The Fuck Up, Buttercup.  Believe me, I AM AWARE.  And, according to him, I’m doing a pretty good job. So… That’s cool.

But, shockingly, that doesn’t remove my hurt feelings. 

So the point of this is that I’m sulky, I’m lonely, I’m being ignored. And I demand cheering up for you lot or… or… or… Oh, fuck it.  There is no “or else” I just enjoy appearing threatening.  Rawr.

This’ll be random.  Do excuse.  It’ll help me get to REAL stuff in a post tomorrow or the next day.

My surrogate brother, Patrick (the one in the Army) has been in the hospital with a bout of MRSA.  He first got in while being stationed in Arizona, and the military hospital there did a POOR job of treating it.  Strange, since I thought it was a big issue in places like the armed forces, college dorms, hospitals, etc. and they’d know how serious it is and how to deal with it.  In any case, he almost lost his leg because they waited two friggin’ weeks to start treatment.  They played the “draw a circle around it and wait” game for a LOOOOONG time.  This is his first “outbreak”  (er, something? I’m unclear on the terminology, sorry…) since then… And it just worries me.  They lanced and drained it (well, more like squished the crap out) and he’s being treated well this time.  But.. Still.  I worry.

I’m at work.  Lame.  I used to work Friday, Saturday, and Sunday overnights.  I decided I had taken too much ribbing and pleading and mocking from Patrick and Anne and Harrison about NEVER hanging out with them on weekends when Patrick is home on a pass, so I switched off my Saturdays and took Tuesday and Wednesday overnights instead.  I work four nights a week, for a total base of 37 hours.  This is a change from three nights a week and a base of 32 hours.  (Though both now and back then, I usually get pushed to 40 hours anyway from people wanting me to come in early or stay late.)  The thing that is SUCKY is that because I work overnights and each shift spills into two days, I am at work SEVEN days a week.  Monday morning, Tuesday night, Wednesday morning/night, Thursday morning, Friday night, Saturday morning, and Sunday night.  It makes me cranky to have work invade every single day of my life.

I made some kickass vegan pesto the other night, and made some kickass vegan cranberry nut bread (actually bread-like, not the cake-like cranberry bread).  Then, because my brother and father were wandering around like lost puppies tonight, I cooked them a kickass (or so I’m told – I didn’t try it) whole wheat pasta dish with pesto, olive oil, parmesan, artichoke hearts and fresh tomatoes. They grilled chicken too, and I didn’t even wrinkle my nose!  I’m such a sweetheart. 

Some girl texted my mother today trying to score weed.  It was hilarious. Then, apparently since she was REALLY hurting to get high, she called my mother. Wrong numbers are FUN.  I’m disappointed my mom didn’t mess with the girl though. 

I have lots of deeper slave-type and relationship-type stuff brewing in my head…  My life is just… Feeling a little weird and scary and I need a place to talk. But I think I need to take some time to get my head around everything before dumping it on you guys, my darling and unsuspecting blog readers.

In the meantime, enjoy these search terms that have brought people to my blog:

• fetlife incest  (I didn’t realize people there were THAT closeknit.)
• subtle slavegirl  (You look lost, pal.  You’re looking for this kickass blog.)
• top ten things a man wants from his wife capabilities  (If you figure those out, lemme know.)
• extreme cock cooking fantasy  (I think you’re getting a little jaded when you have to qualify “cock cooking” as “extreme” yanno?)
• which ethical theory is most natural? that is which theory requires th…  (I SO wish I could see the rest of that search…)
• dexter show morning routine symbolism (God that show rocks.)
• 0h   (Seriously?  A zero and an h brought you here?)
• yaz anorgasmia  (WebMD was probably your #1 search result.  WHY in the name of all things holy did you click on my blog – which must have been on page 90billion – instead?)
• scat play my child  (…)
• submissive over 50  (I swear I don’t look (or act) that old.  I even got carded to buy my brother cigarettes the other day.)
• who do i contact for a sex change and submissive slavery (Well, in short – definitely not me.)

Inspired by this post over at Love/Sex/Kink…

I thought I’d share too!  Yay iPhones! Yay texting!

Btw, the reason for him texting the OMG! stuff is purely to tease me.  He’s amused by the fact that I can (and typically do) FREAK OUT over anything.  The world is a giant crisis for me.  So he’s constantly teasing me about it.  He went to the doctor the other day and instead of saying, “I got some pills” he said, “They gave me mind-altering drugs!”  Just like that – exclamation point and everything.

*sigh*

I’m a dork and I fully deserve the teasing.   I’m aware.  Shush.

Just because this amused me… 

I showed this painting to Antonio the other day.

(It’s called “Daddy’s Girl” and it’s by Michael Hussar.  It’s my new favorite.)

I remarked how it was “utterly fucked up and erotic and creepy and awesome all at the same time.”  Because, I mean, it’s just unnervingly great and pleasantly disturbing.  Woo!

Anyway, know what he said?

“I dig the handlebars.”

Wow. 

Touché, Monsieur.  Touché.

I wanted to write this yesterday, but mid-morning I remembered I had something I had to do for Antonio, so that essentially wiped the rest of my day into nothingness. Well, not nothingness. Mostly pacing, violent but silent self-loathing, and rampant anxiety leading to a rushed, desperate completion of the loathed and terrifying task.

Needless to say, I didn’t get to write this post yesterday. I’d like to now, though.

…

Whenever anyone finds out I was in lower Manhattan during the attacks of September 11^th, I get a lot of “Wow, what was it like? What do you remember most?” questions.

Invariably, I think of those bumper stickers that say “We will never forget.” They always struck me as odd. Never forgetting is just different than remembering to me.

I remember.

So, what was my September 11th, 2001 like?

It was unremarkable in the fact that I didn’t lose anyone close to me.  But it remains one of the most important days in my life.

I was 18 years old.  I walked out of an 8:00am lecture at around 9:00am. It was the very beginning of my freshman year of college (or university, for you non-Americans!) I made it half a block before realizing something was very wrong.

You see, a city vibrates. It pulses. And there is a purpose to its humming, drumming buzz. Everyone and everything operates with direction and intent. And that makes the city throb in time to those purpose-driven lives. There is a strange harmony and a sense of progression in the city’s buzzing.

But that morning the city wasn’t vibrating as it normally did beneath my feet and in my chest… The city was crackling. Crackling with aimless, frantic static. It FELT different – in me, in the air, in the buildings.

When I turned the corner, I began to see why. The streets were clogged with thousands of people, similar yet warped versions of each other – each with a bent arm pressing a cell phone to one ear. Every last person was trying to talk to someone, anyone, everyone.

A girl – a stranger to me – with soft hair and hard eyes walked up to me and said, “There is a hole in the World Trade Center.”

It sounds so stupid now. A hole you say? Excuse me? But… That’s what she said.  I walked a couple blocks to Washington Square Park, to look downtown. And there was, in fact, a hole in the World Trade Center. Just like she said.

Huh.

I’ll be the first to admit I didn’t have any idea of the implications.  I stared for a minute, utterly dumbfounded.  Then I looked at the ground, begging the stupid neurons in my stupid brain to come up with something, anything to do. But nothing came except “Well… I’m due in another lecture!” So I went. To be honest, I don’t remember it. My mind was not there. It was in the park, waiting for me.

When I got back, I turned to look at the crippled towers again. But they weren’t crippled anymore. In fact, they weren’t there at all. In their place was debris, rising higher and higher into the air. The New York City skyline was hazy, like even it couldn’t believe the twin towers were gone, and it couldn’t form a crisp image of itself mutilated so badly.

Later, we watched the news. For hours. They got so much wrong. So much.

…

So, what do I remember most?

There were so many things: The girls, from a nearby dorm that had to be evacuated, camping on my floor that night… The streams of business men as they walked the length of Manhattan because they had no other way to get home… The armored tanks that escorted food to our dorm because we were below the 14^th Street blockade.

But the things that are sharpest for me are not all that sensational. They’re pretty simple acts, actually.

It’s just… It’s hard to get a REAL education in the definition of surreal.

And when I think about it, even though I have used the word plenty of times – only one truly surreal thing has ever happened to me. And it happened right at the south end of 5^th Avenue, on the afternoon of September 11^th, 2001.

A few friends and I went outside, and in the afternoon sunshine we walked up the center of 5^th Avenue. Arms spread, faces to the sky, eyes closed, soaking in the stillness blanketing our eerily slumbering city, the one that isn’t ever supposed to sleep.

I have never before, and never since, experienced that. There is no other way to describe it except as apocalyptic. It felt like the beginning of a zombie movie, to be quite honest. Everything you know is there, but utterly wrong. There are no people, no sounds, no cars, no taxis, no buses, no subway trains, no stores open – nothing.

THAT was surreal, and thinking about it still sends shivers up my spine.

Back at my dorm, it sunk in. And when the winds changed  the next day, blowing clouds of yellow-green haze uptown, I couldn’t even bear to look at my own fingers as I used them to close my windows to that horrific smell. And it sunk in. Watching men with guns line the streets, watching tanks roll down Broadway, it sunk in. Standing in line to leave a lecture weeks later, with the economy of lower Manhattan struggling, I received an envelope along with everyone else in my class. Our professor had “deputized” us to spend his money for him  – over $5,000 of his own cash was shelled out to his students with nothing more than a smile and a request that we spend it somewhere below 14^th St.  And it sunk in again…

It’s still sinking in.

I remember that day. Sure, I won’t forget it either – just like all the bumper stickers say.  But I remember it too.

…

I also remember that I am not without many strange and wonderful cosmic gifts. And that the very best one is tied up directly in the date September 11^th.

Because it is Antonio’s birthday.

And that helps me remember that no matter how dark and desperate something is, there is always a reason to say thank you. 

So… Thank you, universe.  Thank you for this day.  Thank you for every ounce of innocence and stability it stole from me eight years ago, and thank you for, years earlier, choosing that same day to gift to the world the man who would become my everything.

In looking at comments on my last post (and not having a clue where to jump in because I talk too much for any one reply) and the blog posts my last one engendered… Well, I’ve spent time digesting what everyone said, and thinking about how it applies to me.

First of all, thank you to everyone who shared.  No matter someone’s opinion, I get something out of it. And I’m grateful people who share their time, energy, and thoughts with me.  (And their stories, of course!  YIKES, subtle. YIKES.  And your story hit home, Amber.  My grandmother is in assisted living now, has been for a few months.  Her late husband, who died 24 years ago, has been brought up recently.  It’s gut-wrenching, but we lie to her about it now.  It’s the best thing we can do, for her.)

I’m reminded of my own ramblings on The Big Four. 

I’ve always said there are sexual practices that are not okay for me (at least in my head – we’re ignoring what’s okay in Antonio’s head for the moment just to simplify), but I don’t care if other people do them.  Like scat play.  HellznoDoNotWant.  But everyone else?  Enjoy your poop.  Really, really enjoy it.  That’s cool. (Warm?)

Then there were things I think are not okay for me, and they aren’t okay for anyone else either.  Pedophilia.  Bestiality.  Necrophilia.  And Incest.

I’m taking incest off the list, in light of all my recent musings.  The issues with pedophilia, bestiality, and necrophilia are the same.  In fact, they are basically a singular issue.  People should not have sex with a sentient (or once sentient) being if they cannot obtain consent.  You can’t obtain true consent to have sex with a child, an animal, or a corpse.  The law backs me on that.  So they are off limits.  For me, and for you too, dammit. 

Incest though?  Well, it’s still not right for me.   The legality varies by location.  And it’s got some potential biological and psychological pitfalls.  But… Just because I think it’s horrible for ME and I know it ends up badly for many others doesn’t mean it’s not perfect for someone else. 

I am not omniscient.  I don’t understand everything, and I’m not about to pretend I do. I’m open to the fact that just because I don’t understand incest doesn’t mean it can’t be fulfilling for someone else in different circumstances.

Same thing with all this honesty and truth stuff.

Swan is right, in that I grew up and hearing over and over how honesty is necessary.  How it will ruin a relationship if you are not totally honest.  For a long time, I bought it.  I FELT it was true, even.  I heard it, I preached it, I pointed out instances of me being “right” for believing.

But you know what?  I heard, preached, and pointed out the same sort of ideas about a man hitting a woman. 

I heard over and over that a “good” man will NEVER do it, no matter what.  That even if a woman likes it or thinks she deserves it  – that’s clearly a psychological issue, she is damaged, and a “good” man would never take advantage of her compromised mental state!  He’d get her help so she didn’t “want” to be hit anymore!   And that if a man does hit a woman, she might be able to convince herself she wanted it… Or, if she can’t do that, then perhaps she can forgive him, but once he does it once, he will do it again.  It will escalate.  It will corrode and ruin a relationship. A “good” man won’t hit a women.  Ever ever ever.

But I think a lot of us are perfect examples of how that idea, that social construct that people DO hold, is utter bullshit.  No?

A  lot of people don’t understand it and don’t understand us. And some people feel PASSIONATELY that not only is a man hitting a woman not okay in their relationship, it is also not okay in other relationships.  They think we are “wrong” and they are “right.”  A lot of people think we are sick, or in need of saving, or suffering some psychological impairment that needs fixing.  We are making some “sick choice” and are stuck with a “bad man.” They think all the hitting, spanking, slapping, whipping (whatever the case may be) is damaging, and bad, even if we say it isn’t.  They firmly believe they are lucky to be so clear-headed, lucky that they would never tolerate that behavior from a man, and that those of us who do allow it are Fucked. The. Hell. Up.

But it doesn’t make them right, does it?  I don’t think so.

I understand their passion, however. I feel it for many things.  I feel it when it comes to forms of sexual and marital equality.  I feel it when it comes to the slaughter of innocent, sentient beings for human consumption.  I feel it when it comes to abortion rights, and the logic behind them. But as strongly as I feel about those things, I MUST ground myself in the reality that I am NOT a voice of moral or legal authority.  I can share my views, how they work in my life, and how they benefit me and my conscience.  But things only get dangerous when I start thinking I am morally superior.  I try not to do that.  I sometimes fail, as with the incest thing, but… I’m TRYING.

Anyway… Back on track.

Sara has shared with us her view on honesty in her relationship – which is exactly what I asked for, and was glad to receive.  I don’t think she was aiming for a “you’re doin’ it wrong” statement.  I might be wrong, but… I don’t think so. 

Her relationship works and works well – for MANY reasons, I believe.  And one of those reasons is an attempt (and from what she has told us, a successful one) to place honesty and transparency near the top of the list for both her and her husband. For, as I see it, Grant has to answer to the call of honesty, and Sara would not accept it if he didn’t.  (I’m wrong there, let me know?)

That honesty stipulation in their relationship is one found in many.  It’s not one that is always (or even often) upheld in the many relationships that have it as a requirement.  And for the people who have that stipulation in their relationship, and depend on it being met to fulfill their trust requirements, it is DEVASTATING to be lied to.  I understand that, and I think Grant and Sara – who do have that stipulation in their relationship – have done an amazing thing in upholding that by being honest with one another. 

I imagine everyone has a list of things their relationship “depends” upon. I imagine some common ones are honesty stipulations, fidelity stipulations, non-violence stipulations, etc.  Meeting them is admirable, and it can require a lot of work. I respect the passion Sara has for the honesty aspect of her relationship, and how important it is to the success of her relationship, and Grant and Sara’s relationship on the whole.  It is a long one, not without its trials and suffering, and they have remained together, strong and united and in tune with each other.  That’s a wonderful, inspiring thing.  It’s something I hope for in my relationship.

I don’t think I’ll get there the same way Sara has – but I think that’s okay!

The thing I think that’s NOT okay is best summed up in pretty’s comment that “honesty does make for a better and stronger bond.”  The thing that is missing there is the “for ME.” Because that sort of declaration, while backed by loads of social reinforcement, millions of people chanting the tropes with the same message, etc.. It’s the same as the idea that “a good man will never hit a woman.”  It’s NOT a universal reality, not matter how badly someone wants to judge it as such.

Sure, you’ll get a lot of people who will agree with you.  Sure, there are even psychological studies done on women who get hit.  Sure, you may feel passion about that and think the fact that it’s right in your relationship means it’s right in everyone’s…

But all of that simply doesn’t make it so.

I guess what I’m doing with all this musing is figuring out why this instance of dishonesty affected me the way it did.  And also asking myself WHY I have to sit down and figure out my reaction in the first place!

Because my reaction did not mirror what I presumed my reaction to be, or even what my reaction would have been a year, two years ago… It was not the reaction I was programmed to have based on years of social conditioning.

I guess that’s why I had to sit down in the first place.  I was so bogged down in social imprinting, I couldn’t understand my own reaction.

And why do I feel the way I do about honesty and trust? 

Well… In  this relationship, my trust in him is not based on his transparency or total honesty.  I trust him enough to choose what I need to know, and when I need to know it.  I trust that he will not hide anything that will compromise my safety, not hide anything out of convenience to him that could harm or embarrass me to the point where I developed fears and I hesitated to follow his lead, etc.  Just as with hitting me, humiliating me, forcing me to do certain things – he is in fact the ONLY person I trust to do those things to me, the only person I feel safe with doing those things, the only person who loves me enough to not harm me (though he will quite possibly hurt me *grins*), even with that WIDE range of things he can do.  I trust him more than I have anyone else specifically because I DON’T have to set those “You’re in control, except…” boundaries on him and he still makes us both grow – happy, safe, fulfilled, excited, and he keeps us moving forward.  So, for me… My trust is not  grounded in his total honesty.

It seems like an odd concept, doesn’t it? 

It even sounds odd to me, given what I have grown up hearing and believing to be “true” about honesty and trust and their relationship.

But I don’t think it’s odder than saying you can be safe with a man who hits you.  I say that. I know a lot of you say that too.  It’s TRUE for us!   And it’s even true when I drag my feet or cry or feel I don’t WANT to be hit – I am still 100% SAFE with him…  But many people would scowl, disagree, think we’re out of our minds, in need of help. Many people would decide we are “wrong” no matter what we say, or what evidence we present.

It would be disappointing, I think, if people did the same thing to me for saying any of the following:

• I can be safe with a man who hits me.
• I can love a man who humiliates me.
• I can trust a man who is dishonest with me.

Etc.

If you don’t feel safe with a man who hits you… I am on your side.  Get away from that man! If your relationship depends on non-violence?  Of course if won’t work if someone won’t meet that need.  Same with honesty.  If you need an honest partner?  Go for it!  Get it!  And don’t settle for less! 

But this is me.  This is my relationship, often roaming outside the boundaries of societal precepts.  I’m happy, I’m whole.  And I wouldn’t want it any other way. 

And thank you, again, to everyone who shared their thoughts with me.  That’s what I love about this blog, and its readers.   I’ve learned a lot about myself just by being able to talk it through.

I’ve had a hell of a time posting anything with substance here.  (I don’t know why I’m bothering to telling you all that – it’s pretty obvious from the state of my blog.)

It doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking, A LOT.  I have.  But my thoughts are contorted, and… Well, I have to be honest, I usually like to have my end of the conversation pretty solid before I go posting it in my blog.  I don’t often post without thinking things through.

Thing is, I can’t find a way to make SENSE here at the moment.

I guess I’ll start with my musings on Truths, Trust and Honesty.  I used to think they were interconnected on this 1:1:1 sort of ratio.  And perhaps they still are connected, but definitely not to the degree I previously thought.

Trust is just… A feeling.  I trust Antonio.  As a human, as my Man.  I trust him.

However, there are people who look at me a little funny when I say that, in light of a recent discovery.  He told me he lied about something.  What that thing is remains unimportant, for this discussion.  It might be something I talk about later, but to me it is no big deal.  It’s not like an “Oh by the way, I’m still legally married to some woman I never see, because I killed her and buried her in the backyard but no one knows so technically they think she is still alive – I mean, I cash her welfare checks and everything – I’m clever that way, but don’t tell anyone because if the police ever showed up they’d find the chick I kidnapped and crammed in my basement and have fathered six children with.  Thaaaaaanks, cunt.”

I admit I’d have a cow if that were the situation.   I’d probably pack my bags, and then decide at the last minute I would rather just go live in the basement with kidnapped-chick than deal with the reality.  In any case, you’d never hear from me again.

(ADD Side Note:  Speaking of basements (whatever, just pretend it’s related), I’m SUPER glad Kaya is back because now I can go perv on her blogging about SpankFest and mutter to myself “Next year.  I want to go NEXT YEAR so bad, omg!  I WILL GO NEXT YEAR!!!)

*ahem*

So Antonio lied to me about something.  And I’ve told a few friends in real life what it was.  I’ve gotten mostly the same reaction.  It goes like this:  “Oh my God!  REALLY?  Oh my God! *brief period to get over squealing from teh drama* Well.  You’re happy, right?  (Yes, very.) You love him, right? (Without question.)  Then whatever, dude.  It’s not like it matters. And work sucks and I’m going to go insane, we should totally be allowed to drink heavily at work.  (I agree, on all counts.)”

So it’s left me WONDERING.  How much does honesty have to do with truths and trust?

I have these intricately woven threads of trust, that stretch between me and Antonio.  They started out weak, tentative, strings.  They grew, they multiplied, they strengthened, they buried their ends – their roots – deeper inside of me and him as time went on.

And I guess I think a display of honesty can run it’s fine fingers along the thread and check for fraying, for weakness, and make repairs.  A display of dishonesty plucks the thread, like a guitar string.  Sometimes, it makes the string vibrate uncomfortably, and I feel it in my core.  Sometimes it elicits a noise that stings my ear.  But I know a hard enough yank would snap the string.

My trust can remain secure, unbroken, even in the face of certain dishonesty.  There is a whole spectrum of dishonesty, and whether or not it matters just depends on how hard it plucks at my threads of trust.

1. He says he’s going to come in my mouth one night, and doesn’t?  It’s not exactly OMG THE END.
2. He says, “I didn’t want to tell you until I knew all the details, because I know how you react, but my father is in the hospital – he had a heart attack.”  Also not OMG THE END.  Sure, I was a little upset with myself, that he felt he couldn’t tell me at first because my reaction might make things harder on him.  But I wasn’t upset with HIM for hiding it from me.
3. He gets a minor injury at work and doesn’t tell me, even though I’ve told him I want to know if he gets hurt?  I might pout, but it’s not OMG THE END.
4. He tells me he is secretly gay, that he kills homeless people on weekends, enjoys raping family members, and runs a sex trafficking ring?  Well… Yanno.  That might just be OMG THE END.  If a massive heart attack followed by hospitalization for a complete mental breakdown can count as “the end.”

(P.S. – In case I was unclear, the first three happened.  Last one, not so much.)

Anyway, finding out the truth behind the lie in question… It didn’t break my trust.  I felt it, I heard that string sing… But it was a momentary disruption.  I had one friend who said, “But if he lied about something for THAT LONG, who knows what else he is lying about!”

I understand that concern.  It can be a real one.  But I’m positive it’s not in this situation. I could try to explain to her why, but I’ve held off and just told her, “I get that concern and why you are concerned.  But I’m not.  I’m not worried.”  She’s struggling right now, relationship wise – to the point of frustration and tears and the belief that she will settle with someone she doesn’t love and that ALL her friends will be happy.  And as much as I love her, I know misery loves company.  So I’m just not playing that game.

I do wonder, however, if things would have felt different if I had “caught” him in the lie.  I didn’t.  He just told me.  He had no reason to tell me, other than to clear the slate.  But, I wonder… Would it have been different if I had figured it out?  Maybe.

I also wonder – and maybe some of you can answer me:  What sort of dishonest would break YOUR trust?  Is it confined to certain activities?  Is it a matter of repetitious lying?  Is is just something you’d FEEL but you can’t define?

I admit, I find it hard to believe that there is “instant honesty” in every moment of every relationship.  I think there are delays in honesty, I think there are cover-ups, however temporary and for whatever cause – a surprise party, for instance… Or maybe wanting to “wait until he gets home” to tell him something.

Does that count as lying?   Or is it about the liar’s intent, no matter how “big” the lie?  Is there something universal, or is it just a set of personal definitions you have crafted in a relationship over time?

Also, how much does your relationship dynamic play a role in your definitions of lying and how they affect trust?  Does your Master have a right to lie about anything he wants, and is that right something you’ve talked about, or is it just assumed?  (I’m not asking if he WOULD lie, btw, or if that would make him a “good” Master or “bad” one – I’m not headed for that debate right now.  I’m just asking IF it’s understood in your relationship that it’s within his Masterly omnipotence to lie whenever he wants, about whatever he wants, or if it’s not.)

The whole thing just fascinates me.

I remember once trying to explain lying to a precocious child I nannied.  She had grabbed a cooking spoon and had brandished it at me.  She grinned and said “C’mere. I want to cook your face!” I bent over, curled my fingers and said “I’ll EAT YOU UP!” (you know, like in Where the Wild Things Are.)  She giggled and made to run for it.  But then she came back and said, “We LIED, Chloe!  We lie ALL the time!”  She was right.  We’d both opened our mouths and let words pour out that were not true.  And we did it all the time. Then she wanted to know if that was naughty of us.  I did my best to explain personal gain, intent, harm, and all that.

But I realize I’m still unsure about the nature of lying as a concrete concept.  It seems so fluid… Every case is unique… Yet I know I make universal judgments about it.  Bleh.

Anyway… That’s enough talking about general things.  It’s high time I start talking about the best person in the universe – MYSELF – again.  *flips hair*

After Antonio told me the truth he said….

“You have every right to be mad.”

I… I have…  Every…  Every “right” to…  LOLWHAT?

I’m sitting there pondering…  Since when do I have a right to be ANYTHING? Well, I guess since he told me I do.   But still.  Odd.

I suppose when I think about it, I’ve always operated under the impression I have every “right” to have every emotion, I just don’t have the right to model my actions accordingly, or to express them whenever I feel like it.  Antonio may be my God, but he’s not under the impression he can stop me from feeling anything and everything he so chooses, on a whim.   It’s less a “right” he gives me than it is a biological right.  It’s sort of like if he told me “You have every right to feel shitty before your period.”  Well, yes, biologically, I sure do, but not because you say so.  Because my hormones make it so.  I just can’t ACT on it.  That’s where my “right” to feel shitty ends.

But he’s never really told me anything like that before – that I have every right to be mad.  I told to him, as I would have done anyway, how it made me feel that he lied… But that phrase was still bugging me.  I have every “right” to be mad…

In trying to figure out WHAT the hell he meant by that, if he just meant I was allowed to express my anger, or something totally odd like that I was allowed to hold it against him, was allowed to make him pay for it, etc., I realized something.

Through the whole thing – through telling me the truth, explaining how it came about, and why it took so long for him to tell me – there was something he didn’t do.  Didn’t even come CLOSE to doing, in fact.

He never apologized.

And for some reason, that’s what grounded me and made me feel okay.  He explained why it happened, how it came about, then he listened to my feelings and invited me to talk about it and take my time to organize my thoughts if I wanted to.  But he never asked me to forgive him and he never apologized for lying.

I know some people might look at that (or him) poorly or think I’m insane (you know, for a change). And I will do a lousy job of explaining why it made me HAPPY.  But… Still.

It DID make me happy.  Because even when it comes to something like this – like admitting to a lie or a fault or anything – he does it well, with class and confidence, and he does it from a dominant position.  He accepts responsibility and places blame on no one but himself, he offers explanations without trying to make them sound like excuses, he lets me talk and ask questions and ponder and joke around and re-ask the same questions over and over, and he responds – on his own time, of course.  But he never puts himself in a submissive position, even one so “natural” for humans, such as asking someone for forgiveness by apologizing.  If he felt bad about it?  He’d said “I feel bad.”  But it seems he’s not about to apologize.

And if that just isn’t the coolest damn thing on Earth…