13 years under our belts, together

Today marks our anniversary.

Tomorrow we start in on year fourteen, a simple fact I find stunning.

We came together at a point of time and space that feels almost unimaginable by any measure of 'the broader community' today.

It was a magical night, a space with an undertone of deep humour and whimsy to it, and our coming together was borne of trust and an odd form of being "vouched for" by a friend dear to both of us.

Both of us had traveled to be there, open to possibilities, yet unaware of what we ultimately found until we were both tumbling headlong into it. From that night forward, my life changed in ways I never could have imagined at the time.

There are elements of that time and space I truly wish were possible to recapture. At the same time, having now been Sir's so long, through so much, in so many places, I can only say despite the changes surrounding us, I am still, so very honoured to be here now.

In some ways I feel we're hitting our stride, stronger than ever. There is a certain sense of clarity.

As always, I can but thank Sir for this, my life.

So long Bettie Page. So long, and thanks for the memories.

Like most of the rest of the world, for me it was the photographs first. Long before I knew anything about Bettie Page the person, I knew the curl of her lip, the intense look in her eyes, the dark hair, high heels and the stockings, gloves and corsets (oh my!)

Images of Bettie like the one here to the left still to this very day, hold the power to take my breath away.

I'm not going to attempt to tell her story here, most of you already either knew it, or have spent the past day or so getting acquainted with the realities of her life.

Her life beyond the photography studios and outdoor sets took her to people and places and parts of the world far from those idealized moments captured in the images.

So in writing this, I begin how it began for me, with the images themselves and the now long lost world they came from.

Her passing is an occasion to contemplate the vast changes that have taken place in the world of fetish and BDSM in relation to communications and community.

Bettie became the icon she was due to the growth of the camera clubs and Irving Klaw's mailing list of then deeply closeted (purely for day to day survival purposes) clients. She was for all intents and purposes the first bondage supermodel to what was not so much a "community," as a matter of individuals secretly purchasing the images.

The photographs and films she starred in were not so much depictions of her own sexuality, rather they were often based upon requests from those purchasing the materials.

For me, (like many of her fans,) it was always about a certain look in her eye. Be that playing the confident, playful, or sultry Mistress, or the looks of concern or even fear at impending suffering that might lie ahead of her, depicted as the helpless beauty usually whist held captive in some form of bondage.

Her acting classes aside, the photographs capture the feeling of some of the most rare moments that Kinky people treasure; looks of apprehension and loss of control, becoming a canvas to an artist, both needing and fearing what comes next.

Or the slight smile at the corners of one's owner's mouth as she prepares to correct or discipline a girl who is clearly in need of it.

Being S/switch, I've both worn and known each of those looks myself.

I've seen similar on the faces of those I've loved.

Most of all though, I understand Bettie's frequent expressions of playfulness or triumph or of sheer joy.

We catch glimpses of these, from time to time, sometimes on the faces of others, sometimes on the faces of those we love.

We know what those moments feel like.

Perhaps that was the secret of why Bettie connected with her audience in the ways in which she did.

Yes, she was beautiful, that was clear from the start. Beautiful in an iconic idealized, unattainable way when it came to real life for most. But we could recognize in those photographs moments that we ourselves had either cherished (for those so fortunate as to actually have lived such out,) or for those at the time, much more likely merely fantasized about.

Looking through the images today, one of the more interesting aspects of them is how contemporary the tools appear. So many of the same sorts of fetish items and tools were in use back then as well; laced up hobble skirts, arm-binders, hoods, leather corsets, furs, extreme heels and thigh high boots, metal fetters and shackles, chains, and clips, spreader bars, harnesses, leather gags and blindfolds, and of course, the ever present seductive lingerie.

Plenty of everyday household items make appearances as tools as well, plenty of rope and hairbrush spankings.

Another thing I find very striking about the images is that Bettie Page taught the world that yes, real Femmes can wield whips.

In a day and age where gender roles are so frequently broken down into Butch or Masculine being equated to "Dominant", and Femme or Feminine as equated to "submissive", it's remarkably refreshing to see images of a no-doubt-about-it Femme fatale not in the roles of "Service top" to a man, but as an active Mistress in her own right, secure in her own oh so Femme skin.

Which happily brings us to the obvious. Many of these were portrayals of womyn playing with other womyn- unapologetically so. While such clearly had much to do with the inner fantasy life of the (male) clientele, the interactions still portrayed possibilities.

For Queers such as myself, who discovered Bettie during her 'cult following' resurgence, these were some of the few images of womyn training, controlling, and "correcting" one another we had available to us that provided a sense of ourselves as having a form of a pre-existing historical yet fully modern context.

"Coming to Power" was first published in 1981, but by and large any form of organized Leather was in many ways still a male domain. Straightforward images of womyn "doing THINGS" to one another along these lines while certainly practiced, had very little imagery as fodder for fantasy.

You can only imagine my happiness at having discovered images of Bettie on her knees 'in service' as a Lady's maid, or of her lovingly domineering a bound and gagged female victim.

While these may have been images created for men, certainly the Lady's maid imagery implies a fantasy relationship wherein for even just a snapshot, the world narrows down to just these two womyn, a shared intimate moment, and a smile.

These images were important, not only to me, to other kinky and Leather womyn as well. They were more than fantasy material.

For S/switch womyn they held double meaning, did we want to submit to her or feel powerful and beautiful like her when we are in control. Did we empathize with her as the bound beauty or did we long to be with, and a possess a womyn like Bettie ourselves?

These were images that related to how we envisioned structuring our relationships, not of an occasional hot date on a Saturday night.

They had to do with both womyn we dreamed of sharing our lives with and at the same time, our own self images as womyn of Leather.

Unfortunately, unlike the fantasy world of the images themselves, and the aspects of womyn's sexualities portrayed in them, Bettie's own life experiences beyond the lens had a very great deal of sadness to it.

Her "real world" actions and religiosity cast a dark cloud over the photographs which had been at the time so important to me.

In the late 50's she underwent a religious conversion experience that ultimately aligned her with the very people who sought to stamp out the very things she herself had participated in. This led to a self imposed closeting, and later life fraught with contradictions.

(For more detail on some of the following see Chapter 10 of "The Real Betty Page" by Richard Foster. The book is well, the book, but this particular chapter does give an account, with many of the names and dates being useful.)

On New Year's eve 1958, she attended a service of what has now become the Key West Baptist Temple (At the time it was the "Latin American Baptist Temple." The preacher that night was Morris, or M.O. Wright. He had gotten his start in the jesus business after killing a man in a fatal car wreck. He was sentenced to a year in jail. While there, he got religion, and got his start by preaching at cellmates. )

Having been born in Nashville, Tennessee in 1923, and lived in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, Betty found herself attracted to the interracial service.

Keep in mind this was America in 1958. The Civil Rights movement was in many ways in its early years. 1958 was after the Montgomery bus boycott and Little Rock, when President Eisenhower had called up the paratroopers to escort the nine black students to Central High, but well before the Freedom Riders, James Meredith, Medgar Evers, the Civil Rights Act of 1964, the Voting Rights Act, the King assassination, etc.

She went on to be described as having had a "born-again" experience when she returned to the church and participated in the altar call the following week. (Not terribly long thereafter, in 1959, the English speaking growing portion of the congregation under Wright would go on to break away from the pre-existing Cuban and Spanish speaking congregation.)

When Bettie arrived at the Latin American Baptist Temple that night it was after an argument with her then husband, Armond Walterson, one of many such arguments, that ultimately led to the end of her marriage.

A series of misfortunes had struck her in the year before, from enduring a back injury that had left her in a wheelchair for four months to financial woes that led to her being evicted from her New Jersey storage space, the owner selling all her possessions including her modeling portfolio.

In a very real sense, she had come to a place of her past being gone, and her marriage being in a very real sense over. That night as she walked down White Street, she was at a moment of openness and vulnerability.

Evangelists often prey upon those who have as they like to put it, "come to the end of themselves." And Bettie was no exception.

Though she didn't speak about her past, she was incorporated into the religious infrastructure just as many "trophy converts" are. Wright counts the infamous Betty Page among his converts.

She worked full time for the Billy Graham organization, and while at Multnomah, one of several bible school programs she was involved with, (BIOLA, the Bible Institute of Los Angles, Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, Multnomah School of the Bible, in Portland Oregon, and a christian retreat called "Bibletown" put on by the Boca Raton Community Church in Florida,) she volunteered at "The Louise Home" (a nonsectarian missionary proposition focused upon "unwed mothers".)

Also while at Multnomah she wanted to go to Africa as a missionary, but the Multnomah Mission board disqualified her for having divorced. She went on to briefly remarry her first husband, Billy Neal, which did lead to her being able to do missionary work, but that marriage was but one of her many that ended in divorce.

So why go into all this?

Well, I too have spent some long dark nights in Key West wandering down White Street towards the shore. Fortunately though, her story is most definitely not my story.

The Baptist Temple is out on Stock Island now, but it's still the local damnation awaits YOU "problem child."

They are, in short, the resident bat-shit homophobic church.

Wright can be counted onto make comments the likes of, for example, him having decided Key West's annual Halloween festival, Fantasy Fest, is "a revial of demonism and Babylonianism" and brings down the wrath of god upon Key West.

I'm not saying that Betty herself was anti-gay, merely that the preacher and church that she turned to based on her impression of its inclusiveness that was such an instrumental aspect of her conversion process, has gone on to be known for being anything but.

Betty did not talk about her former modeling career and the "naughty pictures" in her past, but clearly, if her newfound "friends" would reject her for having divorced, you can imagine what they would have thought of her had they known the full story at the time.

She embraced an identity that precluded her own history. Her quest for acceptance, while not invalidating her earlier life in any way, led to it being buried and lost to everyone except those few who perhaps having kept the pictures of the jet-haired beauty keeping memory itself alive.

A number of Bettie's later years were spent in mental hospitals under state supervision. She was finally released in 1992.

In one of the better summations of her life I've seen since her death, Peter Tupper on Beauty in Darkness: the history of BDSM described her as a "cipher," going on to explain:

"Maybe it's because she dropped out of public view before the sexual revolution really got going, and issues of sexual expression became politicized. She was an icon to a revolution that she didn't really participate in. A sex object without sexual politics, never a speaking subject."

(Although as I'll mention below Bettie herself came to be a key example of politicized sexual expression due to the Congressional hearings.)

In the end, I don't know whether or not she ever understood how much she meant to the men who hid and kept her pictures, let alone the Queer womyn who later saw in them important reflections of our sexuality, self images, and desires.

The sexual abuse and poverty she endured may have made it difficult for her to look back on parts of her modeling days.

But certainly in recent years, she has been celebrated and as new generations have found her, they too have seen in those early pictures images of beauty, or strength, of power, and a womyn not ashamed of either her actions and interactions with other womyn, nor of her body.

Klaw and thereby Bettie were subjects of the notorious Kefauver Hearings (of the United States Senate Subcommittee on Juvenile Delinquency.) She was called before Congress to explain the photographs but in the end was excused from testifying. Many of the negatives of the original prints were destroyed by court order.

Those that survived, survived by acts of both defiance and love.

They survived long enough for me to see myself, and the womyn I've loved in them. Long enough to provide a role model of sorts in today's kink community, that of a strong womyn of both whips and lace, a womyn whose otherwise invisible sexuality is outside of state sanction, and in relation to other womyn.

The images helped some of us see some of our desires reflected in an external culture, enacted by someone who despite her conversion experience did not feel regret over them

To quote Bettie herself, commenting on her pin-up career in a 1988 Playboy interview:

"I never thought it was shameful. I felt normal."

In feeling "normal" before the cameras, she helped some of us feel a bit more "normal" as well.

When I look at her bondage pictures now, I take them at face value, as what they were at the time. Beyond a girl earning a living, they represent a moment in time, when the " Leather community" had more to do with a bunch of gay fellas riding motorcycles who had been home from WWII for a few years.

Finding such images as close as a web search to those who lived in that climate, is an undeniable quantifiable change, (and in many ways, simply beyond comprehension.)

These were "dangerous" images that came close to being destroyed forever. Those who would if they could are still with us, many of them wearing crosses around their necks.

While remembering the history, I try to look past those whose bigotry nearly led to the destruction of these images and Bettie's own embrace of Wright, hiding her past lest she no longer be considered part of the fold, and instead, look to all that I first saw in those images.

So so long, and thanks for the memories.

Nothing can negate those.


(With special thanks to "It's just Jack"'s Bettie Page flickr photo collection and Queen of Pinups- Bettie Page)

Collars of leather and a 'collar' of metal

Earlier this month, on the fifth, we celebrated our two year anniversary of Sir having placed his metal 'collar' of sorts on me. I've worn his titanium band about my right wrist for all but one afternoon of the last two years.

I've written about the band and its significance to us before, but looking back over my earlier writings here, I realize I've never written about Sir collaring me in the first place.

For some people a 'collaring' becomes a ritual, almost akin to a wedding, complete with a ceremony, and members of their community as witnesses, etc. For us, it was a very private act.

Before we had gotten together Sir had done a work related trip to San Francisco. Over the course of his time there he made a trip to Mr. S. where he purchased some tools, including cuffs and a simple leather collar. As he describes it, on the feeling that he might be needing them eventually. On that same trip he also explored other parts of the CA coastline that years later he would bring me back to.

Going to those places together, years after his trip, showing me those places special to him was very important for us. They were places he enjoyed and thought of sharing with a partner long before we came together. To finally go there with him, and see them through his eyes, was a way of getting to know him and draw closer to him.

He did not put the collar upon me the night he first whipped me, nor did he place it around my neck soon thereafter when he came out to me and we first disappeared into a hotel suite together.

It was later, after I had come home with him and stayed at his apartment for almost an unexpected month long visit. I spent my days being his, lying across his black leather couch reading books and wearing his cuffs, waiting for him to return, or dressing and going out for walks around a nearby lake. In the evenings sometimes we would go out, other times, we spent quiet evenings home, realizing slowly how well we fit together how comfortable it was being together. How we could share a small space together yet not be in one another's way.

In love and in gratitude, I did small things, making the bed, tidying the apartment, washing dishes, and most of all, learning the small ways in which I found myself his. It was a time of massive changes in both our lives, yet somehow we had found one another.

Near the end of the month, not long before I was to return to my home, an otherwise ordinary evening changed everything for us. We had decided to eat in, Sir had cooked, which was not unusual for him. As we sat down to dinner we ended up having a discussion that amounted to (to vastly oversimplify) essentially a variation on 'eat your veggies.' Particular veggies I was certainly no fan of, and had an unfortunate 'history' with in childhood, but by the end of the meal he had convinced me to reluctantly nibble.

Ordinary as such may seem, after dinner, I found myself crying, not in that he had done something I didn't want him to, but in that I realized he was at times better for me, than I was to myself. Writing it, I suppose it sounds silly, but I had come to the realization that he was very good for me.

Being Queer, finding such in Sir, particularly so soon after the relationship with my wife ended, was in many ways very confusing. At times it all felt too soon, even as it felt so right. I was very guarded, afraid of throwing myself into someone new as some form of coping mechanism to deal with my sorrow and my loss.

Yet that month together showed me that this was more than merely a matter of grasping at someone, it somehow genuinely worked, and was growing into a relationship in its own right even as I at times hesitated, and perhaps most of all, I came to understand how much Sir genuinely cared about me and my own well being.

In that time together I had come to call him Sir, even as he felt odd about it. He had never envisioned himself as a "Sir" and did not know what to make of me calling him such. I, on the other hand, recognized almost from the beginning what he was, and what he was in relation to me. Nor did we say "I love you" back then. It took a long time before we came to that point.

But that particular evening, after I came to realize that yes, he cared deeply for me and my wellfare was when we came through to collaring me. I would be leaving soon, and no doubt the impending separation had some to do with it, but we had come to the strange realization that somehow we 'worked' together.

I laid across the bed in his bedroom and he asked me if the collar was what I wanted, if I would choose to be his? I thought for a long minute. We were less than 2 1/2 months into the relationship, it was less than a year since I had been in my previous relationship, in some ways it all felt so soon, and yet, it felt right.

I looked him in the eye and gave my assent. He placed the stiff new leather collar, a simple black band with two D rings, one at the front, and the other at the back that fit through a notch made for it around my neck. He unlocked a small padlock, slid it through the back back ring, locking the collar firmly around my throat. I slept beside him that night with his collar around my neck.

It was between the two of us, a private thing. There was no explicit detailing of what all being his would entail, to this day I think we're both still learning. But it was an absolute commitment for both of us, and I've always felt honoured to wear his collar.

The lack of 'spelling it all out' has at times been difficult, particularly for me. But whatever the hardships have been along the way, I'm still his.

After ten years together, we came to a point where it was rare for him to place the now well worn and cared for leather collar around my neck.

It can also be awkward at times. Being S/switch, it can be difficult for me to clearly signal my orientation while wearing a collar. There are times when wearing such is fully appropriate, but others when it can create confusion, not for us, but for those unfamiliar with our dynamic.

So to mark those ten years, and by way of putting a 'more permanent' collar or sorts on me, over the final Ohio Leather Fest Sir happened across the appropriate token, the locking band of titanium I now wear about my wrist. Rings on tapering fingers are removed easily by comparison. The hinged bracelet must be unlocked to be removed. I consider it a stronger commitment than a wedding ring.

Now I've worn the metal band for two years. Sir holds the key. I have an 'emergencies only' key for my own safety for when he is not present. In all, I've worn forms of his collar for close to 12 years now.

On our last trip through San Francisco, we stopped by Mr. S. and found a slightly more elaborate leather collar with a locking hasp that eventually we will have occasion for. As of yet, it waits, still unworn, for that day.

As some of you have no doubt noticed by now I often find myself writing about anniversaries and how long Sir and I have been together. I often mark the passing of time, be it the seasons, or the dates that matter only to Sir and I. Likely, it has much to do with how new all of this still is to me. I've never been in a relationship that lasted a decade before.

I sometimes see workshop presenters bios in which they remark upon having been 'in the scene' for five years or such. I can't help but feel not only the length of time I've been at this (I sometimes feel like such a dinosaur!) but also the time that Sir and I have been at this together.

Don't get me wrong, I still 'buck' plenty, and doubt, and question, and feel downright exasperated at times with some of the lack of focus or definition, but I can't imagine my life without him, and without being his. I never take that light band of metal around my wrist for granted.

Marking the anniversaries is but one way of saying I'm still aware of how special, how amazing, and how new this all is to me.

Thank you, Sir.

So Slitherings is now 1

Today is Slitherings' first blogiversary!

Yup, a whole year of sexblogging- who'd thunk? Not that I post all that often, just that it's been a year since I started on this little pet project.

So what's it all mean? Why do this?

Well, the short answer is living in a broader culture that still views so much of what I do as pathological, asserting one's own ability to self define and actually communicate with others who are likewise so often stigmatized holds value.

The ability to eeek out corners of space to assert that there is value to these aspects of my life, and actually let others see such in that process may just help them eeek out a little more space of their own to assert their own ability to be fully who they are.

I know through my time spent reading other bloggers that these acts of claiming space to speak our truths about our real lives can be a useful tool, helping others, often without even realizing they've done so. Other times we interact, bloggers and readers, and we learn from one another about the ways we each carve out our own ways of being.

Slitherings is one of many ways I claim just a little space to say that yes, womyn like me do exist. Relationships such as mine do exist.

These forms of womyn's sexuality, often so difficult to find first person voice about, most assuredly are alive and well, if you know where to look.

I recently stumbled across a quote that bears repeating,

“History that is not preserved is history that never happened.”

For that reason alone, I write.

So Happy Birthday little Slitherings, and thanks to the friends I've met along the way so far.

Most of all though, thanks to my Sir, who not only lives it all alongside me, but has also allowed me to divulge these details about him as well. I would not be able to tell my own story without exposing these aspects of both our lives, and so I'm grateful that he has been willing to set aside some of his own privacy, despite being otherwise a very private person, that I might speak these truths about my here and now.

While I at times grow shy and quiet when I find he's read these posts (quite out of character for me,) I think we both find important conversations sometimes come in the aftermath of such.

I do not view my writing here as any kind of present to my Sir, though. This blogging is more about my own process.

In the upcoming year, I'll see what I can do about posting here a bit more often.

'Til then, though spanking is definitely not my kink, I think I'm off to see about a Slitherings birthday swat.

After all, I can count to one.

It's about quality, not quantity- right?

On the importance of 'just being there'

This may seem a very pedestrian topic for a kink-blog entry, but sometimes it's the little things that are so often overlooked that matter so.

If I were asked for a list of 'duties' I perform, tasks or chores pertinent to my status as "property" I'd have to sit you down and explain at length how it's more complicated than that.

While I am in some ways submissive (and other ways, NOT), you would hardly mistake me for a 'service submissive'. That's just not the way we structure our (Leather) household. There are chores I tend to gravitate towards, and other chores Sir for the most part has staked out as what he does. There are also ongoing bits of the household that sometimes I do, sometimes he does, it's more dependent upon who happens to get sick of looking at it, and has the spare time to do something about it first.

I know, I know! Heresy! Unimaginable!

To dare even mention that Sir does household chores too? Why I must have broken at least 30 'the-one-true-way Leather Taboos!' (tm)

But our real Leather lives, unlike pulp novels or oh so many online MASTER-slavelings, are real. We live them, 24-7. And that means we deal with real world real things. What often goes unstated, is that in relation to the 'chores' each of us take on, the other does feel a sense of gratitude. Sometimes we express such, but usually, it lies just beneath the surface, each of us quietly aware that the things the other does for us help us, and make our lives as we live them together not merely easier, but in certain bedrock kinds of ways, possible. While not an egalitarian household, at times, it does share certain resemblances to a Leather 'partnership' of sorts. It's what works for us.

That said, I do make a point of making 'Sir's' bed.

Now that must sound odd. But as we sometimes run opposite schedules to one another, I am allowed my own rooms in addition to the primary bedroom we share. Recently, no matter what our sleep schedules may be, I've made a point of ensuring that when Sir comes up to bed, it's a neatly made bed.

That may sound perfectly obvious, and the kind of habit some people got in back when they were oh, say, 5, but for the two of us, living on our own as we do together, we tend to simply get up and hit the ground running and then tumble into bed at night.

If the downstairs is the at times more 'public' part of the household, the upstairs is more a private sanctuary. I suppose we're quite Victorian in that sense. The parlour is a place where our household intersects with the external world, the upstairs bedrooms are private spaces.

So I make the bed.

It was the first piece of furniture we bought together for the house, a big four poster King sized bed, (an updated) comfy mattress, and padding and sheets we picked out together, as a couple, when we were just beginning. We brought the bed home and assembled it ourselves. Some couples buy couches together first, we selected and assembled the bed.

And when we're home, not traveling, I tend to carve out the laundry as a part of my ongoing routine. Just as womyn for generations before me have cared for, mended, and laundered their beloved's clothing, I too, try to ensure, as one presenter at the Floating World last Autumn used as an example, when my Sir goes to reach for an item of clothing, it should 'just be there'.

What marks us as different, perhaps, is that when we do travel, (which is to say frequently,) while I may sort the piles, Sir himself tends to run the laundry. Sometimes I fold, sometimes we fold together.

But the laundry is simply part of the rhythm of that which needs to be attended to. Sometimes the ongoing 'chores' are less 'choreful' and simply part of that which must be done. At times, it's even possible to gain a certain satisfaction, or feeling that things are 'running well' based upon the ongoing rhythm of ensuring things are 'there when you reach for them'. I find it leads to more of a household sense of well-being, confidence, and yes, even control.

When things pile up and feel overwhelming, it lends itself to a things being 'out of control' sensation. Conversely, when things are simply where they're supposed to be, whether it's laundry or dishes, or mail sorted and filed it leads to a certain ease, comfort and sensation of things being 'under control'.

From that 'under control' springs a certain confidence in both of us.

Which yes, leads me back around full circle to sex-blogging. In that one of the very few 'duties' I perform, tasks or chores pertinent to my status as "property" is that of being sexually available to my Sir.

That when he reaches for me, I too am at hand, exactly where I should be. Physically, psychologically, etc.

(While yes, there is absolutely, a blog entry -or 20- in what being self described "property" means in my context, that being a Radical Feminist context, American legal context, etc, that's not about to happen today.)

At any time, I feel I could say "no" or "not right now", but in practice I next to never do (other than sometimes, when I'm still mostly asleep, and not thinking very clearly at the time.) Having the ability to say "no" (which is actually more a 'raincheck' than a "no",) that freedom to say "no", is part of what makes it secure and a confident "yes".

That may not be the way some Leather lovers arrange their relationships, but again, this is what works for us. We're both reasonably aware that when it comes down to it, I pretty much only say "no" in relation to extenuating, usually physical, circumstances.

In part, how we define some of my "duties" in this relationship are to be His, anytime, with the one caveat that communication of any extenuating circumstance is an inherent to such.

So last night, he both enjoyed me, and a well made bed.

This morning, I smile to myself with the satisfaction that things are 'running well'.

***

(Now, have I just equated sex to housework? Perhaps... if you really feel you MUST take it that way, but what I'm really referring to is the satisfaction of behind the scenes work, -yes at times good, hard work with one's hands with very quantifiable results- that goes into making parts of life feel 'effortless' and how such for us at least, tends to lead to the sense of well being and 'control' which can be at times so vital to our Leather/BDSM lives. It's a topic I see very little written about, particularly in your average 'how to Leather' books, yet it has everything to do with how we live this out 24-7.)

Rings!

So I'm VERY happily wearing new rings in new piercings at the moment.

Sir's rings, holes in relation to Sir. Over a decade in the timing.

I am deeply honoured.

(No folks, this is not the real post about the piercings, it's more of just a placeholder until I get there, but friends wanted to know.)

Inner labia, not my outer, thanks to my anatomy- but all things considered, it's a good thing- less pain, shorter healing time, the jewelry I wanted, far less likely to migrate and lose the piercings, all good reasons.

I now wear two twelve gauge 3/8" implant grade surgical steel captive bead rings.

Yes, it was painful- very painful.

But the experience itself was more than even I had hoped for. I'm incredibly glad I did it where I did with who I did it with- it made all the difference. (I'll get there in the real post.)

Most importantly though, when it was all over, and we were home, and Sir was tucking me into bed, he said the thing I had been waiting to hear-

"I felt like I was very much a part of it, like a participant in it."

Which was not only very important to me, it also reflected the way I felt about him having been there with me- this was about US, and fortunately, that was exactly the way it worked out, very US.

It was the coming to fruition of a lot of things we have both been working towards for a very long time now. When we finally came to it, everything just 'came together'. Thing is, I can't decide whether it was worth the wait, or something we should have done years ago. Either way, the actually doing of it, I wouldn't have done differently. It was in the end, simply right.

Thank you Sir!

Wuzzle!

Just a quickee update from BRXX

Well, there's the event itself, and then there's Sir and I and the time we're spending together. Eventually I may write about some of it (and I might even back up and write a post about the other amazing evening I alluded to here earlier.)

But for the moment, it's Sunday, the last of the workshops have ended, and all that's left is the final dungeon and party. We decided to stay the extra night, so we're still here. The event is slowly winding down, and at midnight, we'll all disappear off to our rooms to eek out whatever we can before checking out tomorrow, leaving what's left to the staff and volunteers to load and finish.

As with every event, major THANK YOUs go out to those who work so hard to make it all possible.

For us, it's mostly been a good weekend, ideas to chew on, and a real milestone; Sir cut me with a knife last night for the first time. It's not only the first time he's cut me, it's the first time he's cut anyone. My right shoulder hurts in the most wonderful of ways, and I'm wearing his marks.

In that alone, I am so happy.

(And in such a headspace!) I'm deeply honoured.

So for that alone, I'll always remember BR XX. Important things happened between us here.

Perhaps I'll try to take a stab at writing the real post later, after we're home.

Our anniversary

So as of this weekend, Sir and I have been together 11 years.

That's an accomplishment.

Not just 'together', but having done things like traveling together, overland for months at a time, over and over again, and no, not killed one another. If anything, we travel well together. We spend much more time together than most couples, and yet, it really works. Even I marvel at it sometimes. Most of the time, though, we're so in the midst of living it that we don't stop and think about it.

We came together at a 'play' party that was being held over the course of a sci-fi con 11 years ago. Although that particular weekend, I have the feeling we were both pretty much there for the party far more the con itself.

I'd known him before that, as a friend. Well, even that's somewhat complicated to explain, I suppose the simple version is we have an 'ex' in common. He was her partner for a time, and she was a dear friend of mine I had slept with. They had come to an end by the time he and I finally got together. But she was an important part of that evening that we got together. It was due to their previous relationship and her having spoken to me about their time together that I felt I could trust him.

Ironically, about the last thing I was looking for that particular evening was any kind of ongoing relationship, let alone life partner, certainly not a Sir. But of course, at the time, he didn't identify as a Sir, and that's part of what made everything possible.

In any case, our coming together is a long complicated saga unto itself, and not what I'm trying to write this evening.

What I did want to write about was Saturday morning. In the wee hours, before the sun came up, and just before the moon was full, I gave Sir a token of sorts.

As he has placed a titanium bracelet around my right wrist as a sort of 'collar' that can always be worn I wanted to give him a symbol of his ownership as well. No, not as a form of reciprocity, or as an always worn item, just as a tangible token from me to him.

This weekend does not mark the anniversary of the collar, but it marks the anniversary of our coming together, the beginning of our relationship, and it was that that I wanted to celebrate. The symbolism of the collar goes to the very core of our relationship, my submission to him and trust in him was where we began.

Deciding on precisely what tangible token would be most appropriate was somewhat difficult. Sir is not a jewelry person.

He appreciates the band I wear on many levels, one of which being its "machined" quality and the nearly seamless visual it presents to first glance. It is solid, and hinged, its locking mechanism appears as nothing more than a small black dot on the side. The cuff is smooth, and brushed metal, and 'heavy', (in as much as titanium is, anyway.)

The more I thought about it, was the more I realized that his 'not a jewelry person'-ness was part of what made a bracelet of his own (for his left wrist, naturally) the correct choice, in that he would only wear it sometimes. After searching, I found what I was looking for, a carefully milled brushed titanium piece that in some ways is a matching 'opposite' to the one I wear.

The piece I found for him is openwork, and a series of articulated links, it has a perfectly integrated clasp, easily undone. His is slightly more narrow than the symbol I wear, making it seem lighter, but still very masculine.

If what I wear could be mistaken for a piece of modern brushed metal jewelry, his could could be mistaken for a fancy watchband, sans watch of course.

So there, in the waxing moonlight, almost coming to fullness, I presented him with my small gift. Naturally, he understood it, what it meant, its importance, immediately. And perhaps a bit surprisingly, he actually liked it.

So I wear his band, at his will. I don't cognize the piece of metal about my wrist "mine". I may 'slip' and refer to the two as "mine" and his for clarity's sake, but ultimately, I view them both as his. I certainly wouldn't call the band he wears "mine" or as in any way marking him as mine. It is more a symbol of the fact that I am grateful for the honour of wearing his collar every day of my life. I take none of this for granted.

This past decade has been some of the best years of my life.

We are not married, and to be honest we are both deeply conflicted over the idea of marriage, (despite the fact that we have come to a place where it is being seriously considered) but his collar means more to me than perhaps a wedding ring would.

A wedding ring, for us, would in many ways be about State recognition of our pre-existing. The collar (which for daily purposes I wear on my right wrist) is a huge portion of that pre-existing. It is an integral part of our relationship, and thing without which I am unsure whether our relationship would be. It is about his ownership and responsibility and my relationship to that and to him.

The collar was hard won, and earned. For us, it symbolizes a lifelong commitment to one another, reguardless of whether we are together as a couple or not. I am deeply honoured and proud to be allowed to wear it.

My gift to him was just a small ways of saying so. A way of saying I never forget what it is to wear his symbol.

As for other ways of marking the anniversary, in some ways, they will have to wait. This week is a bit crazy for us, what with preparations for BRXX as well as the rest of our day to day lives, but we both know we will eventually make some real time for us. Probably some over the course of BRXX, but also some thereafter.

I have the feeling that difficult as BRXX may turn out to be for us, at least some of it will be a time and place where we close the doors, shut the outside world away, and just really enjoy being together.

I'm looking forward to that.