Archive for the ‘The Daily Dominatrix’ Category

Mister and Missus P

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We may be kinky, but we pretty much stuck to tradition with for our family’s being present and all. It was quite a moving ceremony.

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… Here’s where the story ends

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So. Odd and uncomfortable as it might be, I’ve decided, (in coming to accept the end of that strange relationship) that there’s really nothing else logical to do except help to find him lots of women to date, so that I can get him swiftly into the next chapter of his life — now that I realize it doesn’t involve me.

He’s pretty clueless when it comes to the practise, (and very quirky, on top of that) so I figured he’s going to need all the help that he can get. Help, of course, with which I can provide him.

Not entirely sure how to go about this whole thing, though. In part, in my deciding that I can’t just resume some form of platonic relationship, or, as he would like, maintain everything but the sexual / romantic components, (be an ‘adopted sibling’ as it were) I’d prefer our lives diverge until such point I’m not furious with him — since I’m no longer hoping that a relationship will resume. I accept that it’s over, was probably a bad idea to begin with (even though, it did seem the smartest choice at the time — and might still be) and he hadn’t any of the tools to make it work, thereby leading to his need to ‘redefine the relationship’ (fancy term for breaking up, really) in such a way that it was no longer romantic, sexual, or D/s-oriented.

I discovered that that’s a lot more complicated than it seems. Forgive me for repeating myself here, but there’s much more involved in changing the way you relate to someone than simply breaking up. Oh, sure, if you’re no longer going to be involved, then there’s the more traditional option of foregoing contact until the dust settles. But if you were friends initially, or you work together, then you sort of have to suck it up and grin and bear it.

Easier said than done. (more…)

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… And this is for when you feel nothing.

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Oh, depersonalization. You tricky devil, you.

I realized this evening that the power my former — whatever, for lack of better, we’ll say dominantly-oriented dynamic relationship — had over me is now gone. Lifted. Somewhat relieving, definitely a bit sad, and more than anything — fills me with a an equally powerful, almost inexplicable rage.

That part’s not so grand. But, hey. It is what it is, and right now, I feel nothing — or just rage over the fact I no longer know how to maintain an interaction with someone I know meant a great deal to me. That, and while I used to feel this sense of … well, power over me, as if I was just awaiting the moment he’d admit that he couldn’t really deal with it, either, and in a sudden, likely fevered moment, everything would feel right again — having returned to the way it was, which had become something that felt so incredibly right to me.

Except now … it doesn’t anymore. That feeling that what was can be regained, and exists just beneath the surface has been replaced by a raging apathy, oddly enough, or is at least being sufficiently drowned out by the fury to seem as if what was is good completely. I used to long for and want it back. As if that which I was raging against was simply the loss of it, and it could reaffirm itself in a matter of seconds. (more…)

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Anxiety. It’s a motherfucker.

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Hey, guys!

Long-time no blog!

Bet you’re wondering what I’m doing up at … 6:00AM, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Huh? ( … Nosy bastards.) I’m up because I had another nocturnal anxiety attack after falling asleep in a relatively comfortable (except for a few things) new position after receiving a wonderful massage from Mister P. I have no idea what causes these things, as they occur alongside with some nightmare I seem to be having, but not quite remembering. (Useful, no?)

At which point, I find myself ridiculously wide awake, and in a mindset that’s ripe for worrying about everything in the fecking universe, along with manufacturing quite a bunch more, just in case I run out.

Yeah, I wish I were joking, too. I’m not.

The anxious headspace is one that’s purely irrational.

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Anapestic Tetrametre … Bitches!

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Do you like strap-on cocks, canes, and whips? You should!

Because these things are different. And different is quite good!

… it’s not exact, but what can you do?

By the way, this is why I haven’t been on much. Well, one of the many reasons. I’ll fill everyone in later as to the rest.

This is also what apparently happens when editing childrens’ poetry. And BDSM porn. At the same time.

Bitches!

Oh, the hyperactivity can be attributed to the head cold + coffee. One is awesome, the other is not. Guess which!

Asses can be red, and your balls are blue.

I’m outta here; don’t like it? You can stew!

Check out the new HA website. I re-built it in about 2 days using Kompozer by Mozilla. (Because, occasionally, pirated software makes baby Jesus cry. That, and slash fiction of canonically straight characters. And the bullshit that is Twilight, though, if you’d like an explanation, there’s a fantastic one here. (Longer link — just in case your mouse sucks — UNLIKE MINE. Because it’s the new Logitech Anywhere MX, ass-munchers! That’s ‘MX’ for ‘Most Excellent’, I’m pretty sure. What does yours say? Microslop? La-a-a-a-ame! I bet your monitor even says ‘Etch-a-Sketch’ on the side. And not in that brilliant Kindle kind of way, either.)

Oh, and apologies if you’re using a Mac. I’m getting there, okay? Jeeeeez.

Now. There’s your update. You bitches happy now? Good. Because I live to make you happy.

Just kidding. You guys are wonderful. I’ve just been one busy bitch. Busier than Don Everest, AKA ‘The Matador’. And that was one busy motherfucker near the end of Season One.  (And for those who did not watch Tilt, and are more than mildly confused, this is what Mr Everest’s To-Do-List would’ve looked like that day: Breakfast, Liquidate Assets, Play in First Day of WSOP, Go to Tahoe, Whack Guy, Very Late Dinner, Sleep(?), Play in Second Day of WSOP. … Yeeeahh. My thoughts exactly.)

CHECK OUT THE WEBSITE. NOW. Soon it’ll be moved to huntingalice.com, too. And won’t that be wonderful? (The answer is, ‘Yes’, in case you were confused.)

More … when I feel like it? Get around to it? Something like that. Also, yes, we’ll be Podcasting again soon. When? SOON. Deal until then.

Mm. Coffee. Head cold. Blegh.

<3

The Most Insidious Thing

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Obviously, being a therapist, I know the extent of abuse. I deal with it on a nigh daily basis — both from my own past, and through helping others along their own journey. Rarely, I’m so forcefully confronted with the spectral fingers of my own — even though it does still claw at my brain upon occasion.

I’m hardly masochistic; in fact, I hate pain. Really. Not a fan. Emotionally, physically, a combination of both …. I’m not even that big into catharsis except with very special reason. And even then, it’s tightly controlled. I don’t run from pain, per se — I’m done with that phase of my life. I confront, I deal, I regroup, and I get back out there. If there’s something I’m supposed to feel in order to move through something into the next phase of my life, I do it.

That’s why I’m not quite sure how I’m feeling right now.

Allow me to explain.

This morning, going about my usual routine, responding to my Facebook messages, I saw that stupid little, ‘Hey! This guy’s friends with one of your friends! Maybe you should friend him, too!’ box in the corner. Normally, I don’t give a shit. But when it’s my abusive ex-I-hesitate-to-call-a-boyfriend — I do.

And … I did the wrong thing.

I clicked it.

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The Not-So-Innocent Alice

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Forgive my bit of rambling here, but I feel the need to make a necessary point. About Alice and Carroll, both.

In the light of all-things-Alice trending again with strange remakes, reworkings, and wonderful new material being published about the actual historical figures, it seems important to set something straight.

First, the obvious. (Albeit, maybe controversial.)

Dodgson was not a paedophile. Alice Liddell was not innocent.

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Pulling Back The Curtain …

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And this, ladies and gents, will be the end of my old-blog-reposting-binge.

This one is of particular significance to me, as it’s very much -about- me. As some know, (and perhaps, some don’t) I was diagnosed with Asperger’s as a child — around 8 or 9. It has made certain things of my life interesting. I can’t say it was ever truly severe, though, my mother worked with me extremely diligently to see that I was able to overcome most of its drawbacks and social shortcomings.

The one part of me that’s always baffled me is the portion which I’ve only been able to call, (most humourously) Vulcan. (And, maybe some Jedi for good measure — naturally, without the awesome accoutréments.)

So, without further explanation — a scene from a restaurant. Specifically, my last all-employee meeting in a restaurant at which I worked prior to my relocating to LA.

I was thinking in particular about the way I handle emotions today. Sometimes, I make rather strange work of it, even though I haven’t realised it at the time. My ex especially accused me of this — and of the many things which he accused me — that one I’ll give him. I do go about them a bit differently than most at times.

In part, I blame the Asperger’s. Sure, one part of you may be pure genius, but the other is kind of lost over the most basic interactions.

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An Open Letter To Ashley Madison

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Greetings, my dear readership, friends et al.

Well, this month has certainly proved an interesting one. I was sifting through some old articles and things on my G-Docs and came across something of which I was particularly proud. I had something of an activist streak throughout my years on this blue ball — waxing, and waning. It’s not gone completely, but when nothing ever really comes of the work … well, y’know. You lose heart.

I wish I could say something came of this, but, naturally, it didn’t. I was tempted to send it to the Stern show — from where I originally heard the adverts — but it seemed also a needless sort of venture. So, here it remains in my keep; and now, for your eyes, too. Written about two years past, with a lot of fire and hope that it might do something. (For those unaware, Ashley Madison is a service that is deliberately designated to find unhappy spouses extra-marital partners. You can hazard to guess that went over so well with me …  .)

Without further ado …

‘An Open Letter To Ashley Madison’,

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The Trick Is To Keep Breathing.

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A trick, indeed.

So, we’ve all been in that particular spot. Someone we know, someone we care about — someone with whom we’re good friends — suddenly gets re-categorised into the ‘why am I blushing? Why is my heart beating this quickly? Why am I Goddamned fucking melting?’ folder.

I remember when it happened with my fiancé, Mr P.

Ahhhhh.

He was with his crazy girlfriend at the time, but it brought out that softer, romantic, definitely submissive side of him that, being his co-worker sharing his office, I’d never seen. As a result, I (somewhat legendarily now) poured myself an extra cup of coffee … having completely forgotten that I’d just done so.

Yeah.

Because my head was so caught up elsewhere. No one had ever affected me like that before — to the point where I still couldn’t forget about them years later. He just got to me. I don’t believe anyone will ever affect me the way that Mr P does — but that doesn’t mean every now and again someone can’t come somewhat close ….

Enter my co-star. Oh, bloody hell. Rational thought just … takes a little holiday some of the time. We writers are all more than just a little cracked anyway, so to find a fellow lunatic is always a bit kismet. That being said, it got me to thinking about this whole Roulette mumbo-jumbo, just what it is, what it was supposed to mean, and what I’ve really been doing with it.

Not much, is the short answer. Question is — why? When deciding to become a domme, and creating my (what is it, third?) alias, I did not do so lightly. Oh, of course, I went through all the classic configurations, finally deciding to stick a bit closer to home and go with something at least French. And, being with a professional poker player, (though, anything even moderately themed sounded retarded) I ventured to explore all gambling possibilities. What’s French and a game of chance? (Well, unless you count the ridiculous house edge, but that’s neither here nor there.) Yep! Roulette.

Ah, but a name has to mean something. It has to be a part of you, or allow you to express that which you’re having trouble doing as yourself, using the name you were given, saddled with your past, and all it entails. Roulette … I mused. What could I do with Roulette?

The answer did not evade me for long … .

What couldn’t I do with Roulette? Nothing.

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