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Peanut Butter and Browsers

Xan said my peanut butter sandwich snack wasn't healthy enough today and that I had to do better tomorrow. He pardoned me because I taught him how to use Adblock.

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Meanwhile

my dogs are having an actual anxiety attack because water is falling from the sky. 

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I like to sit in my car and listen to the rain patter on the hood. It makes me feel lonely and alive.

me

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On Submission Pt 1

I spent all of last year trying to minimize and compartmentalize my submission. This year, all three weeks of it, has set about showing me the error of my ways with a vengeance. 

I feel like I want to embrace it, or like I need it, or like I am missing something important. I guess its like not having been fed for too long: I forgot I was hungry, until suddenly I was ravenous. 

Yet I don’t want to be told to sleep naked or what to wear or anything like that. I’m not that sort of submissive. I like spillover, not dedicated attempts to control my life, not high-protocol. I don’t know what I want, what I need. 

In my head, there’s a conversation that goes round and round. 

“You need someone to control you.”

“I don’t. My life isn’t a wreck, isn’t meaningless without submission. I am perfectly capable, more controlled than most people who self-identify as dominant. I’m just... missing something.”

I want it so badly. The thrill in my spine when they slip their fingers into your hair and just grip firmly, the promise of strength and pain, but not more. I miss that “don’t you dare” look that just cows you, that makes that rebellious streak a hair gentler, and I miss my own reactions. I miss whimpering, begging and not meaning it, laughing, and being made to really want it, really need whatever it is they want me to need. I miss the bites. I miss being held down, pushed down, told not to move and posed like a doll, kissed, disciplined. 

I keep thinking about Xan trying to teach me how to drive stick, how he would put my hand on his lap and slap the back of it every time I stalled the car, and look disappointed when I messed up. I enjoyed that, the resignation and the patient correction. I enjoyed the arrogance too, the easy superiority he normally buries under layers of compassion and collaboration. And I keep thinking about when he drives, or packs extra clothes for me, or when he makes me tea, or asks if I’m eating enough, hydrating enough, makes sure I have my seat belt on or that I’m warm enough. 

That’s the kind of spillover I want. “Don’t forget to eat breakfast” turned effortlessly from a suggestion into an imperative. I want to be punished for not packing a lunch, for driving too fast, for not taking care of myself, and I want to be rewarded for being good. 

Xan isn’t that sort of person, though. And I’m difficult in that sense. He doesn’t want that kind of responsibility. 

Of course, I promised not to bottom for other people, and I won’t. I like being his too much, and I don’t expect anybody can really give me what I’m looking for. I should talk about it with somebody soon, and maybe talking about it will be enough to put it to rest. 

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Dreams

I spend my waking hours dreaming about you.

I dream about your kisses,

about your hands,

your voice when you talk to me,

when you talk to other people and you pitch it lower,

and it starts to sound like gravel.

I dream about that feeling that exists

in our embrace,

with my arms around your shoulders

and your arms around my waist,

With nothing in between us,

When I hold you heart

As I kiss your face,

and eternity before us

just the warmth of two bodies

and the laughter of two souls.

I dream about your wicked little grin

when you do something dirty in public,

when you know I can’t do anything about it,

when you leave me wriggling on the train beside you,

with your hand on my knee,

and your whispers in my ear,

And the effects in my underwear.

I dream about the look on your face when I come to you needing support,

reassurance,

fluffy and needy as any puppy.

When I know that you would hold me forever

if I needed you to.

I dream about us being together,

telling you effortlessly and without words how I feel,

about learning how to really live with you.

I dream about you all day.

I hope you dream about me too.

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The Perfect Explanation of Privilege – In One Powerful Punchline

“The Pencilsword” is a comic strip by Toby Morris, an illustrator from New Zealand. His most recent comic, “On a Plate” hits hard at the heart of the issues of concerning wealth and privilege.

How many times have you heard the “I’ve never been handed anything on a platter” argument in regard to social security and other social benefits?

Toby wrecks this argument by showing how two children can grow up, be loved and supported, and yet still have two very different outcomes.

Make sure to follow all the way to the end for the powerful punchline. This comic is an increasingly sad reality for far too many of this nation’s children and families.

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