Author: D'jaevle

Competence – Not Just for Rocket Scientists!

There are three kinds of people:

* Those that have the answers.

* Those that don't have the answers, but are willing to find them.

and

* Those that don't have the answers, and expect a member of the first two groups to figure it out for them.

At some point, each of us has been a member of all three groups.

We've all been the subject matter expert. We've all had to figure out how to program the microwave by ourselves. And we've all been too lazy to troubleshoot the problems with our computers and asked a 'knowledgeable' friend to fix it for us (well, maybe not all of us – but you get the idea).

And this is normal. Rather than self-diagnosing the weird lump on your elbow, it's more convenient (not to mention safer) to go to someone who's spent years studying for just such a purpose.

My quarrel is with those who make a lifestyle out of it.

There is someone in your place of work, right now, who manages to make the simplest tasks sound like astrophysics. They need a lot of attention. They've forgotten where the files are, despite having been told their exact location minutes earlier. In fact, you're pretty sure you saw them rifling through it when you came in that morning. It appears their impressive self-reliance recedes in the presence of other people.

It's as if competence is a secret to be learned.

Here's the secret!

Break the habit of looking to others for answers before trying to find them on your own. It'll only take you five minutes and I promise that in the long run, you'll save time, earn the respect of others, and become a billionaire. 

Scout's honor.

Rain Maker

She was my little rain making machine.

       a baptismal font

           Artemis's bathing pool

               my vial of sweet poison

                      and her heart bled

               through her eyes

           until all of my sins

       were washed

    away

Improper Usage of a Desk

It is my desk you feel against your back.

I push you into it, hands on hips to lift your over the edge and set you on top. With one hand, I press you down, pinning you firmly onto your back. Rope is wound tight around your wrists, my fingers follow the length of nylon upwards, loose ends captured in my grip.

I tug firmly, pulling your arms over your head, and then tie off the ends under the edge of the desk.

You are now bound.

I stand between your parted thighs, staring down upon you. You raise your head to watch me push your skirt up over your waist, your eyes riveted on the motion of my fingers as they hook on the last piece of clothing between you and the desk. Slowly, letting the fabric draw along your naked skin, revealing your secrets one inch at a time, I slip it off.

And now you are bared.

The smooth cool surface of the desk against your skin is a reminder of place, a distinguished contrast to the warmth of my palms as they press along the inside of your thighs. You know I relish this position over you, this place that allows me to do what I want to you. Where the gentle touch of my fingers and lips, the cruel bite of my nails and teeth, the quiet guidance of my words, can pull you close enough to the edge that you tremble and cry out.

I write my words on your naked skin, whisper my name against stomach. Your skin is soft to my touch, and smells of jasmine.

I want you.

I make you a willing participant to my desires. I place you atop a chasm and hold you there, knowing full well how far you have to fall. When my fingers draw along the slick heat between your thighs, you feel yourself slip, fighting to hold still. And this struggle, this desperate attempt to keep yourself from going over, only makes the pressure worse. It is a victory you don't want me to have, but each touch is agonizing, each word a taunt that threatens to make you lose control.

You are filled with fire, your nerves burning and your skin hot, yet you keep from falling. And for a moment, you think you have won.

But all it takes is a kiss.

Left along the side of your neck, an intimacy almost unconnected with the fingers buried inside of you. A single kiss, warm and light, and the words, "Give me what is mine."

And you are lost. 

Man in Wolf’s Clothing

For the most part, the words I have scribbled off in the corner over there are true: Everything that matters about me can be found in the writing.

Drawing back the curtain on a writer can reveal truths that will ultimately change the way their words are read, and I want my words to exist beyond their connection to me. But such desires are foolish. Blog writing is an exercise in intimacy.

So I expose small pieces of myself, the ones I believe to be related to my writing, and hope it is enough.

Here are a few pieces.

I graduated from a small college with a degree in English and Artificial Intelligence, an interdisciplinary major (’student-designed’). The degree was a reflection of my interests; I always thought I would get a degree in English, but I realized half way through college that I had little interest in any of the traditional occupations related to English (with a capital ‘E’). So I focused on my other favorite hobby, computers. I was lucky, in that the college I attended had a computer professor who specialized in AI. I took several of his courses, including Natural Language Processing, and found that the two disciplines could be connected.

After graduating, I tried a few jobs before getting lucky and finding a position at a company still going through the last few spurts of dot.com growth. I picked up some real-world skills and parlayed them into a career.

In my field, I’ve done everything from handling front-line support (taking calls from irate customers), to managing a team of technicians responsible for the well-being of a national ISP backbone, to maintaining a mission-critical network that supports scientific research.

I've got excellent friends; and in excellent, I mean they've helped me move three times in four years (I know people who would help you bury a body before helping you move that many times).

I'm just over thirty with most of my life ahead of me. I have a house with a window in the study that looks out over a stream, two cats who keep the ghosts at bay, and enough money to indulge in most of my vices.

Now if only I could keep out of trouble.

Madeleine: Markings

We mark what we would own, lining skin with scratches and bites. We write our ownership in the calligraphy of the cruel, broad brush strokes of word and whip, leaving scars both emotional and physical. The most delicious of morsels are plucked still red and sore, a tasting of plump flesh engorged with pleasure.

Yours.

It becomes an internal anthem, a mantra to self, and this belief of place, this dedication to the life carved out by you, for you, with you, is enough to fill you entirely, washing away the grit that would sandpaper you into nothingness.

—

Madeleine laughs. "I'm a woman… you shouldn't get your hopes up."

D’jaevle looks down at you in his lap, "And I am cruel. I shall leave one here," his finger runs over your neck, right where it meets your shoulder. "And here,", his finger slips down to your breasts, tracing the curve of one, stopping along the side, "Maybe here…" the finger continue to your hip, lazily teasing the skin.

Madeleine grins. "All new places… perhaps one day, there won't be a single part of me below the neck that you've not marked."

Garters, Boots, and Whips

On Friday I attended my first BDSM club, Bound.

I haven't had much exposure to the more public side of BDSM culture; my scenes have always been private and personal. But when a friend of mine received an invitation to attend Mistress Dolphy's birthday party celebrations, I couldn't turn down the chance to go along.

I'm glad I did.

We lucked into a parking space around the corner from the hotel (a small miracle for DC on a Friday night), where everyone was meeting for pre-celebration festivities. Up in the hotel room, the women had just finished dressing for the evening (it was medical fetish week, with nurse and doctor outfits strongly encouraged); the birthday girl, Mistress Dolphy, was dressed in a sleek custom-made black corset, garters, and knee-high boots – a deadly combination (I'm a large fan of all three).

After general introductions, we grabbed a cab and headed to the club. 

In the hallway leading into the main room was a small table selling custom BDSM toys (I wish I could remember its name – I somehow managed to lose the business card). They had creative wooden paddles in the shape of knives that felt deliciously comfortable in my hands. But I had my eye on something else and ended up purchasing a cherry wood stinger paddle.

The club itself was different from what I had expected – in a good way. The room was large enough to provide floor space for dancing, mingling, and play, but wasn't so large that it lost the sort of public intimacy that makes you feel like you're part of the group no matter where you're standing. The music was an excellent mix of techno, industrial, and goth; it was never too loud, and yet you couldn't stand in the room without feeling the beat of the music in a way that made you feel like you had to move. 

Along the right side of the room was a bar with two accommodating young women serving drinks.  In the back of the room there was a lighted stage that was constantly in use. At various times during the night, the stage hosted scenes of flogging and sensual torture; the colored lighting and practiced ease with which pain and pleasure were delivered made the entire process feel beautiful, surreal, and alive.

Over the course of the evening, I had the pleasure of watching extensive rope bondage (from a swing), saw first hand what a vacuum bed looks like, and learned that band-aids don't work so well as pasties when covering a woman's nipples. I also had some interesting conversations with several of the people there, and look forward to speaking to them again. I find it interesting that those involved in this lifestyle tend to have a greater appreciation for life.

My kind of people.

Of course, I ended up drinking too much and spent the next day trying to avoid loud noises and bright lights.

But it was worth it. If only for the garters, boots, and whips.

 

Wake Up Call

"…you remind me of what I was when I was younger.
You're this touchstone of the darker, wilder parts
of me – parts that it's easy to forget when I'm swept
up in a job, a house, a marriage, thoughts of children.

Everything about my life screams 'grow up… you
need to grow up' but then you're there to remind
me that I was younger once, and free, and innocent,
and looking at the world through unbiased and eager
eyes. Most of the time, I just feel so jaded. So
'mature.' Yes, I'm happy, but as we grow older, most
of us do yearn for our pasts… for lost youth.

The difficulty, I think, lies in keeping that part of your
soul alive, and always, in some respect, staying young
and wild. One of the things I'm afraid of with having
kids is that I'll lose my own identity. I'll become
someone's parent – the epitome of uncool. I'll forget
what I once was. It's melodramatic, but it feels
almost like willingly drowning myself. I want those
cool, sparkling depths… but it has this feeling that
I have to say goodbye to air forever."

How far would you go to keep a promise? A promise to awaken someone should they quietly acquiesce to a life of structured limits. 

—

When was the last time you were truly excited about something?

I'm not talking about the small joys found in awaiting the release date of a movie or looking forward to the late days of Spring when you can start wearing short sleeve shirts.

I'm speaking of those moments we await with almost giddy anticipation. Moments that leave us both nervous and excited at the same time. Moments that feel almost dangerous with all the potential the future holds. In many ways, these moments aren't real – they exist outside of our lives, they rise above our routines and daily grind.

But in one very important way, they are life. They are the moments that, when you are in them, make everything else feel less real, less important. What you experience in those moments can cut deep. They are not without cost. To act is to leave ourselves vulnerable and the dangers of success are often far greater than those of failure.

Finding these moments gets harder as you get older. They require a certain amount of innocence, a lack in awareness of life's expectations. As we grow, we become fettered, attached to the people and things in our lives. We strive for comfort and stability in our lives. And yet, there are knives sharp enough, ideas strong enough, words seductive enough, to tease us out, to draw us to the maelstorm's edge.

There are days where I imagine I've been honing my edges be sharp enough, strong enough, seductive enough, to cut us all free.

…again, I ask:

How far would you go to keep a promise? A promise to awaken someone should they forget what it feels like to be alive?