Author: D'jaevle

Sleeping on the Floor

Socially, the first two years of college did not differ much from my high school days. My time spent on-line decreased as I spent more time in classes and hanging out with the other guys in the dormitory. Still, it didn’t take me long to figure out how to check for other users on the college network and send talk requests to random women to see who would respond.

I met with some success, seducing two or three of those girls into rather intimate conversations. This is how I found NE.

We only spoke once or twice, but I managed to get her to admit she was getting turned on – no mean feat considering she was in a computer lab surrounded by friends. Although we only had a couple of conversations during my freshman year, her name stuck with me over the next few years.

Midway through my junior year, I began to come into my own as a qualified social human being. I had weaned myself away from the on-line world. Through the guidance (and corruption) of a good friend, I got drunk for the first time and was forced into situations where I had to prove my value as someone worth hanging out with. I learned how to turn my quirks into interesting personality traits. I gained confidence. I helped start an underground literary magazine. I DJ’d for the college radio station. Those years spent seducing and manipulating women on-line had honed my intuitive skills – it was easy to make people feel comfortable around me.

The night I met NE in person, I was sitting on the steps of my dormitory and smoking a clove. We shared a mutual friend, SB, so when it was time to head back inside, we invited NE to join us. I knew who she was, but I wasn’t sure she had made the connection.

She had. As I later found out, after our on-line conversations she had taken to keeping an eye out for me (especially at lunch where I would often sit along and enjoy a good book while I ate). She knew my habits and friends. It would have been disconcerting if it wasn’t weirdly flattering.

As mentioned, I had a knack for creating a comfortable social setting and NE was looking for a hiding spot (she was dealing with her own social issues) which made hanging out in my room ideal. I spent the rest of the semester getting to know her while playing cards and just goofing off. I even had a movie date with her.

The interesting thing was, I never felt pressed to do anything. I had past the point of needing social validation, so enjoying her company was purely gravy. When we all left for the semester break, she gave me her number and said I should call.

Several weeks into the break, I did. Her mother said she wasn’t available, so I left a message requesting she get in touch with me. She never did. I was rather annoyed, but I wasn’t going to pester her.

For my last semester at college, I got my own room. This room would quickly became the social hang-out for my group of friends. Everyone had the room combination, I always had good music playing (the dawn of MP3s), I didn’t mind people smoking in the room, and I had a fold-out table that was easy to play cards on. I never pushed NE on why she hadn’t called but I did distance myself from her a bit and took to pretending to be upset with her, which drove her crazy. Each evening around 1am, when I would kick everyone out, she would hang back to spend a few minutes alone with me. Minutes became hours, and talking became something else.

But I never gave her as much as she wanted. I would give her long intimate back rubs. Gradually I upped the ante, teasing her until I knew she wanted, needed, more. And then I would send her back to her own room. Night after night of this left her confused – and hooked. After one particularly late night, she asked if she could sleep over.

I relented. I told her she could sleep over, but she’d have to sleep on the floor.

She did.

Autobiographical

This post is for the fourteen eighteen people who indulged my curiosity and voted.

What exactly is an autobiographal post? In my mind’s eye, I see two ways of defining which writing is autobiographical – writing that shows and writing that tells.

In one sense, my poetry, my stories, my random musings and scene descriptions – all of these describe me in a way that outright facts could never capture. In a very real sense, this is what drew me to this medium fifteen years ago (I’ve been doing this for half my life? I’m not sure how I feel about that…). Writing can distill the best and worst of a person and present it in a forum of peers who will judge you on what you do, not who you are. In this sense, all of my posts are autobiographical.

The other way to look at is in the more conventional sense of telling, rather than just showing. I’ve done a few of those, but you’ll have to go fairly far back in the archives to get to the meat of them.

There are a few posts of the ‘telling’ variety that I’ve considered writing for a while now. There are people, signficiant people, that I haven’t written about yet. There are important moments in my life that would benefit from undergoing the scrutiny of the written word.

And then there is the story of how I met NE.

“A day in the life of…” – Part 7

Miranda

The carriage rumbled to a stop in front of the constabulary at the edge of town. When Jaedin followed Marcus out of the carriage, it was into a town had not quite shaken the morning’s mist. Grey blurred the edges of the street.

Erenthia had never been a large or particularly busy town. Crime fell into two categories: serious and not quite so serious. The dividing line between the two was largely dependent on how interesting the crime was; the nature of the crime was of lesser importance. Caught attempting to poison a business rival but only succeed in giving his skin a decidedly orange tinge? Not so serious.

Still, most murders, even the less interesting ones, made it into the serious category.

As a result of this unspoken distinction, the punishment for not so serious crimes took the form of heavy fines, restricted access to local amenities and loss of social privileges. They weren’t punishments so much as penalties for getting caught.

Serious crimes were dealt with swiftly and the often unsightly results quickly swept under the proverbial carpet by either being thrown out of town (alive) or into the nearest open grave pit (dead). Long stays in a prison cell were unheard of.

All of which is to say that the constabulary was a small building that consisted of just three rooms: a small receiving area at the front, currently manned by a young man doing his best to look officious despite the ink smudge on his nose from having taken a nap face-first in the book in front of him, the Constable’s office taking up half of the back-end of the building, and a single closed off room that doubled as a prison cell and town library.

Leaving Marcus at the door, Jaedin approached and tapped the desk in front of the young man. “I’m Jaedin Montrose. I presume the Constable left instructions?”

Unaware of the black smudges on his nose, the young man’s attempt at putting authority into his tone came across as almost comical, “She did. You are to be given…” He glanced at a hastily scrawled note lying under the book in front of him, “…fifteen supervised minutes with the detainee.”

Shaking his head, Jaedin sighed, “Entirely out of the question. As a former student of mine, our conversations must be confidential.” Jaedin looked towards the two doors at the back of the room, “I am sure the Constable was simply in too much of a hurry to get all the details right. I know how understaffed you are – she doesn’t really expect you to leave your personal belongings unwatched just to eavesdrop on a private townsman’s conversations with an old friend.” Jaedin leaned over the desk, fingers touching the spread pages of the book the young man had fallen asleep in, “Especially when said personal belongings include a book of heretical writings on the subject of sex magic.”

Red suffused the cheeks of the young man, “Well…I…” He glanced down at the book and closed it hurriedly, “You are…no doubt correct, Master Jaedin.” The young man looked shaken and unsure. Slowly, he stood up and took a long iron key from the top desk drawer. With several glances over his shoulder at the door to the constabulary, he unlocked the wooden door marked ‘Library’. “The Constable will be back in about twenty minutes…” And the young man clearly did not want to get caught disobeying the woman who kept him employed.

“Not a problem. This won’t take more than five. But one further question. I believe ArchDemnse Henliech is still out of town. Who will be handling the case?”

The young man returned to his desk and leafed through several sheets of parchment. “Demnse….Jacobsen is in town. He has been notified of the case and accepted responsibility for it.

Jaedin stepped around the desk and walked to the unlocked door. “I see. Thank you.” Opening the door, Jaedin stepped into the small cell and closed the door behind him.

Contextual Integrity (or, why you are on your knees)

A few days ago I shared the audio clip that I posted just before Christmas with a friend.

A bit about LX: she came to me because she has a growing interest in D/s, one I’ve helped her explore. Although the exploration hasn’t been intensive, it has touched on mind play, bondage, and headspace. She’s a graduate student studying human rights and is someone I consider quite intelligent if a bit naive in certain areas.

Which makes her reaction to the audio clip rather fascinating. When I asked her to send me her thoughts on it, she transcribed the clip and added comments explaining what was wrong with it. These comments are, in her own words, rooted in feminism. This leaves me feeling rather conflicted.

If feminism is the idea that women are the equal of men, you can consider me a feminist. I do believe that because there are certain physiological and social differences between the sexes, there are activities where one gender has the advantage. In the end, however, it is the individual that decides the level of competency in any given area.

LX’s italicized comments follow the bolded sections they refer to. The red italicized sections are my response.

****

I become an extension to you
Or rather, you become an extension of me

I reacted to this statement because if I – hypothetically speaking- become an extension of you I become something less than you, something without an entity of my own. In patriarchy that’s the place that women have always been given, the place that has been reinforced by the system. Even when said in a context of consensual DS it is rather perplexing that it isn’t questioned but accepted as part of the “nature” of DS. It’s like the woman is erased and is only allowed to exists because of the man who allows her to exists as an extension of him at that!

Becoming an extension of a person is not a lessening. It is a focusing. When I am with someone, in a D/s setting, I am paring them down. I am removing all that is unessential and laying them bare. I am eliminating all distractions and forcing them to exist in a single moment. I become a conduit, a focal point. A lens.

I may say that they are becoming an extension of me, but the truth is that in serving me, I am serving them. It is one of those little ironies that make D/s so fascinating for me.

****

The spread of my fingers, the tightness of a grip wrapped around your pretty little throat

These are adjectives traditionally used (and quite often) to describe femininity, assigned to women. In patriarchy a woman isn’t a woman if she isn’t described, defined as “pretty,” “little.” These words also have socially assigned values of their own, and they seem to be adjectives that belong to someone who is learning, who needs to be taught, to a little kid.

You are correct – every word spoken or written comes with it a symbolic history. It is one reason I am so in love with words. In love with the right words.

You look for a patriarchal echo behind these words. In truth, I was aiming for a more sinister note. When I think ‘pretty little’ neck, it is in the context of all the bad things that can happen to pretty little things. Perhaps your thoughts on the adjectives provide a deeper explanation for why they come to be associated with the numerous scenes played out in tragic consequence.

But this is a lesson in how each of us relates to the words we use. If I were to tell my boss that she is a slut, I would get an entirely different reaction than if I say the same thing to my date who was currently begging me to finally let herself go over that edge I’ve kept just out of her reach.

****

I can make you understand that every breath that you take is a gift from me

The first part of this phrase I find very condescending. The second bolded phrase, my breaths are not gifts from anyone, they are mine. Even in this position, when someone has power to not allow me to breath that person has taken something that does not belong to him/her. They are not gifts, they have been appropriated or misappropriated. Again, this reflects a lot of male/female relationships in patriarchy that say women are dependent on men even to breathe.

If you remove the power exchange undergone in these moments of D/s, if one individual is not assuming authority over the other in a physical, mental, or emotional manner, than we are no longer speaking of D/s.

What difference, gender? Although it is possible to root the power exchange in the male/female patriarchal dynamic you so often speak of, that is a choice between partners. To believe that is the sole basis for power exchange is to ignore the fact that this exchange plays out between same-sex couples; that it plays out in reverse, with a female dominant; that some couples switch, depending on mood and nclination.

****

Which is why I leave you no choice, I’m just going to take it from you
I am going to take this and everything else from you

It’s not enough that you’re going to take “it” from me, but you’re going to take everything else so that there isn’t anything else left behind without you willing it. Again, the negation of a woman’s own self. Even in the realm of the sexually consensual everything else will be taken from here, her self will be vanquished.

We live our lives under constant pressure. Even those of us who keep it simple. We all have responsibilities we cannot ignore without consequence. Ignore work and you jeopardize food, housing, and creature comforts. Ignore friends and family and you jeopardize those relationships that provide you with emotional support. Ignore your hobbies and interests and you jeopardize your own mental health. Everything in life, even those things that by nature are meant to provide you with release, have burdens of their own.

My gift is that of freedom. I will take everything from you and then I will provide you the space and acceptance to just be.

****

I want you to lay there with the weight of the hand around your neck.

It’s not enough to take “it” and everything else, you have to impose your will on the woman.

Yes, I will take everything from you.

And then, if you are good, I will replace it with something that will make you aware of how nerve endings can be played to a music as terrifying as it is thrilling. I will replace it the promise of pleasure that lingers for weeks, a second self, a silhouette of sinful indulgence.

Wake Up, Wake Up

Wake up, wake up
no time to wait
so much to do, if it’s not too late.

Where’s your keys, where’s your car
your own two feet can’t take you too far

Wake up, wake up
no time to waste
you’re almost thirty, have to find a mate.

Gotta marry, gotta make the grade
So many to love, lest love degrade.

Wake up, wake up
no time to consider, too much’s at stake
A few more tumbles, a couple of kids to make.

You must raise them to be just like you
talking shirts and super glue

Wake up, wake up,
you’re almost dead
pass on your wisdom from all the books you’ve read

You must be a teacher, a mentor, to lead,
Pass on your life, it’s your life they need.

Wake up, wake up,
now it truly is too late
you’re gone now, it’s over, but for curiosities sake –

Were you happy? Were you merry? Did you smile enough?
Did you make a life out of life, or was it just filled with…stuff?

Hunter’s Game

I admit it. I am a predator. I am at my best when I let myself enjoy the hunt. When I am testing, teasing, and tempting my prey. I am not ashamed to take advantage of naivete and innocence. If I find weakness, I exploit it. I make a study of knowing points of entry. I notice the shiver when my fingers linger on your neck while taking your coat.

I remember when you tell me how your last lover got you into bed with a rose and a promise.

I smile when you say you don’t kiss on the first date, because you’re touching my hand while you say it.

I watch the way you cross your legs when discussing your favorite way to be touched.

***

I’ve been watching you.

No, don’t look behind you.

You won’t see me there.

I am in your pulse.

Your breathing.

I am your need to experience life in a way that awakens you.

[audio:MassiveAttack_TheHunterGetsCaptureByTheGame.mp3]
Massive Attack, The Hunter Gets Captures By the Game

“A day in the life of…” – Part 6

Serena

After putting Evelyn to bed, Jaedin had dinner and then retired to his study with a glass of wine – which is where Marcus found him, asleep, the next morning. With some trepidation, Marcus woke his master up – but he had little to fear, for Jaedin came awake with an almost manic energy. He jotted down a quick note, handed it to Marcus with instructions to deliver it, and then left to wash up and prepare for the day.

****

“What color were her eyes?”

Marcus stumbled as his foot caught on the edge of grey stone that made up the path he walked. He wobbled for a moment, regained his balance, and stared up at Jaedin with a startled expression, “Eyes?” Walking down a steep incline is difficult to start with – and doing it with grace takes a certain finesse, a quality Marcus had yet to attain.

Marcus had returned from his errand with a reply letter in less than an hour, just as Jaedin was finishing up with Evelyn. Jaedin had exchanged his black jacket for a warmer grey coat and called for his carriage to be readied. He then had Marcus join him as he left the house to walk the stone pathway that led down to the carriage house. The stone path cut slow switchbacks down the hill the lighthouse was built upon. After leaving the last curve of the first switchback, Jaedin turned his head towards Marcus and smiled, “Yes, Marcus. I assume she had a pair of eyes? To see this alleged crime? Of course, it is always possible that she knew you were coming and blinded herself out of fear that you’re well-known good looks would have her falling madly in love…”

“…green! Green, Master Jaedin.” Marcus’ face flushed red and dropped his gaze.

Jaedin hid his next smile by turning his attention to the navigating the switchback they had come to, “Green. You know, Marcus, now is the time to learn how to study women. In a few years you will be a stuttering tongue-tied mess in front of them. Tell me, did you learn anything useful from her while she wrote her reply?”

“She did not…appear to be in good spirits.”

Jaedin retrieved the reply letter from his coat pocket, where he had placed it upon receiving it from Marcus, and shook it open. With practiced ease, Jaedin moved down the path, one eye on the ground and one on the letter in his hand. He read it through and then replaced it in his coat. “Interesting. Looks as if the Constable did a reasonable job of interviewing the eyewitness. Serena was kind enough to go over the events again for me and they match up with the Constable’s version.”

Marcus had fallen behind, his small legs not quite able to keep pace with Jaedin’s. Distracted, he paused and did a small pirouette at the edge of one of the stepping stones, showing a moment of grace as he balanced himself on one foot, “Did…did we learn nothing then, Master Jaedin?” He found the next step and hurried to keep up.

“Oh, we have learned a thing or two. The first is that Serena, while not exactly friends with Miranda, does has some affection for the girl. Her handwriting is nervous and she is careful to give all of the details she can remember without embellishing them. Which means she is likely telling the truth about what she saw. In addition, she adds a few trivial facts in the hopes some sense can be made of what happened: the caramelized pears Master Kytrell was so fond were freshly made that day and in their usual spot on a shelf near the fireplace…they were low on wood for the stove…some of the fireworks purchased earlier in the week had gone off during the fire…” Jaedin’s voice trailed off as they came to the end of the path. He turned to address Marcus only to find the boy barreling down the last steps of the path; in an effort to keep up, the boy had picked up with some momentum and was having trouble slowing down. Catching the boy before he could speed past, he shook his head, “Never rush, boy. It makes you appear impatient. And impatience implies you lack control. Come along then, we have appointments to keep.”

The carriage stood ready for them a few yards from the end of the path. After climbing inside, Jaedin lightly rapped the roof of the carraige with his walking stick and the driver snapped the hourses into action. The trip to Master Kytrell’s manor house took just over an hour.