Month: September 2005

Knowing Beauty

Tips on being a Dom, #27: Knowing Beauty

Sexy and beautiful women know they are sexy and beautiful.

***

My first successes as a Dom were born of instinct, a bit of experience, and blind luck. Instinct in the form of selfish desire and a need to exert control to get what I wanted, experience in the form of learning from each successive attempt, and blind luck in finding women who were willing to go along with my pretensions while I figured it all out.

What experience taught me was what worked and what did not; I had enough common sense to keep doing what was working and to stop trying what didn’t. A fine strategy that worked for a while, but really, I was just pretending to know what I was doing. In time, what was an act became reality. For me, learning any skill follows a similar process – you keep practicing, going through the motions of what works, trying to do something and then one day you’re no longer trying – you are doing it.

One of the distinctions that define that line between me pretending to be and actually being, Dominant, is when I not only knew how someone would react, but also understand why they would.

One thing I’ve learned? Women know when they are sexy and beautiful.

The other evening I was having drinks with NE, her husband Bear, and his brother. Bear’s brother was discussing how his wife was trying to lose weight (she’s quite thin in my opinion) and how she often remarked that she wasn’t that beautiful.

“She may say that, but she knows.” I put out the clove I was smoking and finished off my sour. “Sexy and beautiful women know they are sexy and beautiful.”

Bear shook his head, looking at NE. I followed his glance and smiled, “Her too.” NE knows she is sexy even though she may often look for assurance of the fact.

I couldn’t get Bear to agree with this; NE would often say she wasn’t feeling particularly pretty, or that this person or that person was much more beautiful than her. Bear was under the impression that if he didn’t reassure her, she wouldn’t have any idea just how pretty she is. After a good twenty minute discussion, we interrupted her conversation with Bear’s brother to ask. Under my gaze and the helpful affects of four glasses of wine, she was completely honest. She did know she was beautiful.

The truth is simple. Women who do not think they are sexy or beautiful are not going to remind themselves of this fact by frequently asking about it.

Women who do know they are pretty will often act otherwise because they may be looking for reassurance of the fact during a bad-hair/I have nothing to wear that fits me/I cried all night and have red-eyes, moment. Or they may just want to hear from someone they care about that they appreciate and recognize them. They are not asking out of ignorance of the truth. Because at their core, they know, they know, they have it. In fact, it is the knowing that is partially responsible for making them so alluring. It is this knowledge that makes them move a certain way, flirt a certain way, make love a certain way.

I have been careful here to not give many details on what I consider sexy and beautiful. This is intentional. There is no easy definition for either. Beauty is not inherently found in wafer thinness or platinum hair; sexy is not restricted to exotic looks or long legs. It is found in the eyes, and the words, in the curves and the attitude. It is in how innocent they really are, how devilish they can be. It is in a flash of skin, a smile, a dance, and a willingness to be brave. To some extent we cannot escape society’s definition of beauty, but that is just one part, one element of a whole – an element that isn’t even that important when lined up against everything else.

Incidentally, this knowledge has led to another of my quirks. I don’t make idle compliments. When I remark on how nice someone looks in a particular outfit it is because they really look fucking stunning. When I mention how silky someone’s hair is it is because I am imagining how nice it would feel tangled in my fingers. When I tell someone that I think they’re fairly clever it is because I think they may be just clever enough to keep up with me. I never give a compliment I don’t believe in with absolute conviction.

I am the same way with apologies – I hate making apologies just for the sake of making one. It renders the words and sentiment behind them, meaningless, which is a capital crime in my book. Apologies should be given when they are meant.

But that’s another topic entirely.

Soft Edges, Hard Truths

The soft edges,
patience-thin,
played against
but too much give
to be felt

Over time, these soft edges have become more numerous. The amount of time I will allow myself to spend in circular arguments. My willingness to engage when it will make other tasks more difficult. It’s not about fear, but about consistency and patience. I become less willing to participate in benign but meaningless activity – and in doing so, I have directed my life to follow a set of rules…and if they are my rules (not guidelines, not character-drive foundations, but rules), so much the worse. Rules of convenience. It’s about the path of least resistance, a path lined on both sides by soft edges.

There is something to be said
for the growing of teeth
sharp enough
to pierce skin

I like my edges hard, sharp. I like to dance between them knowing that a single slip will draw blood. Sometimes I will press myself or my partner against these edges just to watch us bleed. I trace my scars to remember those times, because the memories living there are vivid; their scent is strong enough to be tasted even now – the impressions left important in their contrast against the black and white memories left over from everything else. They weren’t bad times, although there were days I hurt so much I wanted to find a cave dark enough to curl up in and forget; they weren’t good times, although there were nights of promises and flesh that I never wanted to end; they were real times, real in the way your first crush is real, real in the way your nightmares prove stronger than awakening, real in the way you want things so badly your need makes you foolish.

My favorite memories are fever-blurred,
as if I imagined them,
but I know
the
truth

Is that what it means to mature? To replace my hard edges with softer ones? Compromise myself into a form of life submission?

I need to find new edges – I am only willing to have this many soft edges (and this? The point where they impede my ability to feel.)

Head Full of Stories

Do you ever write stories in your head? Like when you’re rehearsing a difficult conversation you need to have. You forget your lover’s singing recital because you were busy flirting with the redhead at Starbucks and you spend several minutes picturing yourself explaining yourself to your lover – what you will say, how expressive your face will look, the gestures you will make to emphasize how large the men were who knocked you out and left you for dead.

And then there are the martyr stories you tell yourself when you feel like you’ve been unfairly blamed. You get angry. You get depressed. You tell yourself why it wasn’t your fault. You justify your mistakes in your head by pointing out where things could have been saved if only someone else had stopped it. You remove yourself from the process in an attempt to nurse the budding anger towards everyone else who brought you to this place of guilt.

All these almost-real stories, lingering in your head.

Missives and Memories

(Letter Dated 9-12-03)

NE,

Having just finished reading your letter on the thoughts that passed so hungry and sweet through your mind that day on the floor, I am left considering foremost – is this the lady that protests a lack of imagination?

My second thought – if only my handwriting were so light, clear, and delicious. I am forced to let the voice of my words stand for themselves and know they are strong enough to push through the pale shadow of the printer page.

Third and consequent thoughts are along lines more suited to the content of your thoughts as you laid in the quiet sweetness of between-sleep.

I do owe you a story…and I think someday I will write you a more complete one, but for now I would rather give you this, a simple yet tempting scene as it lives in my head:

Unsuspecting, yet not surprised, my hands would rest lightly upon your shoulders as you look out over my porch. Sensing the subtle heat of my body behind you, you paused only to tilt your head slightly and lean back against me.

Although safe, there is a part that knows the danger in letting yourself fold so completely into me. And yet the delicious thrill of my hands guiding you up against the banister is too deep to resist.

And so your body ends up pressed gently against the cool wood of the banister, your eyes on the gray sky, silently aware of the cool wind against your skin and the pressing of fingers as they slip down along the edge of your skirt. Fingers that don’t pause, fingers that don’t stop at the edge, but slip up underneath to press against the sensitive hidden skin along the back of your thighs.

Left in this extremely vulnerable position, you feel yourself part your thighs unwittingly, just a bit, just enough. And now my hands are against your ass, fingers pointed down as I lean in, feeling your skin as you remain trapped gracefully against the wood in front of you.

Though gentle, my touch is sure and without room to question. You are left only to feel my hands as they trace the slow curves of your ass, thighs, and the back of your knees. My hands are warm against your skin and they move between your parted thighs like a whisper, remaining there along the soft inner skin, fingers spread to draw shivers as it moves. Light for a moment, then heavy against your skin, feeling just a bit moisture as it slips down your thigh…and then my hands move back, smoothing your skirt, as if nothing had happened. But I remain there, behind you, your head resting against my chest.

Your Master.

BDSM – The Text Adventure Game

I’m a geek. I played (and loved) Adventure, Zork, Enchanter, and Leather Goddesses of Phobos. As should be clear, I worship the written form, particularly when it is interactive. Last week I came across some old games and I began to wonder how a BDSM text adventure game would play out.

Anyone who has played a text adventure game has attempted, at least once, to do one or all of the following commands to the first character of the opposite sex they find: kiss, fuck, lick, beat, hump, and bite. More often then not, the game returns either a humorous response (”Who do you think you are, Romeo?”) or a virtual slap on the hand (”This is a family game!”).

Well, what if it didn’t?

***

Bedroom
A large bedroom, your first impression is that it is quite…austere; the walls of the room are completely blank except for a finely-crafted knife adorning the northern wall. Against this wall, but centered in the room, is a wrought-iron Victorian bed; the bed itself rests on a deep crimson black oval rug. At the base of the bed is a large cedar toychest.

Portia is standing in the middle of the room.

> LOOK AT PORTIA

Portia
The first thing you notice about her is her long raven hair that stops just above the small of her back. It has been brushed back from her face, giving you a nice view of her eyes which are green and contrast sharply with her hair and pale skin (yet do not seem out of place). If she were standing directly in front of you, the top of her head would come up to your chin and while she isn’t a large woman, she has curves in all the right places.

She is currently dressed in a long black dress, because, well, black goes with everything.

> TELL PORTIA TO GET TO HER KNEES

Feeling quite the man, huh? You order her, in your deepest and most convincing voice, to get to her knees.

She doesn’t appear convinced. She gives you a look as if to say, ‘make me.’

> MAKE HER

Make her what? Lasagna?

> PLEAD WITH PORTIA

Uh-uh.

>ASK PORTIA NICELY

I don’t think you get it. Are you sure you’re playing the right game?

> BEG PORTIA

Ok, see, I’m going to do both of us a favor and ignore that one.

> PRESS PORTIA AGAINST THE WALL

She looks a little startled, but doesn’t resist. She feels warm and malleable against your chest. Portia is now pinned to the wall.

> KISS PORTIA

Kiss her how?

>KISS PORTIA SOFTLY

You lean in to kiss her, but she turns her head aside and you end up kissing her cheek.

> OPEN TOYCHEST

You can’t. You are holding Portia against the wall.

> LET PORTIA GO

You step back, giving Portia some room. She looks just slightly dazed but still manages to stare defiantly back at you.

> OPEN TOYCHEST

You open the cedar toychest and peer inside. The chest is vast and roomy and contains: a leather flogger, a paddle, a a blindfold, and a length of rope.

> GET FLOGGER FROM TOYCHEST

You reach into the toychest and take out the leather flogger. Hand-made, the handle is checkered black and crimson; there is a loop at the end that would fit very comfortably around your wrist. The flogger’s tails are deceptively soft to the touch but you have no doubt that they will leave quite a sting.

Portia is looking a bit nervous.

(To be continued…here)

Devilerance, for the Devil is Coming

What would you do if the devil came calling?

Would you let the cracked door be invitation enough – or would you be brave enough ask him in?

Would you greet him on your knees?

Knowing he holds the promise of both, would you offer him your salvation or your damnation? Would you confess the sins you plan to commit in his name? Would you admit you’d already offered yourself to him in increasingly prophetic and addictive dreams?

Would you bargain with him? A kiss for immortality. Would you ask him to brand you in bites and bruises?

Would you test yourself against his will?

What instrument would you be, what song you play for him? Would you tune yourself to his expert fingers?

How would you beg? With brazon desire or respectful silence and pleading eyes?

Would you make a prayer of yourself? Would you promise yourself in pieces, or beg to be consumed all at once?

Would you consider the cost?

Would you?

In my dreams…

In my dreams…

…I am the quiet darkness that steals over your skin, secret and swift. I am the cool touch of your pillow when you slip into bed…I am the cold water you can’t quite escape when turning on the shower – never quite expected, but an awakening in clarity. I am the danger of things you can’t quite admit…I am the comforting presence of someone who will listen before stilling you with a touch…

…and when I stir, my dreams bleed all over my waking moments, washing crimson and seeping into the hard-to-reach corners of my participatory life. Disentangling myself from them is like unraveling the very threads of experience. Do I exist outside the context of my illusions? I do not need an answer; my contentment survives existentialistic cravings…but does not survive the hungers of my demonic children of choice and their wolfbred howls announcing the next hunt, the next dream…

Chapter and Verse, Part II

(Chapter and Verse, Part I is here.)

The second highlight – learning about D/s – really began with BG. I learned a lot from her and she was my first in many ways: my first phone sex experience, my first meet-in-real-life, and my first exposure to what a submissive really is.

But let me back up a step. My handle on Argus, unbeknownst to me, had certain connotations. The handle? Darklord.

I know – sophisticated, right? Pretentious, definitely (coming from the devil himself). But I was seventeen and it sounded cool. And it did end up paying dividends – it set up certain expectations with several of the women I would end up conversing with – expectations that helped along my D/s education. BG was one who saw Darklord as something I would have to grow into. She placed on him certain expectations that she wanted – needed – to be true. In coaxing these expectations out of her, I began to learn.

Now is a good place to note that my education in this area took two paths. The first path was driven by a simple need: my desire to taste, experience, and enjoy people. I wanted something from the people I was meeting and the most effective way to get it was to convince them that they wanted it too. Most of the time, this wasn’t terribly hard – because they did want it, they just didn’t always know it yet.

I craved that tension. That line between what people should do and what they want to do. Should you give your phone number to me, a stranger? Should you admit you have your hands buried between your thighs while reading my words? Should you tell me how badly you want more? Maybe you shouldn’t – but you want to. It was up to me to make these wants into needs – and these needs into reality. This is a skill that defines me. It is not enough to have the confidence to tell someone to do something (although, with the right woman, this will work sometimes). It is not enough to understand their needs (alone, this won’t actually get you anywhere).

You have to do both. You have to be able to make someone obey you because it is what they need.

You create a need for them and then hold it just out of reach until they come to you on their knees. You create a need for you.

The second was learning the traditional precepts of a D/s relationship. Over the next few years, as I spoke to submissives, a professional dominatrix, and others who shared an interest in the lifestyle, I began to put together a more formal vision of what a Dominant was. I learned the language and the acronyms (like any field of study, it has quite a few); I learned enough of the rules others played by that I could decide which ones suited me; and I began to understand that although there is a lot of common ground in this community, there is also a great deal of variance.

During this time I tried, in a virtually-spiritual-textbased mindfucking-real-imaginary kind of way, just about any kink I could think of. Role-play based text games provided a window into which I could slip between time and place, spending 1800s in a vampire-dominated Paris, present-day in Dublin, and some future fantastical world based entirely on a slave caste system. I tried the other side (however briefly) as a submissive (but was I really? Subterfuge was in my blood, and there was little I wouldn’t do to get what I wanted); I played a Priest who worked in a brothel and on one interesting occasion, a nameless, sexless Guest: I shared a body with two other genderless voices, inhabiting the space in a voyeuristic intellectual masturbation that confused gender and self in a one-way ticket through Alice’s mirror.

And what did I learn from this orgy of indulgence? I learned what really interested me. I may enjoy the occasional fetish, but my true love, my true path comes down to this.

Nothing beats the feel of a warm neck nestled in the firm grip of my hand; and this hold, this place where my hand rests like a living collar so close to the skin I can feel the beating of her heart and each drawn breath like life itself – in this place exists everything I need know about who I am.

Finely Tuned Instrument

Lines are where it all begins and where all good (bad) things end. They delineate. They divide. They border, they bind, they define. Lines are blurred, stirred, concurred and perturbed by the right questions and wrong answers. Words paint lines in broad bold strokes that encircle, entice, intrude. Words resurrect you. Words nudge aside, limbo underneath, and soar over the lines in our lives.

I love a good word whore. The syntax of their needs is a language I speak in many tongues.

***

futile finger length concepts
Slip, supple, sap, spilling across the page
dripping sarcasm like lovers
feels like frosted torture against black veins
that spider across the white parchment
we call skin

mediocre maybe –
     but I take my lessons from the pen

lap the edge like honey,
     and take this line, from behind my innuendo

you can play it like a violin.
   or wrap it around your finger, lest you forget
you can wear it like jewelry,
   or weave it into a web for unsuspecting honesty
you can hang yourself from it,
   or you can wind it about your body like a cocoon

just don’t trip over it on your way out.

because this line

can hold you together