7:14 a.m. - Monday, Oct. 06, 2003
Some of My Life's Turns Are Kinks
My life. I finally am starting to understand.

It really IS a journey for us all. We all have the exact same destination. We just get there in different, sometimes amazing ways. Some of us arrive at our �terminal destination� with assets. Some of us arrive empty-handed. That would be me. But it�s not about how much luggage we carry, and it�s not about which route we take. It�s about whether we see the sights and sit close to our fellow travelers.

I�ve only seen the sights in retrospect, and done my traveling mostly alone.

I joined a few adventurers this weekend at the second annual Family Ties BDSM conference and wing-ding �somewhere� in Florida. It�s quite the little social group. It�s a place where you can see a plump young mother of two sitting next to a leather-clad poster child for the tattoo industry, complete with ringed nose and studded slave collar. What they have in common is a passion for intensity. Passion for intensity and a need for simplicity. The relationship between a dominant and submissive partner, a mistress and her slave, is always exquisitely designed and defined. At its best, it�s a relationship that meets the needs of both partners and brings them only closer through time. Once a person gets past the shudders of the politically in-correctness of the situation, she might begin to envy those who have such relationships.

In the few years since I moved to Mississippi, as I�ve confronted and dealt with all the other issues in my life, I�ve dipped my foot into this world on a very sporadic basis. Now, as I begin to look around for ways to socialize and find friends, I find myself drawn to this community.

They share a lot with the transgendered community. They are misunderstood and therefore feared and hated by a large part of society. They hold jobs, pay taxes and.. I kid you not� many of them pray over their food. But they are in many cases relegated to the shadows of their closet because of fear of recrimination by bosses, parents, and the government if it becomes widely known that they crave more intense stimulation than most.

I saw some friends there that I�ve known off and on over the years, and I met some new ones. One of these was a gentle sadist who enticed me to accept an amazing beating.

You should have seen all the whips she owned. Actually, that�s not accurate. To most people, whips are whips, but in the BDSM world, they�re organized into groups. There are actual single tail whips, of course, but there are also floggers, crops, quirts, paddles, rods, canes, and well� you get the idea. This young lady, my sensuous torturer had some of everything.

To say she gave me a beating just isn�t accurate. What she gave me was an hour or less of the intense stimulation I spoke of. She began with gentle taps with a short length of cane. It was so light it could barely be felt, but with repetition, the sensations built until it felt almost like a very slow vibrator moving around on my back. And then, with no warning, several sharper blows that came closer to the edge of actual discomfort.

She did the same with several of her other instruments. Each flogger or whip was made of a different material, yet each had a sensuous, luxurious feeling on the skin as she drew it lightly across. Then, with repeated light strikes, the smoothness of the leather would metamorphose into a sting and then a bite. And each time the intensity grew almost unbearable, she would stop and rub my skin lightly with her cool hands and whisper something secret and nasty into my ear.

During the last half of our short play session, she asked me to accept a number of harder, painful stikes. Six with the cane and five with a nasty quirt which I easily learned to hate. Twelve difficult strokes out of several hundred delivered like the caresses of a lover. Those twelve were for her. I can honestly say I did not like them. But I can just as honestly say I was glad to take them for her pleasure.

And then we talked a long time. During that time, I learned many things, but what I inadvertently learned is how tender and vulnerable this tough, short-haired and mannish woman-child really is inside. Like anyone else, this girl was eager for people to care for her and easily hurt when they disappointed her. I guess even pain comes in all flavors.

I went to the conference and wing-ding in the middle of my move. I�ve left the belly of my whale and moved across the street to an actual apartment. I have an upstairs. I have a �master� bedroom, and a spare which will be my exercise and sewing room. I haven�t quite graduated to duplicate bathrooms yet, but I have one and a half. My half-bathroom is a cute little thing with barely enough room to turn around and back down on the commode. But it has a sink, with a counter, and the counter is big enough that I can balance a handful of guest soaps on it. June Cleaver, eat your heart out.

The bad thing is, having left in the middle of my move meant I had to come home in the middle of it too. Which, in a sense, is why I�m up early writing about the sadists riding along with us on our trip to oblivion. If I wasn�t writing about this, you see, I would have to be busy emptying these boxes and carrying things I didn�t even know I owned up those punishing stairs.

Or out to the dumpster.

Happy Thoughts, Deep Breaths,

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