Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Eatin' pancakes, dicking around...

Spotted at I-HOP when I was having breakfast on Sunday in S. Jersey. According to one weight loss blog No Gimmicks Weight Loss, that's 1,310 calories and 52 g fat (if you click the link, description is about halfway down. You can stop eating now, for the rest of the week... Oh, no, wait -- according to Lewis Black, IHOP is GOOD for you!

Some kids go sledding, have snowballs fights, make snow angels. Other go around drawing big dicks on cars! Isn't America great? The opportunities... Oh, and I don't think Haley Joel Osment was in Queens. His dick looks different...

A real blog tomorrow? Perhaps? Depending on my mood?

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Slobhorn Leghorn

It was 8:15 a.m. and I was reciting the Serenity Prayer to myself. I had to push my way into a seat on the subway because a leg spreader was blocking it. He finally condescended to move -- slightly. He was tall but not that big; he had room. But he was acting like he didn't know was was going on. He was texting on his cell phone, probably writing about me while I was writing about him. Probably calling me obnoxious for nudging him. Well, f' him. I even said out loud at one point, "It's crowded." In other words, "Please. Share the space." I'm not that big. The guy on my other side had his legs closed, like a decent human being. Come on! Get with the program, leg spreader! (Note to Scott: I did NOT get angry, I was very calm throughout this whole squishy ordeal).

Sigh. At least I got to sit and write. That rarely happens on the R train in the morning.

What else was I thinking about on the train? Food, and fiber, and calories, and wanting to really push myself this week to stay on target. I am restricting my intake to 1,400 calories per day. I'm also measuring fiber, carbs, and fat. I didn't know these stats previously, because I was eyeballing everything and I didn't want to get obsessive. I need a happy medium between obsessive and out of control. (No advice, please. I'm not looking for advice right now). Honestly, I think it's okay to be a little obsessive if that's what it takes to reach a desired goal. If I do it scientifically, then it will happen. Exercise + fewer calories = weight loss. It's not rocket science. Of course, it's not always scientific when you get cravings ...

The other part of the equation is the outside pressure, the comments from people who say I don't need to lose weight, that I look fine. I DO look fine, if I may say so! But it's also okay to say, well, I want to look "finer."

Using BMI charts, readily available at the click of a mouse, I am now .5 pounds below a number that is considered overweight for my height. This is after losing fourteen pounds. I'm happy I'm finally below that number. But yes, I was overweight, and now I'm just BARELY into a normal range. I could lose more than twenty additional pounds and still be in a healthy range for my height. I don't want to or need to lose twenty pounds. I'm just saying that these are the numbers all the experts give you as goals. It takes a lot of hard work to get there, and self-sacrifice, and patience, and forgiveness when you slip, and there have been and will be more slips. Hopefully, not this week.

There is one caveat to this. I'm going to work hard and do my best. But I cannot get into a mindset of "I wish I looked like ______." (Fill in the blank: spanking model, famous actress, attractive friend.) THAT'S dangerous obsessing, not healthy at all, and I can't go there. I am just Sandy, as perfect as I'm going to be.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Warm fuzzy memories*

I remember the pain. I remember I screamed several times, and probably begged at one point for it to stop. I think I remember my shock at how much it hurt, and I wondered how could I possibly take any more. (but I took more because he told me to take more.) There was fear, loss of dignity, awful pain ...

But it all fades into a warm memory, with vague images of being controlled and punished. In my mind I am submitting stoically, a willing recipient.

In reality I am not stoic. I do not take it easily. I writhe and tense up and make noise -- yelping, screaming, sobbing. Sometimes out and out crying. One thing I rarely do is use a safeword. That will take me out of the fantasy place I'm in, the place where he is in control, my fate in his hands.

And when I see him again, no matter how much I crave it and long for it, I will once again be shocked at how much it hurts, and once again I will wonder why I've placed myself in this position.

* This is not about any one particular dom, but about all the doms who know exactly what I need and can deliver it.

Friday, January 16, 2009

Uh ... my brain froze?

So I've had writer's block all week, can't think of a good topic beyond the obvious miracle rescue from the plane on the Hudson yesterday. That's been written and blogged all over, I'm sure. Oh, yes, I do have things to say, but not for this venue. So this is a blog about nothing much, except, mainly, me thinking about how cold I am.

The heat was off in our apartment for the second night in a row, and we both wore multiple layers and hats to bed. Today, for walking around the city, I wore a thick hat, furry hood, bulky gloves, and a long, thick scarf -- and I'm still cold. I get off the train at 116th and Broadway and have to walk five blocks -- not a long walk, but it's by the river and there always seems to be more wind on the side streets there. It's warm in the office, but I've been here about 20 minutes already and don't feel fully thawed yet. Up until this week, I had still been walking outside at lunchtime. Not anymore. Now I'm doing the treadmill in the little office gym, or walking up and down the stairs. We have twenty-one floors, so it's a nice workout.

Seeing people walking around outside with short jackets (some of them open) and no gloves makes me kind of nuts. I saw a deli worker outside earlier in a light vest over a short-sleeve t-shrt. Come on, man!

I say to myself, "Well, thank God I wasn't one of those people standing on the wings of a plane, the frigid waters of the Hudson lapping around their feet, waiting for their turn to get on a ferry.

Then again, the people standing on the wings were saying, "Thank God I'm on a wing and not in the water."

Then the people in the water are saying, "Thank God I didn't do what THAT guy did -- strip down to his underwear because his clothes were pulling him under."

Of course, that guy's saying, "Holy crap! I'm in my underwear and freezing my balls off, but I'm alive!"

So I can't complain, I suppose. Things could always be worse. A friend of mine likes to say, "Whenever I get depressed about my life, I tell myself I still have all my arms and legs, and my hearing and sight and a roof over my head... " Okay, Pollyanna. That's nice...

I'm going to start work in a minute. Coffee first. Much coffee.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Performance art

A lot of what I talk about here is about play at the local club or at a party. It's different than private play. Better? I wouldn't say that, but it feeds other needs in me.

When I'm put on display, I'm both nervous and proud. My head space is not the same as when I'm alone with one partner. I believe my top's head space is different, too. At least part of what we're doing is performance. If it's a serious scene, and I'm tied up first, my excitement grows and I start to fear what's about to happen. I like to watch what's going on (around me and to me), so if my top blindfolds me, he takes that pleasure away. I feel slightly disoriented. Then, it's really just him (or possibly her) and me, and I have no idea who's watching, or if anyone's watching. My ego gets pushed down. That's probably a good thing. It becomes all about taking his pain, pleasing him by my obedience. (I look at acceptance of pain as a form of obedience. Servitude is not the only form of submission. I have the ability to use a safeword at any time. I rarely do. I do not want that control, in these moments. I want that to be his.)

Most of the time I'm not blindfolded, or even tied up; I'm just told to bend over some piece of furniture and maintain the position -- which usually includes not turning my head to look around. So again, I can't see much, can't usually tell if there's an audience.

I once took a strapping in this manner, up near the main stage at Paddles. My top had bent me over a medical-type bed and ordered me to grip the sides. He had threatened me with a more serious punishment if I didn't stay in position. Plus, again, I wanted to be obedient. And I wanted to be tough. Whether anyone's watching or not, I get a sense of pride after a surviving a hard scene.

The strapping was severe, and went on much longer than I thought it would. As I remember, at one point he asked if I'd learned my lesson. "Yes, Sir!" I cried. I really didn't want any more. I had been crying out in pain during most of the scene. But we were not done. "All right," he said. "This will be the last ten."

(Oh, God! I thought to myself.) Of course he put all his strength into the those strokes and made them as painful as possible. I just held on and took it. It's easier, at least, when you have a finite number to get through.

Then we were done. I sobbed a little more before recovering and getting up to get dressed. (I rarely really cry in public.) As we were coming back down to earth, a friend of mine I hadn't seen in a while walked over. He had been watching us.

"That was beautiful," he said. "So real. I love when it's real, and when it's severe ... I could see your suffering."

Such a strange type of compliment -- but it was a compliment, and it felt good. I was happy that I'd helped make somebody else's day, along with my own...

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Soup time!

I don't think I've EVER seen a carrot this big. That's just crazy!

Soup's almost done!


As the snow softly falls in Queens, lightly coating the streets, Rad and I are settling down to some homemade split pea soup, homemade croutons, and salad. We'll probably veg out and watch a few episodes of The Office, maybe catch Saturday Night Live later.

It was a long, busy day. Crazy Black Cat had to go to the vet in the morning (another $300!), then I went to a meeting of my support group, then took a long walk, did my weight training, did a load of laundry, changed cat litter, scrubbed bathtub, and settled in for a nice hot bath. Ahhhh!

I'm tired but feel pretty good. Sorry about the obscene carrot. There was NO way I wasn't going to share that.

I'm still here...

I am writing, privately, most days. Have not been 100% perfect on THAT New Year's resolution, though I'm doing my best. Rad and I went through a personal loss this week, and we didn't really want to talk about it on our blogs or the news groups we belong to, so I've kept a lot of stuff inside. I'm kind of tired and emotional, and Rad is also not up for a big event, so we are not going to the Philly party tonight after all (Delaware Valley Spanks).

I was planning on getting a serious thrashing from Scott (of Scott and Miranda), infamous for the use of their "family strap" -- a real, very nasty strap that Miranda's mom used when she was growing up. I felt it for the first time at the last Shadow Lane party, then got a touch of it when we were at the Strictly Spanking NY party. I was still in my recovery phase then so I wasn't playing too hard. THIS weekend was supposed to be when I would REALLY get it, a thought that both scared and thrilled me.

Part of me really, really craves it. It often helps me, when I'm stressed or depressed, to get a good beating. On the other hand, when dealing with those emotions, I can't always get into the right head space to be submissive and take the harder punishment, as much as I may "need" it.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Spelling it out

I was prompted by Rad's blog today, in which he wrote about certain people at the local BDSM club: "Sometimes it’s the guy drifting through the crowd like a piece of flotsam — now he’s here, now he’s there and always with a silly smile pasted on his face. ... he apparently does not speak. He just meanders wherever there is room to walk, leaving a trail of awkwardness in his wake."

I may have discussed this before, but I still find it a problem, so I wanted to talk about it again. Feedback, of course, would be much appreciated:

There's that look in his eyes that says, "I want you." It's flattering; it's nice to be wanted. If he's a nice-looking, younger man, all the better. But then you notice that instead of talking or playing, all he's doing is hovering. Lurking. Looking. And not just at you, but at many women. Any inclination to play (or even to interact) with this man is rapidly disappearing. He looks desperate. Every time you turn around he seems to be there. Then you make eye contact -- unintentionally -- because you happen to turn your head and he's in your line of vision. "Hi!" he says brightly, a fast glimmer of hope appearing in his face. You think: I thought I just saw you on the other side of the club. How'd you end up near me again?

You break the eye contact as quickly as possible, turn away, walk away, continue whatever conversation you were involved in. Everything about your body language (at least you think) screams, "I'm not interested." But later you move to another part of the club and there he is again. "Hi!"

You decide to go top someone else. He appears again, as you are finishing up. "Hi. Could you top me next?" Dude, what do I need to do to spell it out?

Will it do any good to take him aside and explain things to him? Do I have to go through the unpleasantness of an "official declaration of non-interest"? (AKA rejection). I want to have fun when I go out. I want to play with people I enjoy playing with, not give or get pity spankings, not be the bad guy.

Sigh. I guess I'm CAN'T be a nice person here. I might as well go all the way and be a bitch. I've heard some women claim they told some guy at a party, "Get the fuck away from me!" To the best of my recollection, I've never taken that tack, although I have gotten angry when I've told someone I wasn't interested and he continued his pursuit. Some guys have this endearing little trick of waiting until Rad goes to the men's room, then zooming over to me.

I'm thinking I will talk to the one guy who prompted this blog. I don't know if it will change anything, but at least he can't claim I sent him mixed messages. And maybe there's another alternative for the future -- hand him a business card with a note: "I'm not interested in playing with you tonight, but here is my contact information and my rates if you'd like to make an appointment."


Note for my next blog: Talk about what I DO like at parties!

Monday, January 5, 2009

Doggone it!

This morning's meditation attempt wasn't so successful. My breathing was off (sinus issues) and I couldn't shut down my head. At 6 a.m. I was trying not to think about work, and no specific thoughts entered my head, but maybe it would have been better if they had. Instead it felt like this oppressive gray mass of doom bearing down on me.

When I get like this, I often think of the character Holly Hunter plays in the movie "Broadcast News." She's a TV news producer; it's of course a highly stressful job, but she's aggressive and competant and does well. However, every morning when she gets up, the first thing she does is make herself cry. She gets the cry out of the way, than is able to face the day. (Isn't there also an expression, "Eat a live frog first thing in the morning and everything else after that will seem like cake"?)

I don't know. I just know that it's Monday and I feel pressure and stress about work. It's a good job and I know if I hang on and get over this awkward period (and I'm sure that's all it is), I'll feel so much better about things. I know from past experience that the second year on the job tends to be the toughest. You're not 100 percent up to speed on everything (they didn't help much by giving me brand new things to learn over the last few months), but you no longer get that leeway that they tend to give new people.

I WILL get through it. I'm writing this on the train, so I'm not about to try to make myself cry this morning. I'm not sure that's what would work for me, anyway -- maybe in MY case I need to ask Rad to give me a whipping or caning every morning.

At one point in my life I used "positive affirmations." There was one I used that started as a joke, created by "Stuart Smalley," AKA Al Franken (can you believe he's about to become a Senator? How awesome is that?)

But here it is in all its self-actualizing brilliance: "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it -- People like me!"

Friday, January 2, 2009

Taken in hand vs. asking for it

I mentioned two days ago that there were terrific discussions and sharing among the group of spanking fetishist friends I had the honor of spending New Year's Eve/New Year's morning with. Tops and bottoms and switches weighed in on a variety of topics, and there was a lot of honesty.

At one point, we talked about "asking for play" vs. "bratting" vs. "none of the above." (Specifically, at spanking parties, where everyone presumably has the same interest).

The "none of the above" category was really something along the lines of: "You know why I'm here, I'm here because I want to get spanked -- why do I have to play games and be silly to get your attention? And why do I have to ask? I just want to be taken in hand."

That scenario HAS happened with me. But it's very, very rare, and you have to know the top well and he has to know it's okay with you and your partner, if you are part of a couple. When it does happen, though -- oh, God, it's a beautiful thing. Suddenly everything shifts from normalcy to that heart-pounding fearful anticipation as you're led away to your doom. You didn't expect it -- but now it's about to happen and you're going to get it.

At a party, I do prefer not to ask, but I don't mind it too much. If I want the scene to be more "natural" -- AKA, for there to be a reason for the spanking -- then I'll brat or do the witty banter thing. I will NOT be a brat with someone I don't want to play with. It doesn't make any sense.

I don't do over the top bratting like water guns, crackers exploding at a top's feet, or, God forbid, Silly String. Sometimes I will get physical, though. I might playfully smack a top's butt, or pretend that I'm going to spank him with something, or tug his ear -- something the top might do to ME. Childish, harmless play. When I do stuff like that to Rad he either spanks me or he'll give me a threatening look and promise to spank me later. Verbally, I may wait for a moment when he's been going on about some topic for a while, and then I'll say something sarcastic.

I don't think I would get spanked that much if I didn't ask for it or somehow call attention to myself. But there is one option, which came up -- using a go-between. If you want to play with a top but don't want to ask or be a brat, you ask a friend who knows him to see if he wants to play. Then you establish that it's okay for him just to walk up to you and "take you in hand." Then you hope it happens at a moment when you're not involved in a conversation with another top you've been hoping to play with...

"Goals," not "resolutions"

First of all, Happy New Year to everyone reading this. Rad and I spent New Year's Eve with a small group of spanking friends, and we all stayed overnight at our host's house -- some on air mattresses in the living and dining room, others in upstairs bedrooms -- and it was lovely waking up together the next morning sharing bagels and coffee and fruit, continuing conversations (and some spankings) that had started the night before, getting to know people better -- people I've known for several years but never had serious, in-depth conversations with. We will see most of them again tomorrow night at Paddles (OTK night, the first of 2009).

I started a list of about twenty New Year's resolutions sometime during the day on New Year's Eve (I figure you have to establish your resolutions BEFORE the stroke of midnight, right?). But it started to get ridiculous -- practice guitar twice a week, meditate every day, exercise every day, write every day, work on my mosaics, create a professional website, take an exercise course, take a professional course, take a self-improvement course, pay off all my credit cards by March, etc. etc.

I decided it was too much. There are some things that are important -- I do have to pay off my credit cards, but perhaps "by March" is too ambitious. I am going to try to meditate every day for ten minutes, and to write every day for maybe 10 or 15 minutes. These are things that I need for my own well-being. I'm already exercising every day, so I'll just continue that in the new year.

I thought of one other goal, which is to answer my cell phone instead of letting it go to voicemail UNLESS I'm in a place where I can't do that, and to respond to all voice messages, emails, or text messages within 24 hours.

The other goals are good and I'll work toward them, but won't consider them "do this or you will have failed" resolutions. That's the problem with resolutions -- they become "do this or you have failed" albatrosses.

I do have one HUGE resolution (and I'm calling it a resolution because it is a really important thing that I want to improve in my life), and that is to be more positive and more accepting of myself, and to stop feeling so f'ing guilty every time I turn around.