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The online diary of an ethical pervert.
Chiaroscuro gets the mask out of his bag and puts it in my hands. It's a puppy mask made of rubber, very dark grey and quite thick, smelling strongly of latex. Unlike other masks I played with, and generally I do love playing with masks, this one has a realistic face - it's a doggy face, a kind of Labrador cross with a bulldog face. It's well made and and the mould has been shaped so that the protruding mouth and nose offers a very dog like expression. He inclines his head down a little so his face is in the mask, I put a hand on his neck and zip the mask closed. He kneels. Paws go on and are buckled in place, then finally a collar to complete the picture.
The transformation is quite startling, his physicality alters immediately, becoming looser around the shoulders and arms. His strength held in the back and thighs with a centre of gravity that is now much lower and powered from the hips. He launches himself forward with great speed and exuberance after objects thrown into the crowd. He is delightful. There's a mix of giggles and some cries of annoyance and I find myself heading after the puppy to detach him from people's legs. This is a different type of dog to the others, I'm learning that all puppies are very unique. The negotiation document was useful, but nothing compares to actually seeing it in practice. This one is playful, energetic and easily distracted. An actual puppy as opposed to a grown dog. And he's off again...
The mask is causing me some problems, however. I'm used to masks that erode the face completely - either a smooth veneer of latex or some other abstract, obviously fake pattern without expression. Onto those blank slates one can paint whatever attitude you like, or, as I quite like to do, just let them be neutral, absent, inhuman and servile machines or dolls. With the knowledge that a real face sits beneath, in pleasure or in pain or both at once. But it can't be seen. Only heard. Here, there is a fake face, one that is very expressive - a realistic and bouncy, pleasing dog face. It looks happy, although also just a little dim. It's real enough to make me react to it, to view the dog face as the actual face, although of course I know it isn't, and makes it very strange to watch. A few people in the room find it decidedly eerie, perhaps in a similar way to how some people can react to the doll suit. It has a certain unheimlich quality to it - that sense of the familiar being made strange or inaccessible. Like toys that speak or everyday items suddenly doing something they should not.
I'm doing a double take throughout. Parallel processing the dog-with-a-face and the boy-in-the-dog and trying to look after both. It's quite a challenge and I find myself at times a little confused as to what to do because it's an explicitly non-sexual scenario which is very interesting and not a type of play I often engage in, although find myself doing more and more as I explore specific kinks and activities. I absolutely don't want to fuck the dog, and even less be fucked by the dog, because that would be bestiality - and that would be "wrong". This is a puppy. You just don't do that to puppies. Something that needs looking after, caring for, playing with, owning and training. But an asexual thing. Similarly, the feelings I get from the dog do not make me feel sexual - I feel wanted, important and powerful but I don't feel desired in that way - and neither do I want to be.
Perhaps the face has something to do with that - making it much more animal than boy-pretending-to-be-an-animal. Or forced to behave like one, which would be a sexual experience. I'm learning as I go (aren't we all?) but each new partner shows me just how context influenced, specific and individual - and frankly, damn changeable and plain whimsical - my tastes can be. Over the past few months I've learnt how D/s can be a non-sexual thing and still be exciting. Perhaps this is the one of the key differences between my dominant and submissive desires - I certainly prioritise and need a lot of sexual attention from my partner as a submissive, but as a dominant, less so. Perhaps because the control, manage and withholding of the sexual needs of others requires an attitude of being the stronger party - the one who doesn't "need", because they can simply take as and when. Which means I can luxuriate in knowing it's always there as opposed to hoping for the crumbs as and when they fall. Or dog biscuits.
Friday was surprisingly busy for me - I thought that I would just spend a couple of hours in the company of The Ladies Who... then return home, however once needles had gone in and out, I remembered why I always pack my Just In Case and got changed into something a little less comfortable to go to the Camden Munch. By the time we arrived it had already turned from a munch and was well on the way to being a party - a number of submissives were tied together in some sort of competitive bondage conga line and drinks were flowing freely. I spent a very happy hour or so saying "hello" to people including Captain who was one of the event organisers, before spying a rather good looking chap amidst the rope pile and was feeling decidedly "want-take-have". Rossetti and I had been discussing only recently the need for more men on the scene, and this seemed as good a time as any to take an active role in making that happen. So, feeling only a bit predatory, and rather buoyed up by that feeling I took him under my wing and back to the after-party.
I like showing people around the scene - there's something about introducing them to something new, something that they had perhaps hoped for. It's also good to be able to see everything through someone else's eyes and Blondie's enthusiasm was catching, he had a grin from ear to ear. When people smile in the presence of so much rubber, leather, buckles and metal there's really only one thing to do and that's to put your arms around them from behind and press against the back of their knees until they fall to the ground. It's only polite, after all?
A part of me was a bit surprised at what I did - I'm normally a lot more patient and pre-planned, but it seemed like an opportunity had presented itself to me and that it would be silly to pass it up. And I quietly whispered in his ear to tap his hand twice if there were any problems - I always like that moment, like telling someone to hold on tight because it's going to be a bumpy ride, the signal that things are going to happen. And that they might not like them.
As it turns out I was very gentle - the crowd present plus the fact that I did not know him or his body meant that I went slow and easy. Something fun. Which meant collar, ball gag, public stripping and a bit of light teasing and pinching. I like using my hands, to get the feel of someone else's skin and flesh beneath my fingertips. You get all the twitches, fits and starts that way, plus you can hear their moans through their chest so it doesn't matter how loud the music is. It's funny how my mind splits into two directions during the early stages of play - one side is concerned and a little hand wringing "oooh, careful, he made a little squeak, watch out, is that part of him going pink?" and the other part (a much bigger part) is giggling and clapping its hands whilst going "again! again! again!" I like to think that I am a cool, unruffled and terribly serious dominant but may have to accept that I am actually more of an evil, gleeful child. Still, it's called play for a reason, no?
I smiled (smirked) to myself as I discovered his very sensitive chest area: it's always a good sign when someone closes their eyes in that slow-lidded blissed-out way. I could feel his cock go hard against the light tapping of my fingers and mentally filed him under possibly CBT candidate - certainly he'd seemed keen to try a number of activities - and enjoyed the vibrations from his muffled moan as I kissed his lips around the ball gag, liking withholding as much as I liked what I was taking. And looking forward to taking some more.
Needles are a rare luxury for me, and needles with Empress even more so. She is, as I was enthusing (slightly wobbly voiced and wobbly knee-d) later on exceptionally good at it, not simply the technical ability but the entire experience which captures her enthusiasm for the art and for you as a subject of her skill.
"I'll just strap you down, for safety" I can hear the grin in her voice and it makes me grin too - one thing about a Ladies Who... meet up is that there's a great balance of intense play with a very light-hearted attitude underlying it. Fear and tension are created, yes, but also dispelled and expurgated. Plus there's cake, and often champagne which tends to soothe mostly everyone. I only had a glass and a bit though after being reminded of the need to not pour blood all over the floor.
She puts me on the bench and ties me down after I've stripped down to my pants. I relax into the soft leather covered pads and let my arms rest loose against the metal bars beneath. I close my eyes and listen to the ritual rustling of plastic gloves, alcohol wipes being torn from packages. The liquid is cold on my bare back and makes me gasp a little, which then becomes a nervous giggle. It's been a while since I've played with needles - a long while. I know that they hurt. I know that I like them. I can't remember what the balance feels like. I breathe out and try not to clench my muscles.
The first one goes in... Then out. That's when they hurt. A bright, light pain that makes me wince for less than a second before sparks and flashes appear behind my eyelids and the high kicks in. I don't know where it comes from, it's like the world disappears from beneath me and I am floating where once I was lying in a room. Everything is buzzing. My breathing slows and I become very conscious of my skin and my presence within it: the blood just under the surface. I am a space, warm, wide and deep. It's a little like the moment just upon waking, when everything is calm and numb and not quite present within the real world.
More needles. Sharp and hard when they puncture the skin on entry and departure, like the briefest, cruelest kisses. Once there, lodged like lovers under the epidermis they are snug and lively. The feeling is similar to electric pads from an E-stim unit - an ongoing sensation that has no physical force behind it. The closest and best analogy is the shiver that runs through your body when you take an Ecstasy pill, that increased awareness and sensation, the hot/cold wash of reaction that is the first flushes of a body in mild shock.
There are noises in the background. Voices talking. Someone is screaming. It provokes little response in me, as if heard from the bottom of a well. Murmurs and moans. I can see the floor when I open my eyes but I'm not really looking, not really taking it in. I am being taken in, instead, falling freely into the blank space of spreading, dreamy sensation. And it is very dreamlike, both at the time and afterwards. I tried to describe the experience at a munch the following day and I suspect the questioner found my free-associating a little vague and disconcerting, but it's impossible to be precise. Now, a few days later I'm stuck in the usual place of not really being able to remember it, although the marks are still there, thin red lines over my shoulder blades. Fine razor slices. When I touch them I can almost call to mind the wicked pleasure they are a memorial to - but only just, like a wil o' the wisp it is beyond my reach.
I'm a little rushed off my feet at the moment, so you will have to forgive the drive-by posting. I imagine there will be rather a lot to write about in the next few weeks, mostly because of all the activity keeping me away from the keyboard.
The Ladies Who are meeting up this Friday, after many long, drawn out diary planning sessions. We're convening at Captain's studio which will then probably turn into a party, after party and after-after party - I'm already trying to work out how many outfits that entails and whether I should just drag it up in boy-issue black combats and vest top. Opportunities to show off my arms should give me the incentive I need to keep going to the gym - it's been hard work getting out of bed for the past two weeks - more because of the dark weather. I'm currently in the middle of puppy negotiations with Chiaroscuro for a night out at Club Rub's timely animal play party on Saturday, so do stop and say "hello" if you spot us.
Finally, I am very happy to be part of the Peer Rope London team, hosting the first event under slightly revised management this Sunday. It's interesting being recruited to an event because of my experience in being tied up rather than the reverse (given about half an hour and some guidance it's possible I can tie a granny knot). I think that sort of attitude speaks volumes about the PRL ethos: informal, friendly, mixed abilities and plenty to experience and learn for those on both sides of the knots. And for those who like to mix it up a little...
"We have to talk." A serious tone from Dandy, sat on the end of the bed, beckoning for me to sit with him.
Well that's the end of that then. Because no-one begins a conversation with those four words and ever intends anything other than having to let someone down, no matter how gently. Precursors of bad news just as going for a coffee means remembering to buy condoms on your way there. We talked anyway, because that's just what you do, as if the reasoning behind the decision is in someway going to make anything any better, on either side of the break. Ultimately, when one person decides they don't want to carry on, there's not a lot of point in saying "stay". As it happens, he stayed the night, and we fucked and I had a dog for one more day which was more than my due, but come the morning the decision was still the same. The details aren't important, the result is what matters. And the result is that I don't have him any more.
I feel angry and disappointed, much more so than upset. Possibly because the coldly rational part of my brain (small, but nevertheless there) was prepared for this eventuality following the last time this happened. I suppose that knowing what I did about how he felt for someone else, I didn't trust him enough to let my nascent feelings develop into anything more than a strong sense of possession. But within that possession there were many other things besides. I enjoyed his company, he made me happy, and proud. We held hands, lapped up joint compliments - oh yes we looked good together and didn't we just know it? I liked having messages each day, of little things of no consequence, but reminders all the same. A kiss upon waking and going to sleep. Missing him and being missed in return. Being part of something, meaning something to someone, in whatever small way.
I'm disappointed that it ended, though not surprised. I'd be lying if I said that I expected this to happen - I wouldn't have agreed to the D/s set up if I thought it was doomed to fail, and certainly I hoped that with time his feelings for her would diminish and he would come into himself again. I still do, because with or without me he's got that to deal with. And I've been in that place where the unrequited, unfulfilled emotions you have for someone you can't have cause you to do harm to those that do want to come near. It's not a nice place and it makes you ugly and difficult. I don't envy him. I'm not without sympathy, but I'm also not without self-awareness so right now I'm staying clear. Especially because I am angry.
I'm angry at him for making what I (naturally) consider to be the wrong decision. I consider the situation as manifestly unfair. It's a quiet anger, reduced from yesterday where I was sorely missing something to punch. Part is frustration at having got so far and then be denied just when things seemed to be going so well. Part is the knee-jerk growl at having that which is mine taken away. Most of it is a kind of "oh, for fuck's sake" exasperation. My hands thrown up in the air as I stalk back to the drawing board, back to the dating sites and back to the list of what I want.
The interesting thing is what I'm not feeling. I'm fed up but not upset, I haven't cried and I certainly don't blame myself because I'm damn sure I didn't put a foot wrong and that if anyone is at fault, it is not me. I had a lot of fun and I'm sad that it ended, but I have no regrets. I absolutely would have made the same decision again if I went back in time and was faced with the question of whether the take him back for the second time. Not a third time though. It was a great ride, but I'm done with that merry-go-round.
A conversation on my twitter stream got me to think about crying, kink and gendered attitudes to emotional release. Bear with me, it will all merge together seamlessly. Crying - and I mean genuine, gut-wrenching bent over uncontrollable snotty sobbing rather than a few Virgin Mary dew drops on the cheek - is an astonishing outpouring of human emotion and a very challenging thing to watch and to participate in, especially if you are kinky.
Even if you are not, it is a strange sensation, a rarity to see someone cry in public for example, except on cases of obvious exception such as a funeral - in which case the oddity is not crying. Social expectations, perhaps in particular British social expectations mean that the physical breakdown and loss of control shown through crying can make us feel very uncomfortable. We know that someone is unhappy, so unhappy that they are unable to mask that feeling in accordance with the weight of social convention. We empathise with them, and perhaps our heart gives a little pang as it reaches out to them, but at the same time we feel a barrier, we may even feel awkward around them, possibly needing to move away. They have passed over a certain point, we have not.
Dacryphilia, to give it the full name is a complicated beastie, as hinted in the wiki link.Tears, especially a man's tears, are rare, hard and beautiful like diamonds. More so than anger, which is the more generally conditioned male response and certainly the most socially acceptable. One could argue that men are taught to get angry and women are taught to cry, certainly I have been around many more crying women than men and the few men who have cried in my presence have been long term partners after a serious emotional incident.
I love tears. Both crying and the idea of making someone cry. Tears evoke exactly the sort of push/pull response that is the foundation of my own power exchange and D/s. They are a release that gives intense relief after something pent up has been let go - in a very similar way to pain play or to orgasm, an ideal scenario (for me at any rate) would involve all three. It hits all of my buttons. The physical manifestation of an emotional and psychological overload: the mixture of shame, sexual flush, fear and desire. I find tears fascinating. I don't cry often in the presence of others - like many I view breaking down in tears as having "lost" and I have yet to force anyone else to the point of tears. But I want to.
At the moment I can only imagine what it might be like to be the dominant in such a scenario - I have been on the other side of the equation so I understand the level of submission and emotional reliance that this can entail, and therefore the duty of care and responsibility that kind of crying it would bring, would mean. Equally I know that, like orgasm, the release can be very context specific. I have cried as a bottom and it has been a pleasure to cry and to experience the joy of doing so. And finally, I have cried simply for the sorrow and loss of the end of a D/s relationship that was very special and important to me - one that I thought would be forever. I literally sat down and wept every single day for a couple of weeks, I am certain that I cried more than I have ever cried in my life. But each day I cried a little less, and like the washing out of shore by the tides it cleansed something inside of me.
I want to kiss the tears that I have created off the glistening cheeks of my lover as I wrap my arms around them and let them sob their heart out, comforting and protecting them. The need to cry is in some respects like the need for orgasm, and to be the person who can inspire and fulfill both those needs must be a heady sensation indeed. It's one thing to bring someone to orgasm - even going via a humiliating or challenging route, quite another to make them do so through a mist tears. To take them through that barrier of social constraint, to the next level of trust and opening up, to mingle hurt with pleasure with loss of bodily control. To know, and yet not quite know, because the inside of other people's heads and hearts are still a wonderful mystery, that their tears are like yours in part but belong to you in whole.
The lovely Chiaroscuro sent me this link on puppy play and negotiations. We met for a coffee a few weeks back to discuss all things boy-shaped-yet-also-canine. It is to my detriment that I have yet to set a date to actually play with him, my diary is descending once more into chaos and for certain people, such as The Ladies Who... for example it has been almost six months since I last met for more than a drink and a wink across the bar. But, my own planning aside, it's time to seriously consider the puppy and what he is made of beyond the fact that they are fun and make me smile.
The term of address "puppy" is a charming condescension - full of warmth and acceptance of foibles and foolishness, demeaning but not cruel or unkind. The puppy is not a person, but unlike other dehumanising power exchanges this isn't necessarily a bad thing, certainly not when puppy play is desired from the submissive (I can imagine that it would be a key tool in humiliation scenes if someone found it embarrassing to be turned into an animal). For the moment I'll discuss my play with Dandy who wants to be a puppy, who find it a comfortable, pleasant and safe space to be in.
There's two main areas of discussion, the first is how I view him in relation to myself and the second is the activities we partake in (and my thoughts on future activities). More than a puppy, I think of him as my dog. The age is relevant and has a knock-on effect on the sort of training and situations that work well. He's a smart dog, well groomed, honed and completely house trained. He is also a strong animal, loyal and with well developed protective instincts. In my mind he is an Alsatian, perhaps a police dog, muscular, a little aggressive and able to rip the throat out of anyone who upsets me. I've probably been watching too much True Blood (is there such a thing?) but I'm also thinking Werewolf - I absolutely derive a thrill from submission by those physically stronger and more powerful than me, whose power I can either turn against them or use to do my bidding. I think he sees himself more of a Labrador, but we're both working within a tolerable range of dog-types.
For myself, I am certainly his owner, and probably his trainer, though he is quite well behaved and his own desire to please means that I don't require much in the way of choke leads or rolled up newspaper - just as well as that sort of thing done too often would become quite tiresome I imagine - "forced" submission is not high on my list of things I enjoy.
Our play has generally more puppy-flavoured than being pure bred animal only play. We don't use a lot of kit or do much in the way of puppy dress up. There is a butt plug with a lovely wolfish tail that I like to use on him when I can - the physical shape and pressure it creates is a sign of my ownership - I can stroke and play with it and he'll feel the vibrations. On one rather memorable moment he started to whimper because I was leaning on his tail. Also, it just looks damn hot against his naked bottom. Hoods are a bit of a difficulty, which is unfortunate because I quite like them, so I'm considering some sort of muzzle that isn't as enclosing but creates the right shape. Similarly, paws.
In terms of how the dog looks he will be mostly naked and always on all fours - we do a lot of work on posture - how he holds himself, sits etc and I tend to move him around by placing a hand on the scruff of his neck. He will waggle his bottom when happy and licks my face when excited. He even has certain puppyish characteristics when not strictly in role. He will happily sit at my feet, makes tiny growls of pleasure if his neck is scratched and says "ruff" every now and then - the frequency of his doing these things is often a good indication of how submissive he is feeling.
Play involves a lot of stroking, general fuss and just having him around as a dog - it's quite light because he's well behaved and doesn't require much punishment plus even I find it a challenge to be cruel to a dog for no reason. Even giving him a wash in the shower on all fours or grooming with an epilator caused a lot of unhappy looks and whimpers that made me feel mean, and not in a good way. I generally stick to light taps around the cock and balls area when I feel like delivering something harder. I'm quite keep to employ electricity in future sessions, but the violet wand seems like the wrong tool - remote control pads would be better. I also want to do some more longer term play where he's in dog mode for an entire evening, and then perhaps take him out to a club or to do some socialising classes with other dogs.
An aide-memoir, more than anything else. Today I posted on my Twitter feed asking for suggestions for future posts that you might like to read - not that I have writer's block or anything, just attempting to provide a bit of customer satisfaction. So, over the next couple of months, in amongst my own offerings I shall be writing about:
- Girls
- Kit and clothing
- "Vanilla" life and its influence on my kinks
- What I want to do - an updated list of demands, from my now very outdated list.
- Words and power
- Switching and power exchange - how it works
- My kink and my relationships
Feel free to add to this list in the comments.
And happy reading...
"Do you want to just lie back and let me please you?"
Yes. Yes I do. Being dominant doesn't mean being on top and active at all times. Leastways, mine doesn't. I like attention too and the general sense of being looked after. Sometimes I want to take charge and throw someone around, tie them up and watch them squirm, sometimes I want to dabble my fingers into their brains without lifting a finger, right now I want to relax and let my body be the centre of his world.
Watching Dandy kneeling on the floor, carefully removing my skirt and underwear (the stripey knee-high socks stay on, of course) and placing his hands on either side of my hips before he presses his tongue lightly against my clit. It's a view I don't think I'll get tired of any time soon. Cunnilingus is a pleasure quite unlike any other form of stimulation. The combination of delicate pressure, together with the submission inherent in the action, creates a heady mix of psychological and physical pleasure. I need the two in order for it to work - the sensation alone is rarely enough, but the context makes for an explosive orgasm. The orgasms themselves are longer, wetter and more powerful than those achieved by masturbation. They are also harder to attain, take longer and can be more unpredictable. It's around fifty-fifty whether I will come or not or whether I will just get too sensitive to take any more.
Start with the physical. First, and rather obviously, I don't have to do anything. I can just make myself comfortable and enjoy the sensations. It's a blissful feeling, the wetness against wetness. It needs to be exquisitely delicate, barely a brush or whisper of the tongue and the lips, and consistency is also important: my orgasms are fickle and require a regularity that I can rely upon to carry me over the edge. I know that it's working when my head clears, and I find myself held in a blank, warm state, floating against his tongue. After a while, my feet and hands start to tingle with pins and needles, my fingers flex and I know that soon I will orgasm. There is a thrill that runs through me, from the warmth in my cunt and up right to the top of my head. Full of the knowledge that this is my boy, my toy and my object of desire serving me.
For me, receiving head is a dominant act and though I've heard others argue the contrary, from the Romans onwards through to Majeste who speaks of "tasting what is hers" there is a theory of giving oral sex as an active, thereby dominant role. However, there's not really much altering of my internal logic on this front. I find it impossible to enjoy oral sex in the submissive or bottom position, it feels strange, awkward. However, as a dominant I find it is perfect. The cutting out of the submissive's ability to speak, the knelt position, face obscured, the fact that unlike fucking, there is no comparable reciprocal sensation here, all make me feel extremely powerful.
He is serving my desires without taking a similar level of pleasure and that also makes me feel very dominant. However, the important thing is that he must enjoy doing it. This is not something I would be at all comfortable taking or really forcing on someone. There are many unpleasant acts that I would happily and with an evil grin put him through merely to keep me amused but anything to do with my body must be something he is not only willing but keen to the point of desperate. I imagine him begging to do it, crawling on all fours. Or as part of a daily routine, a wake-up call or goodnight kiss. Oral sex is like a compliment paid through the mouth. The value he assigns to my body is reflective of the value he assigns to me and hence to my superior position in the power exchange. And frankly, if your submissive doesn't get excited by serving the sexual needs of your body then there is something sadly wrong.
The other, final, element that turns me on is my own comparable passivity in the situation. I am not exerting myself, he is making all the effort - he laps: I lap up the pleasure. Perfect.
Another day, another search for the mot juste. I'm still in want of a title and this time the request is from Dandy. Given the wealth of names I've covered him with - boy, puppy, slave, toy, bitch, slut - it's a bit of a sticking point that I can't find one to fit me.
Recently, I've been thinking about the word "Lady". I can't help but snigger when I say it. I shouldn't, but I do. It's the way the word rolls off the tongue with a fruity comedic tone laaady straight out of Little Britain. Images of corny Disney films spring to mind, as does the Covent Garden institution and quaint publication The Lady.All fancy and fusty and formal and other F words. We have a standing joke amongst my feminist friends - lady business which can mean anything from serious political commentary on women's issues, needing to go and buy tampons and everything in between. But the joke covers something up, as a lot of humour tends to do. That the word is a little lost to me, a form of "being feminine" that I am no longer connected to nor feel able to easily adopt.
We no longer live in a world of ladies and gentlemen, except for signage on toilet doors and announcements in foyers or on trains. Part of me feels a little whimsical over this,
There is an attraction in the word and also in the idea. I can't quite see the attraction in those Eliza Doolittle programmes that attempt to fake status, but admire the genuine possession and self possession of truly being a lady. Actually having hauteur, privilege, nobility and raised status rather than being taught the difference between a serviette and a napkin. D/s aims for the former, naturally - the power exchange is real and belle dame sans merci is absolutely a trope I can fit into my dominance, as is the aspect of the Queen. Although never Goddess. I don't especially want to mingle sex and religion, except to upset dinner parties. Lady suits well enough, but not quite enough for me to feel entirely comfortable in it at all times. Maybe there's something in being a switch, but certainly I am very comfortable in my ownership and control of Dandy - to the point of being a little smug at times.
I have an instinctive rebellion against the traditional requirements of being ladylike. Probably more to do with ideas over what a person should and shouldn't be like and a hatred of not being allowed to do what I wanted to do in the outfits I wanted to do it in because I am female and therefore must behave in such-and-such a manner. I was fortunate in my upbringing in that my parents taught good manner irrespective of gender but well-meaning other relatives certainly had views. There is a requirement for good behaviour from a lady, for politeness and for genteel manners and mannerisms which doesn't exactly allow for down and dirty behaviour. On the other hand some parts of my dominance sit very well with being a lady - I enjoy courtly showings of respect, my chair pulled out and doors held open, politeness from my subjects and control exerted with the flick of a wrist rather than the (frankly boring) "forced" submission.
There is another issue - that of my own gender identity. I believe that femininity, like masculinity, is less like black and white and more like colours of grey on a spectrum. Some days I feel more masculine than others, some days more feminine. And I think that lady is absolutely a feminine word. I don't want to site myself within femdom, but rather simply dominance.
But like gender, lady too has a range - there's Lady Di and Lady Gaga for a start, both absolutely feminine, but both very different. Furthermore the famous Ladyboys of Bankok amongst many other boys in dresses, drag performers and gender impersonators manage to be ultra feminine without a jot of genetic womanhood between them. Can one be a lady without the sequins or the eyeliner? With a wry smile I must admit there is something fetching and a bit perverse about being sincerely and submissively addressed as "lady" whilst wearing heavy boots and combat trousers. Be a lady and a bastard at the same time. Worth a try. It's a word that's worth reclaiming in all its glory. To escape from the dreadful realms of words like "ladygarden" (I have an ongoing hatred for cutesy words for cunt) and thoughts of Austen-like formality and being seen not heard. Like "gay", still used as a form of abuse, lady can be used to diminish or put down - "little lady" or to force behaviours on women in the name of social conceits of femininity. Time to take it back and to acknowledge ownership of the pleasure and power in the word. To be a lady and to define what that means is absolutely a worthwhile thing to do. I'll keep the strength, the sovereignty and the links to womanhood (I might muck around with my gender but I certainly identify as female) throw out the requirement to always have pin curls, to mind my p's and q's and to bow to other people's expectations of what being ladylike means.
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