Monday, June 24, 2013

The Dreadful Drive

What lay in the future, after some time sleeping, and then some early morning waking and dog walking, was some extended road tripping. We got into a little city with a small co-op, where I bought a little wine and some chocolate and other things to fill out camp meals. We had a cooler packed with mostly enough food for one camp meal, but would need to get food for a further camp meal.

We had the monks on our radar, but decided that we would hit the monks in  the morning, as that night we were going to camp out in High Rock Bay. This is a little-known point somewhere in the middle of nowhere in the Keweenaws. This was supposed to contain the road that I would theoretically not like. We had the dog all bundled up, the car was packed, the tent was good, and after taking some random touristy-type shots I was ready to embark on hitting the road.

We pulled out onto a pointy promenade at the top of a mountain and looked down into the pretty valleys all around us. The sky was clear, open, and blue, not a cloud in sight. We walked about, got swarmed by flies,  and then headed back to the car for a long gravel-road trip.

As we pulled out toward the state park to head toward the bay I was feeling pretty good. The road was gravelly and bumpy, but for the most part I found myself liking the road, as I tend to do.

“This is not so bad,” I remarked.

“We aren’t there yet.”

“What do you mean 'we aren’t there yet'? This is pretty off-road.”

“This is nothing.”

“So the next road  is a little bumpier?”

My queries were met with silence, which should have been some kind of warning.

At the next turnoff there was a half-hearted sigh, and something that sounded like “here we go” and then we pulled onto a road made of clay. When I say a road made of clay, I do not mean that it was a road. It was mostly clay, red-packed clay, but clay, where you could clearly see the tire tracks of those who had gone before, in trucks and SUV’s, and where they had clearly got stuck and spun out. I found myself suddenly playing the role of navigator after we almost ripped out the engine by putting the wheels of the car on opposite sides of a very high hump in the road.

“You are gonna have to get up on one side or keep it angled on the side,” I said.

“Yeah, I get that but I can’t quite tell.” Which lead to me pointing and calling out directions as the Boy very patiently maneuvered around the road. I worked to keep us from spinning out, which we managed to mostly do with only one or two moments of gut-wrenching terror. The dog, poor Gracey, was not amused, and tried several times to climb into the front seat. From what I could tell she thought it might be a good idea if she drove, and her mind was set on turning the hell around.

We kept pushing down the road until we came to quite a steep incline.

At the bottom of the incline was a creek.

The creek ran across the road.

“You have got to be kidding.”

“It’s not that deep,” he responded.

“No. No. We are not driving through the river.”

“It’s not really a river.”

“There is no road.”

“There is a road, it  just happens to be under water.”

“No.”

“You want to turn around and go back?” He had me and he knew it. I still made him get out of the car and walk through the creek so we could see how deep it was and know what we would need to avoid to successfully make it through and avoid a suddenly awful drop off. I closed my eyes tight after calling out to stay to the right, and we managed to push on through.

After that it was only about an hour more of the sickening clay road with sickening clay holes before we finally managed to pull off onto the end of the world, the pretty little prominent spot that was High Rock Bay. The sea was gorgeous and flowing and looked far too much like a sea to insult it by calling it a lake. This was, indeed, a Superior body of water. I scoped out the area, but we had it all to ourselves, so after a few minutes, I figured out where the tent would go. We divided the labor, with me putting up the tent and the Boy starting a fire and unpacking the dinner equipment. Within forty minutes we had a tent up, and I was ready to start the cooking part of our trip.

Dinner were some lovely cooked-over-an-open-fire chicken sausages with grilled asparagus and some nice cherry tomatoes from the local farmers market. We enjoyed it thoroughly while we had the place to ourselves.

Saturday, June 22, 2013

Planning Negotiations

It had started with a conversationat least this particular leg of the journey had started that way.

“Where do you want to go camping?” the Boy asked me.

“I’m up for anything as long as we can get the monk bread,” is what I responded.

“Well, there is one place, it is really nice, but you won’t like getting there.”

“Why not?”

“It has a road you won’t like.”

I tried to imagine what a road I wouldn't like would look like and finally came to the conclusion that there was no such thing as a road I didn’t like.

“I like roads,” I finally managed to wittily retort with.

“You won’t like this one; it has all the qualities of being a road you won’t like.”

“Is it an actual road?” This is what I thought to ask, because clearly I was fine with roads.

“Well, yes, it’s a road. It’s on a map.

“Then I’m sure I will be fine with it.”

“But you don’t like dirt roads,” he responded.

“I’m fine with dirt roads, whatever, let’s go to this mystery place.”

So we packed up the car for camping to leave out on a Thursday night after I’d finished up some work for the day, to head toward the Upper Peninsula with a very nervous dog. Somehow she got a clear idea a that we were going somewhere and she was very upset about it because she didn’t know what the exact plan was. In the end we managed to get on the road at a sleepily late hour and somewhere near Green Bay it became too much for the entire party so it was determined to stop. This would have been uneventful if it had not been for the most hellishly designed traffic circle I have ever seen.

“Who...who...the fuck! puts a traffic circle immediately off an expressway?” I managed to exclaim about forty times, because this traffic circle was like the traffic circle of doom. Aside from being placed immediately off an expressway, you would end up going round and round, and, if not paying attention, have a great opportunity to go the wrong way down one-way streets. While sleeping in a nice motel was a bonus, the fact that the circle had to be braved the next morning put an unpleasant edge on the experience. We were only almost hit by a car three times, but managed to escape and continue on to the road of potential doom that lay in our future.

Friday, June 21, 2013

Bear Season

After Kinkfest weekend, the next week felt horribly bland, but I was looking forward to yet another weekend, for an entirely different reason. We were going camping.

The boy, my lovely boy, loves monk bread. There is, though, only one way to get monk bread. Okay, there are two. You can have it delivered, or you can drive to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and buy some directly from monks. This had occurred last September when we decided to go camping while I was home. I decided this had to happen sooner rather than later, which had us up in Michigan around the first week of September, 2011. We camped in a beautiful national park that had a very convenient little outhouse right next to the campground. I’d helped my love put up the tent and we spent three days camping there. The first night, as we were getting ready to go to bed, we were packing up things in the camp when the Boy asked, “What should we do about the dog?”

“Tie her to a tree?” I responded.

“Well, she won’t like it, but there is also the problem of the bears.”

“What bears?”

“There are bears.”

“How many bears?”

“We probably won’t see any bears.”

“You didn’t say anything about bears.”

“Well, it the forest.”

“Then maybe the dog should stay in the car,” I said. The tent we had was small, with barely enough room for the two of us. The next morning we had gone so I could get some coffee. The lovely attendant at the little gas station/pantry-that-could happily helped me with coffee and chatted me up about where I was staying. I explained that we were camping out in the national  forest, to which she smiled and asked how long we’d stay.

“Probably three days.”

“Well, if you hear any gunshots, don’t you worry about it,” she said back.

“Why is that?”

“Oh, well, it’s bear season so there are a lot of hunters out there tracking bears.”

The Boy (who was listening to this exchange) just kind of smiled.

“Bear season. It’s bear season, really?”

“Oh yes, all sorts of bears,” replied the woman. My love was just quietly amused.

We did not get attacked by bears during the trip, although it didn’t stop me from worrying about getting eaten by bears.

The same day I did not get eaten by bears we were scheduled to go and get some monk bread at the Poor Rock Abbey. The Boy had been talking it up for a month, so I figured we needed to go and do that.

Poor Rock Abbey is a pretty little abbey tucked into a bend on the road in Michigan in the Keweenaws. The little abbey apparently supports itself greatly through the making of bread and jams. This is what brought us out the first time. Though it was almost an all-day drive we made it there and bought some bread, then went up to a little turn off to enjoy some of the great beautiful Lake Superior.

“So what is in this bread anyway?” I asked.

“Eggs, sugar, raisins, and about a fifth of bourbon,” he responded. He wasn’t kidding either; the bread, after being made, was then soaked to absorption in bourbon.

“Can you get drunk eating this bread?”

“Not quickly…” he trailed off.

“Should you be eating this bread while driving?”

“Probably not,” he responded and then munch, munch, munch on the bread. This was my introduction to the Poor Rock Abbey monk bread. He wasn’t kidding, either; the bread is practically more bourbon than loaf, and  it is to die for. For Christmas I tried the other way of getting monk bread, which was having it delivered. They called it air mail, and no matter what I did, I still couldn’t help but think of a Monk swinging his way out of a helicopter with a box of monk bread and jam under his arm, knocking on the door to deliver the bread, and then being whisked into the air on a rope line that he climbed up as the awed receiver of the bread package watched him fly away.

It had been six months since monk bread, and now it was time for monk bread. We were going camping.

Thursday, June 20, 2013

The Quiet End of Kinkfest

The reason  for leaving Shibaricon was to get back in time to get ready for the Fetish Ball. Honestly, the Fetish Ball was fun, but I was so tired I barely recall it. We went back to Shibaricon the next day and I had an awesome self-bondage class with DoNotGoGently. Her attention to detail and her willingness to discuss personal safety made the class worthwhile. She also taught a couple of quick ties that I didn’t know, and clarified some basics that I should  have known. This has all made me realize that I need to teach some basics to help further get my head around it, but I truly valued her patient practice.


The second class with Lochai, was no less amazing than the first. The only regret I have is not being able to volunteer fast enough to have him put rope on me, but considering how overwhelmed I was by his sheer presence, I’m not sure my panties would have survived it. 

Aside from that, I also managed to run into some Shmeng people and took in the decorative rope bondage class being led by the rope master who does amazing rope costumes. This was a great workshop, but I didn’t have a partner, and got paired by my Shmeng friends with a cute little rope top who wanted to practice tying. 

Since she was a bit more experienced, I ended up becoming the bondage bunny for her and she had me tied up in a decorative chest harness with some really lovely green hemp rope. One thing I learned from this is, although I am not allergic to hemp, the dust that comes off of it does play holy hell with allergies, and I will have to keep that in mind if I rope bottom for anyone in the future. Nylon rope or well-kept hemp, only, I think. The other thing I learned is that I much prefer to doing the tying, although now I know exactly what a confining chest harness feels like.

There was some more shopping, and much chatting before we eventually headed back home after Shibaricon, which, all in all, was a wonderful time. And, being Sunday night, after three days of kink, I was completely worn out. A few messages later, I was in the car with the Boy and we were on our way home, where I unwound myself, relaxed, and enjoyed a night in my own bed with nothing left but rope-bound memories and a huge desire to do it again next year.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

The Speed of Bondage with Lochai Stine

Lochai Stine.

Let me repeat that: Lochai Stine.

I was having a fangirl moment, and I knew I was having a fangirl moment, and I was slightly embarrassed by how much of a fangirl I was right then. BossBondage had used the room as mostly a suspension space, so chairs needed to be set up for Lochai. I jumped straight in and started to help arranging the room, so excited I could barely contain myself that I was about to been in a class with Lochai Stine.

Lochai Stine is a rigger/rope genius. He’s done things with  rope that I just see and look at in awe. He’s worked on almost every major rope production you can think of, including working with Kink.com to do rigging. He’s just awesome, no two ways about it. The class I was going to be sitting in on was about speed bondage and I was beyond myself with excitement. I don’t think there was a single part of me that wasn’t excited about this. The Bard and the Electrician joined me in the room about fifteen minutes before the start.

And then Lochai walked in, kilted and ready to go. He dropped his rope bag in the center of the room, looked around, checked out the people, gave some instructions about how to arrange the chairs.

“I like to work in a circle, but I also like to have room,” he called out as we worked to get the room  arranged for him. In the end we did not make much of a perfect circle, but it didn’t matter. While we waited Lochai talked and joked with the audience members, humoring one lady who wanted to know if he wore his kilt properly (he did) and telling stories from here and there from his rigging times (one included a rubber chicken flogger), before finally, it was time to get started.

I was worried I was going to faint.

He began by explaining just how young he was when he got into rope bondage, being the tender age of six. The story included how even from the very beginning he followed some basic rules: always get consent, play safe, have fun. What started on the back of a school bus somehow managed to manifest itself into a lifelong obsession, career, etc. He had the most beautiful voice. As he talked he toyed with his rope, explaining how  many bodies he had put rope on. He had a very willing rope model for this particular set who was up and ready at his command.

The purpose of this class (which was attended by novices through practiced riggers, even Lochai’s own teacher) was to improve the speed of rope tying with a few simple tips to keep the rope flowing and not stop the scene as rope was going on. His practical tips were nothing short of stupefyingly simple while being at the same time revolutionary in my mind. I took extensive noteswhen I could stop myself from being distracted watching him flip rope back and forth, tying on a chest harness with the casual ease that some people use to tie a bathrobe. Not all the class was lecture, we practiced along with him, made notes of how things were done, got some personal feedback.

What fascinated me was how his body moved. He didn’t so  much move the rope as the rope was an extension of his hand, directed by what seemed like pure will. Each movement made rope flow across the room, across the body, between the legs, as simply as a wish or a thought. This was not someone who was practiced with his rope, this was someone for whom the rope was merely an extension of himself, a beautiful, fluid, representation of his being. This is how it felt watching it. There was a level of comfort there that comes with so much practice, it was beautiful and I was madly in love.

I learned (among other things) not to worry about knots in my rope, about the big hole, a cautionary tale of pushing rope too far (illustrated with some great references to Archer), how to properly tie my shoes (I’m still working on this one, damn it) and how to think about the body in a way that wouldn’t require you to ask someone to lift their leg when tying. Everything was practical, the entire experience was amusingly fun, and Locahi did not disappoint at all. When finished he was madly rushed; even though I would have given a left nipple to talk to him, I decided to take my fangirl elsewhere. However, I was comforted by the fact that I would be in his beginning bondage class the next day, and I simply could not wait.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

BossBondage and the Beauty of Pain

The room that Locahi would be tying in still had a workshop in session but I let myself in anyway. The session going on was being led by BossBondage and was specifically about torture tying. BossBondage does not fuck about with his torture tying. I got in just in time for perhaps the best part. The room was full with partners at all the suspension rigs, with submissive partners on the floor, one leg tied into the air and BossBondage standing in front with his partner/modelwho was beautiful, naked, and in a similar position with her leg suspended in the air while the rest of her was on the ground.


"Now, I know I've said through this entire workshop that you need to take things slowly, and I mean that. I also want you to know that I know my lady pretty well. We have a good rapport and we have done this before. I know exactly how much she can take, how to read her body, and how to be safe. So, even though I have told you over and over again to go slow, I'm about to completely ignore that and just dive right in," And with that he pulled his rope up, brought the leg higher up into the air, practically splitting his pretty model in two, and filling the air with her plaintive and sharp wails of pain filling the entire room. It was absolutely mesmerizing and filled with an incredible intimacy that I felt privileged to share.  

He went on to explain some various ways to milk the position for more pain, demonstrated how his rope bottom could actually ease the position (if he was magnanimous enough to let her), and discussedwhen not distracted by her pretty, writhing, squirming, and shouting-in-pain personother potential uses for the position. 

"And now it's your turn to try it. If you haven't finished your chest harnesses hurry up and get that done; as you can see, this is not the sort of thing where you want to be fussing with a chest harness for fifteen minutes." And within moments there were additional wails of pain and moans of pleasure from around the room as the class, almost in unison, foisted their partners into painful, bondage-torture positions. Never had I wished so badly to have had a partner to bring to a session. 

BossBondage walked dutifully around the classroom and inspected the riggings. He reminded one group that was tying close to each other to be sure to communicate when they were changing positions and moving so as not to cause problems between the ropes. He kept everyone on task, corrected things, commented on how well others whined, all while his assistant helped down his lovely lady and went straight into aftercare with the now-released rope bottom. It was one of the best, and most professionally lead workshops I have ever seen and the only thing I was upset about was that I wasn't there from the very beginning. This was ten times better than the session I had slipped out of. 

What I liked most about BossBondage was his attitude. He was careful, cautious, and concise, but not in  the manner of a know-it-all. He clearly loved what he was doing, he was attentive to his submissive, and even though moving around, aware of everything that was going on. It was a casual air of authority and it suited him well.

As BossBondage stopped by one couple, reminding people that it was time to start letting people down to prepare for the next session, one gentleman cried out, "but she doesn't want to come down," to which the BossBondage replied perfectly (without missing a beat), "Geez it's a shame there is not a dungeon where we can stay up all night torturing each other." I smiled, and slowly people got hoisted down and the room filled out. I've been enamored of riggers in my time, but right then, I wanted to follow BossBondage around like a the new messiah and ask him to teach me as I sat at his feet. Instead, I helped set up the room for Lochai, and made a note to myself about just how awesome BossBondage was.

Monday, June 17, 2013

The Shibaricon is On!

Shibaricon is a great collection of ropeists and riggers, which I had only enjoyed once previously. I hadn't planned on going this year, but the Bard had won the vendor prize and was gifted with two free tickets. When offered one I said "Hell yes!" and made sure to bring my rope with me from Korea.


The great thing about Shibaricon, and what makes it so different from IML, is that it's not just a shopping event, it's a learning event. Granted, IML and shopping can be a lot of fun, but there is something nice about sitting in a room with other people at various levels of rope skill and learning. One thing I learned was that I need to get better about talking about my knots, and boy did I get a crash course in doing that over the weekend at Shibaricon. 

Of course, there was some shopping, with Pendragon Chainmail managing to catch my eye with a very pretty collar that I just had to have. I almost bought another piece, but decided against it (and of course, now I can't live without it). Unfortunately, while Shibaricon was great, it got off to a rocky start. Even though we were there on time, apparently the hotel was overbooked as parking was full. By the time we got back to Shibaricon after parking hell we had missed the start of the session. Since there was not much shopping to be done, this was rather annoying and meant sitting around for an hour and a half, eating some lunch, and talking while playing with rope in anticipation. I had picked out who I wanted to see, but was very said I'd missed the first session I wanted with Midori. 

The second session I was going to was taught by Mistress Reiki, and it was supposed to be about basic BDSM tying. I figured that would be all right so I decided to check it out. The Bard and the Electrician were off to visit another workshop at the same time. I moved into the room on my own, found a spot, set up my rope, and waited. Of course, this ended up being a partner session and I had no partner to tie with. A very nice gentlemen (after watching me play with my rope for a few minutes) invited me to come sit with him. He gave off a harmless vibe, so I said yes. 

"I'm KnottyRandy," he said. 

"Saradevil, nice to meet you." I replied. 

And we sat and talked about life in general, what we tied, who we tied, why we tied, and waited for the workshop to begin. When it got started, the little French girl that was doing the tying talked fast, demoed her first tie and asked us to do it. When the workshop said basic, it was not an understatement. In fact, it was too basic, and both KnottyRandy and I were bored. So we started showing each other the ropes on our own. We did take some time to try the tie that had been presented, which was a simple hands together with a face planted arms between legs, knees spread, which would be good for spanking or sex. 

I tied KnottyRandy down first, and he quipped in the middle "I don't think I've ever been tied by a girl before." 

"First time for everything, " I said. 

He was a good victim for me, so I returned the favor and was a good practice dummy victim for him. Then we sat and played with rope. He showed me a couple of load-bearing non-slip knots, and I showed him the a French non-slipping restraint. We played and practiced on each other, and we were not the only ones with the idea. The workshop quickly devolved into an impromptu play party with everyone just tying up their partners however they wanted. In other words, the rope people were bored. 

Finally I decided it was time to go to sneak into the next session room. I was very excited about seeing Lochai Stine, who would be doing a session on speed bondage with rope. Aside from being possibly one of the best riggers on the planet, he is also the most seen, even if people don't realize it. The reality is, though, his rigging is everywhere and it's impossible not to see it, as he was the rigger for Hogtied.com for close to two years, and still ties regularly for Kink.com. I was very excited to attend a workshop that he would be leading.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Corset Time

This is about as close as I get to cosplay.









Water vaping.




It was all very tiring.

Monday, June 10, 2013

Let the Kinkfest Begin

There was something of a scheduling conflict for what was the biggest kinky weekend in Chicago, in that you had all three events pretty much all at the same time, and you really had to balance to be able to figure out how to do all of them. This year it would be one day of IML, two days of Shibariconwith a trip back for the Fetish Ball on Saturday nightand then possibly one more day of IML on Monday...if by then I was not completely dead from all the other kinking out.

So it was on Friday afternoon when I piled into a car with the Bard and the Electrician, and after a very nice brunch with an "eh sorta" Bloody Mary, we headed to IML. (A Bloody Mary is sort of a thing, in that, well, I keep trying them thinking they will get better, and I keep discovering that they do not, in fact, get any better and I don't like them any more this time then I did the last time I tried them. Why I keep it is up is beyond me, but I do. Although, after this last round I will probably give it up contentedly for at least another year.)

IML changes its location every three years, and I happened to have come in on the IML this year when it was in an all-new location downtown, which was actually in some ways easier to get to from where we would park. Because Chicago hates me it was freezing cold and I was not dressed for it. For shopping I was not interested in much, even though I am an insane gearwhore.

Thing is, there does come a point where you really do sort of have all the gear you need, and while looking at new gear is nice, it's hard to think of what you would do with it. I'm not one of those gear people that has to have a giant collection and use everything once. I have my favorites, and I use them often, and I don't see a real need to upgrade what I have for new stuff all the time. Hell, my favorite dildo is an acrylic piece I bought in 2002, and even though I have something like eight dildos, that is my go-to piece in almost every situation. I freaking love that dildo. Long live the dildo. That dildo has also been around the world with me for close to ten years. It's like an old friend. However, that doesn't stop me from occasionally looking at new dildos, I just don't buy them like I used to.

We got to IML and the Electrician was visibly stressed about the time. We knew we were in the right place when we pulled up on the crowd of men covered in leather, but where oh where was the market? The market was really what we were looking for. After searching around the lobby of the hotel it was not becoming any more clear, and then, by happy accident, the sea of leather-covered bears, boys, bois, daddys, puppies, alphas, cowboys, and roughriders parted to let past a Leather Woman, who was known to the Electrician. After a few moments of exchange questions were answered. The market could be found on the fifth and seventh floors and we needed to take an elevator up.

This lead to waiting with a group of bears, cubs, motorcyclists, Doms, Dommes, subs, sluts, and hotel guests (who had no idea what was going on), for what had to be the world's slowest elevator. After boarding the purgatorial slow beast we finally made it to our destination, with the Electrician none calmer. It was at this point that I decided I really needed to just go off on my own and let the couple shop.

"I'm gonna take off; meet you back here," I said.

"But why?"

"I want to go kinda slow. I just want to map it out."

"But we only have four-and-a-half hours."

"I know."

"You can't go slow; you don't have time to go slow," The Electrician implored.

"Okay, let's make sure we have phone numbers." I was amused; granted this is like the largest sex store in Chicago for the next four days, but four-and-a-half hours was going to be more than enough time for me to get my gear gazing on without feeling too rushed.

I left the Bard and the Electrician and went off in search of the one thing I really did want to buy for myself, which was a corset. I have a full overbust, but I wanted an underbust. My full overbust is currently too big, as well, so I wanted one that would fit just right.

The market was a madhouse, with all sorts of fetishists and leatherheads. At every stall was someone trying on a chest harness, or showing off a cock ring. Several had some interesting hardcore leather porn. There were puppies without masters who would bark if you got too close, Doms leading their subs around by crotch leashes, all sorts of master and owner play going on. It was amazing and wonderous to behold, and the whole thing was coated in the scent of leather .

On the first floor I did not find much I wanted so I wandered out and onto the second floor where, after about two turns, I stumbled upon Marvolous Mayhem's corsets. They were not the only corsets, but gods were this handmade corsets the most beautiful things I had ever seen. I knew they were expensive, but they were also gorgeous. I looked for something in my size and was having very little luck, until a very nice balding leather man came over and said happily they could put me in something today.

"Do you know your corset size?" he asked.

"I'd be a thirty-four."

"Well, let's measure you just in case."

He took out his tape measure and measured me up.

"That's right, you are a thirty-four."

"I'm a seamstress, so I better know my measurements and my corset size."

"Well, not everyone knows their corset size. So, what are you looking for?"

I pointed to the waist cinchers I was in love with and sadly they were all in thirty-twos. We talked for a minute and a beautiful, subtly decorated purple-and-black gothic corset caught my eye.

"What about that? Do you have that in a thirty-four?"

"Looks like it is only in the thirty-two."

"Does it have a modesty panel? I mean…it might not close all the way…"

I pouted. I loved it. I wanted it.

"We could try it on and see?"

"If you don't mind," I was worried.

"Let's give it a shot." He slipped the beautiful thing around me and laced it faster than I have ever been laced up before, and it was beautiful, and he started tightening it up.

"Pull it tighter!" shouted his partner from the side.

"We'll get there," he said and I could hear him smile. "You just let me know if it gets uncomfortable."

"Right…THERE!" my voice shouted up a notch and he laughed and said he thought he found it.

"Well, this actually fits beautifully. it's a little wide in the center, but overall I'd say this is a great fit, and if you lose a little more weight, that bunch will go away."

"Yeah…yeah…how much?" And that was that. He asked if I wanted to wear it out, and I just smiled and said of course, and walked into the sea of leather people, feeling suddenly more at home in it with my pretty handmade corset. Within an hour I had more than ten people tell me how beautiful it was, and I could not agree more.

Aside from the corset I bought floggers and completed a shopping list for my kinky Irishman, who was all stuck in Korea. It was a good day, finished with a release from the corset and dinner at Gruppo and fine wine.

I spent the better part of an hour talking while drinking on a comfy couch, while taking pictures and having pictures taken, before passing out quite soundly, preparing myself for the next day, which would be full of much rope and much Shibaricon and the Fetish Ball.

Saturday, June 01, 2013

Allergic to Life

One thing I had forgotten about living in America in spring is that everything is trying to kill me. The things trying to kill me were not making any small attempt at it either, but rather they launched a full-on frontal assault. I was reading some article on allergies, which said (all rather matter-of-factly), "It's no wonder that pollen bothers people, just look at it. Here you can see it is like a spiny urchin, the perfect shape for doing what it needs to do to successfully allow itself to replicate and for being a great irritation."

All I could think was that the flowers, trees, and green growing things could all go fuck themselves, and I suppose that was exactly what they were doing. I was riding cross country during the biggest vegetative bukkake season, and with or without my consent, I was going to join in it, play my little part, and suffer for those sadistic pollinating monsters whether I liked it or not. I suffered.

My eyes watered, my nose was clogged, my lungs felt like they were filled with hot coals. Finally, I broke down and took something over the counter for the allergies, only to discover I had taken the wrong thing, so needed to take something else. All through it my eyes watered, my nose ran, my head ached, and I was treated to a couple of blinding migraines for  my trouble. The Boy and I drove cross country to Vermont for the graduation of a cousin, making a pit stop in Ohio. 

"Got to get back to it," kept running through my head as we neared Kent State, which was our actual Ohio destination. With my love scheduled to take a test, and me scheduled to take in the local Starbucks, I sat for six hours working away, sniffing, sneezing, eyes watering, head ringing, coughing, sneezing, coughing, dripping, snorting drugs, popping pills, and just wishing to move to a planet without growing things because I hated all growing things and their annual need to reproduce. The girl at the counter in Ohio was very friendly. 

"Oh, now, are you all right?" she asked as I sucked in gigantic balls of phlegm out of my throat to keep them from sliding into my lungs. 

"It's just allergies." 

"Oh yeah, allergies. They are just terrible aren't they? I heard on the news the pollen count in Ohio today is a nine. And, you know, the highest is a ten. It's pretty bad out there today for some folks I guess. Well, here you go honey," she smiled and handed me my coffee. 

Fuck you, just fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. "Thanks," I said, picking up my giant coffee and going up the stairs to try to get comfortable to work. Eventually I had to move out of the soft chair and into a hard wooden chair, which helped a bit. The problem with my allergieswhen they reach nuclear levels of radioactive, pollinated overpenetrationis that I get sensitive to everything. It moves past just the basic day-to-day of pollination and into a constant barrage of everything. Dust, mold, sunlight, purple, you name it and I become sensitive to it during allergy season. I couldn't sit in the chair because it was made of fabric and so probably had a great deal of dust buildup, making it highly uncomfortable as a place of sitting.

Eventually we drove out of Ohio. The change in allergy medicine helped, aside from turning me completely narcoleptic. The graduation was attained on time, and we drove and drove and drove, until, after a short family visit, we were watching the sun set over our little house, watching the dog run around her yard to make sure everything was in place, watching the trees swish, sway, and drop more and different kinds of pollen, watching my glass of wine empty, watching the sun rise, watching Chicago rising up in front of me as a commuter train approached, until finally, finally, finally, life was beginning to become something like normal. 

There was no pause, though, as with a short time for breathing, and within a few days of returning I'd be on the road again, this time to my wayward Chicago home, to my couch, to Young Kubrick, and the Bard, and the Electrician, to the kinkfest that I was about to receive. Unlike the saturation of allergy season that had been thrust upon me whether I liked it or not. Memorial Day weekend was very much looked forward to and appreciated as a chance to get away.