The ruler was made out of cedar, lacquered, with a metal straight edge. The numbers were a deep black, with inches as their only measurement. When it struck my hands, there was a snap in the air, not just from the sound but from the tidal shift in my world.
Mr. Ebon's class on Monday was just as brutal as ever. A pop quiz on the weekend's reading greeting his beleaguered students. I breezed through the questions and sat patiently as the rest trudged through it. As I waited, hands crossed on the desk, staring straight at the chalk board, though I never saw even a whisper of a glance from his direction, it felt like his eyes were always on me, always watching, always noting even my slightest twitch. It was unnerving, and exhilarating.
We passed all our quizzes, after the fifteen minute limit, to Hilda. Her desk was the most to the left, the closest to Mr. Ebon's. She left the pile on the desk next to hers and never dared look at them again. Once, when she happened to lean over to straighten the messy pile she'd originally left them in, Mr. Ebon burned her with a searing stare. His voice, though its same volume, took on a chilled quality. "Ms. Caron, don't." She never did, again.
Class over, the period bell rang, and our night's assignment given, everyone filtered out. As we all gathered our things to go, I had hoped maybe he would acknowledge me in some way. Maybe he would ask me to stay after, if only for a moment. Maybe he would give me a subtle cue, a knowing glance, something. I left his classroom, nary a whisper from his lips.
At 5:15pm, around the same time as my stroll on Friday, I made my way up to the History wing. Just like before, his was the only classroom who's door was closed. I stood outside, taking deep breaths, trying to quiet my nerves. Why was I nervous? Why did my heart flutter, my chest feel light as air?
"Come in, Ms. Ivory." I hadn't knocked, and yet he knew I was there. A second later, I realized half of the door was clouded glass. Who else would be at his door at so late an hour? I bit my lip from the slight embarrassment, and walked in.
I stood, just inside the door, my back against the wall. Though I'd done this before, though I'd been in this very room just a few hours before, it all seemed different. Holding my hands behind my back, I lightly brushed the wall for balance.
"You may sit as you did before."
Hesitantly, after screaming at my legs to move, I took my spot like last time, cross legged on the top of the desk. I pulled out my knitting and started a new row. I wanted to look up, but wanted just as much to breathe. After a few rows, and my breath nearing normal, I dared to tilt my head.
He sat, arms crossed, eyes locked on me. I had no idea what was going on in his head. Had no idea what he thought of me. Had no idea the next word to emanate from his lips. But I yearned for him to speak, to say something, to do something besides concentrate on me. He sat there for what seemed like forever.
"Do you know what domination is?" It seemed like an obvious question.
"To have control over someone or something."
"Do you know what a Dominant is?" Though I could not see it myself, I'm sure my face looked puzzled.
"Um, someone who has control over someone or something?"
"Yes. And do you know what submission is?"
"Giving up control or allowing oneself to be controlled."
"Good." He let a breath out, uncrossed his arms, and rested his hands on his desk. "Ms. Ivory, do you know what a submissive is?"
"Uh, one who gives up control, who allows oneself to be controlled."
"Yes." He leaned forward, looking very intently at me. "Ms. Ivory, are you a submissive?"
The question made no sense, and yet made perfect sense. I was at a loss for words.
I tried multiple times to find something, anything, to say. Finally, leaning back in his chair, he spoke again.
"Ms. Ivory, what happened on Friday was inappropriate. I am your teacher and you are my student. That conflict alone is... difficult. But I see in you what I felt in myself at your age: longing and a desperation to understand this part of you that, I suspect until a few minutes ago, lacked a name.
"You are a submissive. You do not fully realize what that all entails, but I see it. I saw it as soon as you walked into my classroom that first day. You are brilliant, and will do great things with your life, but you will not feel fulfilled unless you acknowledge this side of yourself and find an outlet for your desires."
Desires. What a perfect word for the swirling emotions in my head. Because, in that moment, all I wanted was to please him. To be at his beck and call. To do whatever it took to be his. I desired Mr. Ebon, had for almost as long as I'd known him, and now I possessed the words.
"Submissive." I let it roll on my tongue like a piece of hard candy. "Mr. Ebon, are you a Dominant?"
"Yes, Ms. Ivory. I am a Dom."
"Then, you can teach me to be a...Sub."
"Ms. Ivory..."
"You can teach me to be a Sub! You're my teacher. Teach me."
"Ms. Ivory, it's not that simple."
"Yes, it is! You're a Dom and I'm a Sub. You're my teacher, I need to learn, so teach me."
"Ms. Ivory, I'm your History teacher, not your..."
"Oh please, I'm acing your class just fine and probably could do it without your instruction."
My hand hit my mouth before I finished my next breath. His eyes grew wide, and his lips pursed. I couldn't see it, but I'm sure he started grinding his teeth. A moment later, he relaxed his face.
"Stand up." His voice was cold, calculating, chillier than even when he'd reprimanded Hilda. I put my knitting to the side, which I'd been holding the entire time, and slowly slid off the desk. He stood as well, once again towering over me.
"Turn around." I gulped hard and turned to the back of the classroom. My heart thumped in my chest.
"Bend over the desk, hands and arms flat." I carefully leaned into the position. The warmth of my breath bounced off the wood of the desk. I heard the drawer with the ruler open and close.
He stood beside me, his leg brushing up against mine.
"Five strokes this time for making the same mistake, twice in a row." Using the ruler, he lifted my skirt. I, like most of the girls, wore boxer shorts over my panties. Again using the ruler, he hooked the elastic waist band to help pull the shorts down. He let my panties stay on.
He placed his hand on the small of my back.
"You will count each stroke and follow the number with a Sir at the end. Do you understand?"
"Yes." He grabbed me by my hair and pulled my head back. His mouth was on my ear.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes Sir." He shoved my head back down.
Smack! "One Sir." It stung like a hundred bees stings.
Smack! "Two Sir." The sound was louder than on Friday, cracking through the entire room.
Smack! "Three Sir." I could tell he swung harder than before.
Smack! "Four Sir." My ass began to ache, but so did something else...
Smack! "Five Sir." I breathed hard, heavy. I knew I would go home and think of this tonight while in bed.
He walked back to his desk and sat down.
"You may stand and pull up your shorts." I fixed my clothes, but remained looking towards the back of the room. "For now, Mondays and Fridays. You will come to this classroom and I will teach you. But, if anyone finds out about this, and I think you know this, I will loose my job. Are you worthy of me taking such a risk, Ms. Ivory?"
"Yes Sir." I tried to convey all of my gratitude, all of my wanting and yearning for both his lessons and him into those two words.
"Very well. Gather your things and go. I will see you again on Friday."
Like before, I hurriedly grabbed my bag and knitting. Like before, I quietly slipped out of the room. But, not like before, I dared a glance at his direction as I left. He sat, staring at me, the whisper of a grin on his lips.
I mentioned recently listening to one of my FetFest audio recordings. This reminded me; I have not written anything on my blog about this inaugural event yet. So, in the coming month, I will recount some of the highlights of my time that weekend.
However, for this entry, I want to get something out of the way. There was one incident that was not fun or sexy. It was, well, just wrong.
I was getting ready for the slave auction held Saturday night. As per usual for any event I've attended, I was in a hurry. I showered, changed, and was in the process of leaving out.
Though I spent the majority of my time in Rope Village, my bed was in TNG Village. The cabin was empty, save for myself.
As I got ready, a guy walked in. I could tell he was drunk, but thought nothing of it. It was an event, and I felt anyone could choose to spend their time as they wished. As I prepared to go, he asked what I was getting ready for. I casually said I was going to the slave auction to be sold.
"Really? Well then let me get a look at the goods." He reached over, put his hand down my shirt, and groped my breast. I grabbed him by the wrist and pulled his hand out, while saying, "No. I did not give you consent." I was stern and forceful, but I didn't yell. He could tell I was upset; he immediately began apologizing. I told him to just go, just leave. He walked out of the cabin.
I walked into the bathroom and took one last look at myself. I didn't know whether to scream or to cry, so I didn't do either. I grabbed my Hello Kitty bag and walked out of the cabin towards the Pavilion.
I can't really remember what the guy looked like. I never knew his name. When I recounted the story to one friend, he told me I should have slapped the guy. Another asked me if I reported him. It was as if they were both speaking another language.
One, I don't hit in anger or malice. I don't let violence enter me in that manner, ever.
Two, report him? I didn't know his name and he just was a stupid drunk. He stopped when I told him to and apologized. Yes, I felt violated and shitty, but in the moment I just wanted him gone. I just wanted to be left alone. I just wanted to feel better. Report him? Fuck him!
So, yeah. That happened. It was shitty.
But, thankfully, I soon felt better. I found people to talk to and cuddle with. Save for an awkward moment with an awkward man, I had a good time at the auction. And my night got better from there.
It was, and is, so shocking for me because it happened at an event. I always felt safe at events, sheltered and loved at events. I was with my people, my family, loving and caring and nurturing. I always felt looked after and cared for. And then I got accosted by an asshole.
So I guess, in a long round about way, this is just another person saying consent counts. Consent counts.
CONSENT. COUNTS.
I read a recent post by my friend Gray Miller on his blog lovelifepractice.com. This particular entry focused on learning to love oneself. He concluded his entry with a simple question:
What do you love about yourself?
This got me thinking. So, I answered it.
- My eyes. They say more than I can ever put into words. The dark brown luster speaks to me whenever I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or passing window. The hint of what lies beneath the mask I wear for the world is at times engaging, playful, lustful, and intense. I can have whole conversations with you using just my eyes.
- My breasts are awesome. They're full and squeezable. The perfect amount to fill your hands, to rest your head on, or to nuzzle up to. In the right bra, or with the proper arm positioning, my cleavage is quite distracting.
My nipples are pierced, a tempting delight to all who venture a lick. I love the way they look when they're erect, presenting the jewelry and asking, begging, to be pinched and sucked.
- My ass. It's just...hot. My ass is so sexy. There is a reason why I wrote poetry about it. It's big and round and sits up just right, begging to be spanked, slapped, caressed, fucked.
Once, randomly, a guy tried to balance a beer bottle on my ass. Granted, this was not a wanted advance, but I understand how one can be mesmerized by the wonder that is my rump. In fact, I have many a fond memory involving other people enjoying the wonder that is my ass.
- My hair. It's curly and wild and often begs to be loose and free. When I was young, I wore it in two braids at my sides. I loved flinging my head back and forth, wiping my braids from side to side, daring anyone to come near. The hard plastic ties at the ends were like weapons, ready to lash out at anyone who ventured too close. I loved the thump they made against my skin as the braids wrapped around my neck and hit my back.
When I grew older, and still wore it long, I'd flat iron it. My locks would brushed the top of my ass, and flow on the wind. Now, when I masturbate, with my hair out, I often walk into the bathroom afterwards and admire my "freshly fucked" locks, which look better than hours of primping could ever accomplish.
My hair makes me feel beautiful, feel sexy, feel special.
- On occasion, I have a way with words. I've been writing since forever. There are still stories I wrote years ago that when I read them my blood runs hot with lust and I am thrown right back into its sensuous world. I paint pictures, spin tales, and chronicle my truths with words. Without them, without my words, I don't know who I'd be.
- I often say this, and it is very true: I cultivate my childlike whimsy everyday. I look at the world as I did when I was young: with wonder and amazement. I appreciate little things, which to me seem huge.
Today, at the venue in which I'm currently working, there was an assortment of artistic photographs. I was enamored by each shot, diving in, and letting myself get lost in the stories. There were interesting modern art sculptures that I could draw similarities to that were at once thought provoking and hilarious (a fat owl, the head of a rooster, the negative space of a key hole). I keep things light, care free, reminding myself to smile and breathe in each moment, appreciating just being alive.
- I am one of the best friends you will ever have. I go above and beyond to be there for the people I love. I trek hundred of miles, perform any number of small and large tasks, and try all I can to be the best friend possible. I give and give and give, and then give more. I am a fierce protector, soothing comforter, and steadfast confidant. I sacrifice myself for the happiness of those I care for. Above all else, this is what I love about myself the most.
So, what do you love about yourself?
A close friend of mine recently paid me the oddest compliment. Well, it seemed odd to me.
I recounted the highlights of my recent excursion to New Jersey and the awesome event that was Tied Down. I told her about the classes and my scene with Gray. I then explained how I didn't allow any of the feelings I had spoil my time at the event. I waited until after to let it all out. She admired how I could be fully present for it all when an ocean of whirling emotions laid just around the bend.
It never occurred to me that this was some skill or gift. It is just something I do, something I thought everyone did. She explained it was what she tried to do.
When I'm in a scene, or focused on someone, I'm there and only there. I push the rest out, to the side, for another day. I lock off that corner of my thoughts, that place in my heart, promising to visit it later.
In truth, I have to visit it later. The emotions are not present in the moment; I make sure to tuck them far below. But they start building again from the moment my interaction ends, and, if not acknowledged and processed, find their way out in quite inconvenient ways (shortened temper, easily annoyed, crying fits over nothing).
I don't know why I'm able to do this. DeepEnd compared my skill to one who's dealing with the passing of an ailing loved one. The way you cherish the time you have because soon there will be no more moments.
I don't like the analogy, but there is truth to it. Those are the very thoughts that float through my mind in the middle of it all. I have to be here. I have to be present. Because, soon, this moment will pass and I will have lost my time if I don't seize it fully, now.
I have dealt with the passing of a close loved one, but I don't think that is why I am able to do this. I was a wreck for most of that, when I wasn't searing with anger at my family. Instead, I think my being present is more a matter of training and patience.
Patience was ground into me through my youth. I lived in a single parent household and often had to wait for my mother to get off work before we could go home. Each day, for hours, I found things to fill my time: homework, my Walkman, writing. But, inevitably, it would boil down to me sitting by the school door, waiting for her car to approach. Just sitting and waiting.
I learned discipline to keep myself from raging in anger or despairing in helplessness. I learned patience, knowing relief and release was close at hand. I learned to temper my wants, trained myself to be there without flashing my insides out. I learned to just be, in a sort of cross between acceptance and mediation.
Because it didn't matter if I raged, or cried, or hated. She could get there no faster and I couldn't make time do my biding. Therefore, why be a big ball of madness or a seeping selfish child?
The same holds true for scenes. I can't change my world in that moment, can't change what will happen the next day or even later that evening. But I can appreciate what I do have in those breaths. Why not just be and leave those emotions elsewhere?
So, now, I can just be. I can just enjoy. I can just submit to how my life is in that moment, push my rushing emotions aside, and delight in each second for what it is: special and fleeting.
~erotica~
Most of the girls hated the job. The grabby hands. The disgusting looks on their faces. The wayward palm right there, unable to even pretend to have any sense of decorum.
Lux didn't care. In fact, she kind of liked that it was all out in the open, all nasty and raunchy. They were pole dancers; what did these girls expect?
Some of the girls called themselves erotic entertainers, but Lux liked calling herself a pole dancer. She even liked the double entendre when, on occasion, she did ride the pole in a man's lap.
To the other girls, it was about making quick money. A few were in college. A large number were single Moms with babies to feed. Lux was neither. This was her chosen occupation, for the moment. Yes, she liked the money, considering she earned the most of all the girls. And she loved to dance. But it was the power she truly craved.
Maybe that's why the other girls didn't get her. She didn't hate coming to work, didn't loathe her turn on the main-stage pole, and was no more happy walking out than in.
When Lux was on stage, more than any other woman in the club's menagerie, she commanded all the attention of everyone in the room. When she danced, Lux aimed to seduce everyone in attendance, from the cheapskate in the corner to the high roller walking towards a private room. The lucky few who got front row seats to her dances were rewarded with locked stares, licked lips, swiveled hips that timed out their heartbeats, and throbbing erections that never went down til morning.
As Lux slowly crawled across the stage, accentuating her ass in a serpentine enticement to her prey, she knew just how to pull them in, to open their wallets, and to walk home with rent paid in under two hours.
The touched, the blessed, were those who could wrangle her for a private dance. Lux was not cheap; to her, extracting as much money from her prey was liked sucking the venom from a snake, weakening him til he no longer had a weapon against her, and she broke him. Each song was $100, minimum. Her prey either balked or were shocked at such a low price.
Alone, just you and her in a room, she never let you think of anywhere else. From the moment the door clicked shut to the sadness of her exit, her prey's eyes never left her body. What had just been out of their hand's reach now lay against them, grinding, caressing, rolling her body up and down theirs. Her eyes, which had shimmered in the club's lighting, now smoldered, burning through them.
And just when they couldn't take it anymore, just when they couldn't control the urge to touch her, to ravage her, to grasp her and never ever let her go, the song would end. She'd stand up, turn, pop her hips as she walked out, saluting them with her ass, and was gone.
I'm a bit quirky. At least that's what I call it.
When I go to events, I always, always, carry a few things: my cell phone, my Hello Kitty bag, a pen, and, most important of all, my notebooks. I go to many classes. When I attend a presentation, I sit front row center and take notes (Teacher's Pet here). Periodically during the day, I take a moment to jot down bullet points on the happenings thus far.
I do this because I want to remember everything. Everything. I know I can't, but I try.
Even from my first event, I knew I needed to write about what I was going through. It was too intense, too life altering, too amazing not to chronicle. I love the story of my kinky life so much, I carry all my old notebooks with me to each new event. I currently have two small notebooks and one rather large one which holds my current pages to fill.
Ask me about any event, and I'll try to recall the details you need. When in doubt, though, I refer to my notebooks.
However, my notebooks are not the end, but the means to an end.
I use my notes from my events for my pièce de résistance, my voice memos.
I have an iPhone and one of the lovely applications is basically a dictaphone. When I come back from each event, I sit alone in my room, pull out my notebook, and I talk. I tell myself the story of my adventure, from the little moments to the awesome experiences. I relive my ecstasy, remembering all I can, and am once again joyous because of all I went through.
In the days following each event, when I'm a bit down, or just want to feel there again, I play my voice memos. I've lulled myself to sleep with my recountings, drifted away on my stories, been comforted by these experiences.
Today, I needed to listen to one of my memos. This afternoon, when I had the house to myself, I masturbated. And then I cried. And it wasn't the good kind of cry. It was tears of loneliness, of wanting, of pain.
New Year's Eve in coming up, and as a single girl there will be that magical moment when everyone else has someone to kiss. And I'll be there, happy I'm with my friends, but a little sad. Everyone says you can't look for love cause then you'll never find it. You have to just wait. And I am a very patient person. But sometimes...
And so I listened to my first day of FetFest. And I remembered writing my message in the shimenawa. And giving away the plaques to the boys. And my takedown rehearsal. And my sideways suspension with Big Bro. And the NCSF Cigar, Boots, and Chocolate fundraiser. And putting Gray to bed. And I felt better.
I have my story, told in my voice, for me to hear. It is possibly the most personal intimate...thing I have. No one listens to it but me. I see it as my oral history, a kinky history of major moments in my life.
So when you see me up at whatever o'clock in the morning, long past when most people have gone to bed, scribbling as fast as I can into a notebook, now you know what I'm doing and why I do it.
My mother's best friend's father died the day before Thanksgiving. Today was his funeral.
I didn't know this man. I had maybe met him once when I was a child, too young to remember the encounter, but I found myself at his signing off all the same.
I was there for the family, with whom I am an honorary member. I grew up with the cousins, call my mother's best friend, along with her brothers and sisters, my aunts and uncles. I see them at holidays. They came to my college graduation. In most ways I am closer to them than my own blood relations.
Though I did not know him, I saw this man's influence in the crowd of faces who sat, quietly crying, remembering their father, grandfather, or great grandfather. He lived to the bright young age of 93. We should all be so lucky.
As the family processed in, I found myself slipping my hand into my mother's palm. Being witness to the ceremony of saying goodbye to a loved one makes you appreciate even more those you still have.
This was a black funeral, which meant a few things were going to happen.
1- Singing. There were plenty of gospel songs, including His Eye Is On The Sparrow, which is basically a cliche occurrence at black funerals.
2- At least one, if not two, preachers/pastors/reverends were going to speak. There were lots of mentions of God, Christ, Jesus, the Savior, the Redeemer, etc.
3- Are you saved? Everyone needs to be saved. Do you have a church home? The only way to get to heaven is through Christ... You get the drift. As one who questions her beliefs on spirituality and religion on an almost daily basis, I sat patiently waiting.
Thankfully, the Pastor who gave the Eulogy, before he spun into his speech on number three, elicited a few chuckles from the attendees. He explained his job was to lift us up, and he seemed to do that quite well, as well as move the proceedings along at a relatively brisk pace.
As experiences go, it could've been worse.
I hadn't been to a funeral since the death of Ella, my cousin who was more like my third parent, a few years ago. They read the same poem that I had to read after I finished her obituary: I'm Free. Seeing those words in the program made me tear up a bit.
Funerals are for the living, remembering the dead and saying goodbye. As one who had no particular attachment to this man, but a deep love for his family, I hoped the day gave them some peace.
