No, you sick twisted kinky bastards, that’s zelophilia, not zoophilia, up in the subject line . . .
That zoo word is the other “Z” word.
We’re not going there today, as we wouldn’t want to bring down the ire of the ASPCA.
I don’t want Casa Samadhi raided by PETA! Know what I mean?
Let me assure you that no animals we’re harmed in the making of this post.
That’s why “Z” is for zelophilia, a term that refers to an individual who becomes aroused by jealousy.
In theory the arousal can be triggered by any partner in a relationship becoming jealous. But, it’s my understanding that’s it’s probably far more common for zelophiles to become aroused by their own jealousy.
From a psychological and physiological standpoint, it’s likely that most folks who experience zelophilia in the form of being aroused by their own jealousy are attracted by the adrenaline rush that comes with the fear of losing a partner.
In some cases, a person with zelophilia will go as far as taking their lover to a orgy or other group sex event in order to put them into a situation likely to cause jealous feelings. The zelophile then experiences a mix of jealousy and excitement when their lover entertains sexual advances from others.
Within my own personal experience, I once ran across a couple where the husband, an apparent zelophile, encouraged his wife to go out on random craigslist type encounters, because he got turned on by the retelling of the tales of her sexual exploits. I’m guessing at least a hint of jealousy existed on his part, and likely more than just a small measure. To my eye, there’s probably a mix of sexual paraphilias at work in that situation. There’s an element of xenophilia on her part, which played to his zelophilia. It also describes a common fantasy scenario for cuckolds.
It’s my own personal observation that, for many in the cuckold lifestyle, there is probably more than a little bit of zelophilia at play in their cuckolding fetish. Undoubtedly for some in that lifestyle, there are other elements at work as well, but for the cucks I’ve talked to, they describe being drawn to the mix of jealousy and excitement they feel seeing (or knowing) that their lover is being satisfied by another. That fits the description of zelophilia perfectly.
– – – –
With those things said, with the definition and description of zelophilia under our belts, I can’t say that I fully understand this fetish. As a dominant and master, I’m pretty much the opposite of a zelophile.
It’s true that I shared Serafina with a couple of other dominants as a part of her training, but it has never elicited jealousy within me.
Most of all, in those instances, I felt a sense of pride that my slave had progressed in her training, and overcome some of her own personal inhibitions. When she plays with my friend Alpha, I feel compersion, a term that was coined by the Keristan Commune in San Francisco. Compersion is defined as taking personal pleasure in the joy that others you love share among themselves.
It’s said among those of us who practice polyamory, that compersion is the opposite of jealousy. To my eye, zelophilia and compersion would truly seem to be opposite faces of the same coin. Both involve getting pleasure from sharing our partners with others, but it seems that the personal motivations for them are very different.
“z” is for zelophilia
I started off the letter “Y” thinking it would stand for “Yes Sir!”
A little respect from a submissive goes a long way . . .
That’s why the letter “Y” is for “Yes Sir!”
Frankly, as a dominant, the words “Yes Sir!”, said with feeling, are like music to my ears.
And it seems, at least to my ear, that the words “Yes Sir!” are widely appropriate.
“Yes Sir!” really is a good fit for most any setting.
Obviously, I thought that was pretty lame.
It just wasn’t working for me.
I considered writing up “Y” is for Yoni instead.
In case you didn’t know, Yoni is the Sanskrit word, commonly used in Tantric practices, for vagina or pussy.
But, I just wrote about that topic something like 10 days ago with She is My Temple – Pussy is My Altar for Molly’s Pussy Pride Project.
I went to sleep last night still wondering what “Y” was really for.
I woke up this morning the same, no inspiration.
Then it hit me.
I suddenly knew what “Y” was for in the Joy of Kink from “A” to “Z” . . .
“y” is for yesterday
I wrote a long 1000 word essay that was supposed to fit in here. Then I realized all the words only got in the way of what I wanted to say about “yesterday”.
Yesterday doesn’t really matter much anymore, it’s only a bridge to tomorrow.
“X” is for xenophilia, a term used for individuals who get sexual excitement from strangers.
Maybe you’ve used the term xenophobia before, used to describe the fear of strangers. Well, xenophilia is it’s exact opposite.
Personally, I probably tend more towards the xenophobic side. I don’t exactly fear them, but I’m shy around strangers, preferring the company of a close circle of good friends to anything else.
And while xenophilia isn’t a particular fetish for me, I’ve never ever had even a one night stand let alone felt the appeal of being sexually excited by strangers, it’s not something totally outside my personal experience.
Back when I was a community organizer, I had a young street hustler type working for my organization. His name was Freddie Morris.
Mr Morris had a bit of a troubled background, at least one drug dealing conviction on his record.
I’ve never had any big issues with drug use, and certainly his offenses were never violent. Freddie’s “victims” were purely voluntary, and paid quite highly for the privilege. I just don’t see the “crime” there.
But what made Freddie most interesting to me, wasn’t his former entrepreneurial enterprises, instead I was fascinated by his absolute and total xenophilia. Freddie loved to fuck strangers.
I’ll never forget the first time Freddie explained his particular fetish to me. “If I’m with a woman a second time, I just get bored,” he said to me. “I’ve already been there and done that, what’s the point?”
I, of course, come from the opposite school of thinking. I believe good sex gets even better with time.
Sure, I get the appeal of a deliberate random encounter. Intellectually, I can wrap my mind around the mix emotions such an encounter would stir.
Fear. The thrill of being “dangerous” or “bad”. Sudden Anticipation. Exhilaration at the Unknown. Excitement.
Of course for me, the emotion would probably be different.
I’d feel the fear, but I don’t know that I’d get the trill, exhilaration, or excitement. I’d probably feel anxiety more than anything.
I’m not much of a gambler. I don’t just roll the dice and see what fate has in store for me. There’s too much at risk for it to be even the slightest bit tempting to me.
And there are predators out there. There are bad people with evil intent. Play with xenophilia too much and you
could will get hurt. You know, I think that’s really my take away message from this piece.
I wanted to write something light heated today. My intent was to create a “throw away” 300 word post on xenophilia talking about Freddie’s penchant for “strange”. But I can’t leave the topic there, it’s simply not responsible, I know too much to just leave things there.
If you are too much into xenophilia, you
could will get hurt. You could get drugged and wake up in the middle of a strange woods. You could catch a STI, a potentially lethal virus. You could be murdered.
Events like I’ve described have touched my life.
I’d like to give you the heart wrenching details as I know them, as a cautionary tale. I’ve written them out more than once, here as I write this piece, only to erase them. Giving you their individual stories would tell a serious cautionary tale. It could be outstanding journalism. It might make a difference in someone’s life, perhaps make them rethink an encounter before their luck runs out and they get badly hurt.
But their stories are not mine to tell. I value their privacy more than I value what the details might do for you, my dear reader. So instead, let me tell you my story, let me tell you the way the potential for harm from xenophilia has effected me.
I know real victims. People who have been hurt by random encounters. They are among my family. Just thinking aboutw hat happened to them makes me literally feel sick in the pit of my stomach. I feel angry and helpless. I want to rage. I want to shake them and stop them, tell them they are worth more than what they are risking.
The worst point in my life since I sat holding her hand as my Mother died, was when a very dear friend who’s been hurt before on such an encounter sent me a text saying, “Probably going to get in trouble tonight . . . Craigslist.”
I felt panic, fear. My stomach dropped and I felt suddenly nauseous. I started to have an anxiety attack. I started to puke. I started to get ready to drive to stop her, then rejected the idea knowing that she was an hour and a half drive away in a city large enough that I’d never find her. I felt fucking helpless, and that added insult to injury. The worst fucking feeling in the world for me is feeling helpless.
Serafina is the one who kept her head, the one who didn’t throw the phone down in panic.
“Are you not worth more than that?” Serafina asked. “I know you are to us”
I’m told that the words stopped our dear friend dead in her tracks.
Nobody had ever before asked her to stop!
Serafina has a heart of compassion, she usually knows what to say.
I’m told that no one had ever asked our friend to please refrain from these self destructive behaviors.
For fuck’s sake, the world can be a cold cruel place.
At this point, thinking about that night, which was not so very long ago, all I can do is shake my head and sigh. Well, that and hope it never happens to her again, that her urge for that particular kind of danger doesn’t come back . . .
– – – – –
I didn’t accomplish my goal of writing a simple 300 word piece on xenophilia did I? At least now you know why the letter “X” is for xenophilia, a word filled with fear and anxiety for me. I am both anxious and fearful that it will touch my life again.
“x” is for xenophilia
This post could be full of triggers for some people. I don’t want to jump ahead to the conclusion and give away what the discussion is about, just know that the writing is raw, the subject is difficult, and it could contain triggers.
If you haven’t heard it before, the phrase “V is for Victory” dates back to the Second World War.
The phrase, and the hand gesture associated with it, became a symbol of unity and of hope. “V is for Victory”, as both a slogan and gesture, symbolized the enduring belief that Nazi Germany and her Fascist allies would be defeated.
We defeated the Nazi’s. In theory we won. But really, there are never winners in war, only a side that loses less. I’m not sure we defeated Fascism either. I think we won the battle, but are still in danger of losing the war.
Everywhere I look I see fascism. The world that George Orwell warned us about, seems to be here. The NSA spies on our own citizens. The CIA spies on foreign governments and heads of state, even our allies.
Cameras looking at the average are ubiquitous here. In the United States there are cameras on most every stoplight, even here in the lightly populated Midwest. They were installed under the guise of providing security and protection, with the underlying assumption that they would protect us from evil.
It’s folly. Nothing but pure folly. Cameras invade our privacy, but only provide an illusion of safety. Cameras cannot protect us from the real evils in the world. Cameras cannot protect us from ourselves.
If you ask me, the real evils of the world aren’t really terrorists. Sure, radical fanatical terrorist types are evil enough, don’t get me wrong. But there are far worse evils sitting in the homes of some of our neighbors, and in some cases, even the homes of our family.
That evil is the sexual abuse of children. Streetlight cameras are of precious little help there.
I am a sexual abuse survivor. I’m not going to lie about my past, or try to hide the truth out of shame or embarrassment. I am one of the many child abuse and child sexual abuse victims in the world today.
I’m one of the lucky one’s really, as I know what I endured was far less traumatic than what most victims suffer. In some ways, I think that makes it easier to share my story.
The first thing I suffered was physical abuse at the hands of my parents. I can tell the classic stories of having yardsticks broken over me while being disciplined, and other similar corporal punishment tales, no big whoop, that stuff was happening in most every home in the 1970’s. But, as I neared my teen years, things seemed to escalate.
It started with getting a dog, believe it or not. It started with a dog that was supposed to be mine. Fat chance there when both parents undermine the dog’s training to try and win his favor for themselves. Yes, really! Hey, that’s not really abuse, but it’s where the story starts.
Max, the German Shepard, was being trained for “protection” by my Father, meaning the dog was trained to be aggressive and bite. My Dad wanted a guard dog. My Mom wanted a family dog, and she really wanted him for herself. So, from the beginning, the dog got mixed messages and screwed up training. Then one day, when Mom was disciplining me, Max decided to join in.
They are hard to discern now 40 years later, but there are small scars all over my hands from the dog bites I suffered until I learned not to even put my hands up to protect myself when I was being beat. Trying to ward off the blows with my hands only gave the dog something to grab onto and bite. Because of how he’d been trained, Max didn’t just bite, he bit and shook his head, ripping and tearing flesh.
I have a scar on my thigh where the dog bit through a pair of jeans and left a gash about three inches long and three-quarters of an inch deep. The scarring on my leg was worse than it should have been, butterfly sutures were used at home rather than going to the doctor. Seeking medical attention might have alerted the authorities to the dangerous pet, as I’d already been to the ER once and got stitches in my upper lip from being bit on the mouth.
That’s a big part of why I always wear a mustache and goatee today, to hide the scars.
There are other stories I could tell about dog bites. But that’s not really the point of this post.
Then one day, Christmas Day actually, my father flew into a rage. I ended up backed into a corner, kicking and punching like my life depended on it. That might have been closer to the truth than I’d like to admit, even to the day. The bruises on my neck, hand prints, from where my father had tried to strangle me, lasted for weeks. I was sent away to visit my aunt and uncle for part of that time, as no one wanted teachers at my school to discern the bruises and ask uncomfortable questions.
I turned to a trusted family friend for advice and comfort. I don’t think twelve year old boys can be very discerning, but for fuck’s sake, I couldn’t have picked a worse place to turn. All I ended up doing was adding another abuser to the mix.
It started with hugs. My piano teacher gave good hugs. Good hugs aren’t always easy to come by. He was a kindly seeming older guy, eccentric but brilliant. I think most everyone knows someone of that type.
I don’t think I need to go into the details of what I lived though with my abuser, I’ll spare you those stories. Like I have said before, what happened to me was mild compared to most. He convinced my family that, because he was getting older, he needed regular help with cleaning and maintenance around his house. So I was dropped off at his home, and left there for several hours every week.
He even paid me. I felt like a 12 year old whore, because my parents really liked not having to provide me with spending money or allowance now that I was “working” for my piano teacher. I only “escaped” when I turned sixteen, getting a driver’s license freed me from getting dropped off at his home. The thing is, you can escape the abuse, but the memory is a little harder to get to go away.
– – – – –
So, about now you may be wondering what this story has to do with victory, or perhaps why I’m choosing to share all of this today.
It’s complicated why I’m at this point, but a lot of it has to do with a trigger I ran across yesterday, and I wasn’t even aware at the time it was a trigger.
In playing a game similar to truth or dare (but without the dare part) with some friends, I asked a lady how old she was when she lost her virginity. It was an offhand question. I’m not sure why it popped into my head.
I’ll never forget, to my dying day the answer she gave.
Six fucking years old.
At first it made me sad to hear her answer. Then I got angry. I got very angry. I wasn’t quite myself the rest of the night. Those kind of stories, even if it’s just a number that I hear, make my blood boil.
I hate abusers, I hate them with a passion and depth that scares me. I remember saying last night, that if anyone ever assaulted my Serafina, that I would kill them with my bare hands and probably enjoy the act. I remember saying that I’d gladly pay the price of spending the rest of my life in prison, if it ended the ability of an abuser to continue hurting others.
I think I said something last night to the effect that if a certain person laid a hand on my Sinnja, I’d cut his dick off and feed it to him. That line’s a bit of a cliche. The truth is, in that circumstance, I’d rather use a cheese grater . . . .
Yeah, big talk. Emotional topic. Personal crusade. I do get carried away at times. But, in my defense, I get upset because it’s a very personal issue for me.
When the letter “V” came up in turn for today’s post, I knew “V” wouldn’t be for vajazzling after all. No “V” has to stand for victory, victory over abuse in all it’s forms.
Victory over the man who pretends to be a dominant, but is instead an abuser and predator. Victory over the man who won’t let his partner speak her mind or leave their home. Victory over spousal abuse and child abuse, emotional abuse and physical abuse. And most of all, victory over the vile individuals who prey on children.
May you all rot in hell . . . I’ll see you there!
“V” is for victory over abuse
unction – unc·tion noun
1: the application of a soothing or lubricating oil or ointment
2: something that is used for anointing : ointment
Unction is an odd word. It’s more than a little bit archaic, not common at all in modern use.
That’s probably why I like the word, it feels old fashioned. It seems far more mysterious than mere ointment.
Of course, being the sick and perverted SOB that I am, it’s a word that I turn on it’s head. Unctions are normally used for medicinal purposes, or for anointing.
There’s really nothing soothing about an unction used for BDSM play, it’s used to create strong sensations. I wrote about one example back on Tuesday, when I suggested Icy Hot as a lubricant for a gates-of-hell cockring.
That’s a purely sadistic suggestion, in case you didn’t know, especially the part about a q-tip coated with Icy Hot being swabbed inside a guy’s urethra. I guess there’s a reason I’ve never had a male submissive, eh. I’d be a horribly sadistic fucker to a guy submissive or cuck, scary sadistic. Well, that and the fact I’m not terribly bisexual.
Unctions, potions, ointments, as well as some other natural ingredients like ginger, Jalapeno peppers, and stinging nettles, all fall into the category of irritants. They are used in BDSM play to create sensations.
And they are very effective. But, they have to be used with caution. Isn’t that the case with most of the really good kinky toys?
Irritants commonly used in BDSM play includes: Ginger root, toothpaste, Mineral Ice, Vic’s Vapor Rub, Icy Hot, Tiger Balm, Ben-Gay, HEET!, Capzicain, Tabasco sauce, Oriental hot oils, Oil of Wintergreen, Peppermint extract, Cinnamon Oil, Altoids, and stinging nettles.
Plain old alcohol can be an irritant too, but generally only where there’s open skin. I’ve been told, by a masochist I’m very fond of, that the feel of alcohol on an open wound is a very special sensation. It’s an extreme form of play no doubt, but it has fans for sure. In my mind, the clear choice is to use an alcohol safe for drinking (ethyl alcohol) rather than something like a rubbing alcohol (isopropol alcohol). Rubbing alcohol, and other medicinal alcohols of that sort are only safe for external use, so are not recommended for use as irritants in BDSM play.
The list’s not all inclusive, but includes most of the ones I’ve commonly heard of being used. Most of the oils need to be diluted significantly, and it never hurts with the balms to cut/dilute them with something like Vaseline or make-up remover. Failure to dilute some of the irritants can cause severe chemical type burns on skin, not a good idea.
Most everything on the list has the potential to be an allergen too it seems. So caution is always advised on that front. Testing an unction / irritant on an area of the body that’s not terribly sensitive before moving on to anointing someone’s tender bits is always recommended.
Please don’t take this limited introduction as an invitation to try this kind of play yourself. To my eye, the definitive text on this topic hasn’t yet been written, so I suggest that before incorporating unctions and irritants into your own BDSM play, that you conslut local experts, or find a class on the topic at a lifestyle festival or event.
“u” is for unction
I’m sure there’s more than a few different “T” words that could be candidates for this entry of the Joy of Kink from “A” to “Z”. I’d post a list, but I’m actually saving those back for another project.
With that said, there wasn’t any consideration at all on my part what today’s topic should be. There is one word that’s at the core of everything I am, as well as everything I want the Samadhi name to mean to my family, to my friends, to those I mentor, and even to those I meet . . .
I am all about trust. Building trust. Maintaining trust. Keeping trust.
Trust is at the core of how I play. Trust is at the core of how I live too. And, without a doubt, trust is the very bedrock of how I love.
Lust and trust may rhyme, but they don’t necessarily have a whole lot to do with each other. Maybe I’m jaded, but that seems especially so in the vanilla world. The hook-up culture is all about lust, with little thought for trust.
Trust has everything to do with the other “L” word – not lust but love.
There can be no love without trust. When trust is lacking, everything else erodes quickly. It’s my belief that trust is the bedrock of all truly loving relationships.
But, trust isn’t like some other emotions. Trust isn’t something that can simply be given. Trust must be earned.
That’s why trust is such a hard thing for impatient people. It doesn’t happen overnight.
Yes, there may very well be such a thing as love at first sight. But let’s be honest, there isn’t such a thing as trust at first sight, it doesn’t happen.
Sadly, trust is also a very fragile emotion. It’s like the finest blown glass, beautiful and fragile, yet broken so easily. Once shattered, it falls apart in painful shards. Once shattered, it’s beauty and form can never be totally restored again.
Sadly, trust is often parodied. The word is invoked without intent. The politician, with promises only meant to be kept through election day. The grinning used car salesman saying “trust me”. The so called “lover” mouthing the same words.
That’s the worst kind of lie, the most vile of all deceits. Invoking trust, knowing full well it will be shattered. That’s true betrayal.
And, in the end, that’s why it’s so hard for many to trust. Their trust has been broken again and again. Shards of that fine glass that might have been mended, are broken instead, again and again. Then the finest shards, the last little vulnerable pieces that remain, are ground down again under the boot-heel of deceit and betrayal.
Real trust is more precious than diamonds or gold, and probably more rare. That’s why it is so important to me, so vital, so precious. Did I say trust is at the core of everything?
I did, and I meant it!
“t” is for trust
This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt seems directed towards writers of erotica. That’s a talent I do not claim to have.
I’m a non-fiction guy. I blog about my life, my loves, my passions.
It’s hard for me to imagine a life more fulfilled than the one I’m living. And there’s the rub.
I’m not interested in writing about a life less fulfilled then mine, and I’m not quite capable of imagining a life more fulfilled. So, I don’t write fiction.
That makes the prompt for this week a little difficult for me . . .
What are some safe sex practices that you include in your writing? Do you think this bit of realistic sex should be captured in erotica? While many stories are fantastical, normalizing condoms, dental dams, for oral and penetrative sex can be educational to some readers. Try your hand at writing a piece about safe sex, perhaps one that meets the characters where they are at, for the forms of safe(r) sex run the gamut.
Because I write non-fiction, and not erotica, I write about safe sex as a simple matter of fact thing. Because this isn’t fiction, it’s not a topic I need a prompt to post about. In fact quite the opposite.
One of the earliest posts on this blog was Adventures in STD Screening, the story of visiting our local public health clinic for testing last year. Soon after, when I had three other pieces on STD’s waiting to be published, Serafina asked me quietly, “Master, do you want people to think our blog is about STD’s? There’s so much more you write about.” She’s a wise woman, and her point was well taken.
I decided to post once a month on the topic of STD’s and safe sex. In Feburary, I wrote about Super Gonorrhea, and the specter of antibiotic resistant STI’s someday being untreatable with the antibiotics we’ve all come to depend on for fighting an entire myriad of infections. In March, I wrote about a slightly more whimsical subject, Ciguatera – When Food Poisoning Becomes a STD.
Now it’s April, meaning the prompt from Wicked Wednesday is timely, even if it isn’t directed so much at non-fiction bloggers. I’ve got another essay, or two, on the topic in the wings waiting to be published, but today I just want to say a few things. I’m just going to be blunt.
Safe sex matters.
Safe sex matters because of viruses like HIV and Hepatitis. Safe sex matters because of bacterial STI’s like gonorrhea, syphilis, and chlamydia. Safe sex matters because health and lives are at risk.
People talk about “old guard leather” with reverence, wanting to take all sorts of lessons from their protocols and behaviors. I don’t want to get into my feelings about that right now, because most of what people think “old guard” represents is a myth. And, it seems to me that are forgetting the most important lesson of them all to be learned from that era and culture.
The reason the “old guard” myths even came into existence is that many of the “old guard” passed prematurely. Their ranks were devastated by the spread of HIV. Huge numbers of the “old guard” died horrible deaths caused by the ravages of AIDS. They died for the same reasons people still have unsafe sex today.
Safe sex isn’t always convenient. And, I’m going to be honest here, safe sex is not always hot either. Oh we can pretend, we can even create prompts for writing fiction that celebrates the eroticism of safe sex. But for some of us that’s going to fall flat. Horribly flat.
We want to taste out lovers. We want to feel their presence, in us, around us, or on us. And not through a piece of fucking latex! We want our lover’s essence inside us, or we want to plant our essence inside them. It’s a basic human desire, and pretending otherwise, attempting to eroticize dental dams and condoms, is always going to fall flat with a certain audience.
I’m part of that audience.
I want to cum in my lover’s mouth, not into a latex scumbag. I want to kiss her, my face coated and sticky with her juices. I’m not going to settle for anything less. I want to fuck her and cum in her, not into a piece of plastic.
But, the only way I can do that, and be safe, is to be very careful. I can’t be indiscriminate, and I can’t be reckless. It’s not just my health at risk, but my decisions effect Serafina. My decisions will effect Sinnja too, now that she’s agreed to wear my collar.
That’s why I practice “polyamory” only inside the context of a loving committed relationship. That’s why I work so hard to build real trust, and why I move carefully and cautiously in my play and sexual adventures.
Even as a committed polyamorist, there are ways for me to be free to practice so called “unsafe sex” and still be quite safe. It’s called being “fluid bonded”. People who are fluid bonded are essentially a closed circle of lovers who have agreed to limit any activities involving exposure to body fluids to within that circle.
There are nuances, as with anything in life. Some fluid bonded circles are absolutely closed. No sex allowed outside that circle. Others allow safe sex outside the fluid bonded circle as long as condoms, dental dams, etc are used.
The biggest factor making a fluid bonded circle difficult to maintain is trust. If anyone breaks the circle, suddenly everyone in the circle is at risk. It takes extreme responsibility to be part of such a circle, no doubt about that.
But the rewards? Well those are priceless . . .
“s” is for safe sex
In the movie recreation of my life, I’m picturing a suave and debonair type uttering these words . . .
“The name’s Samadhi, Michael Samadhi.”
OK, I hope you are laughing with me.
It’s a joke.
My story’s no James Bond sort of tale.
My life’s not one that is going to translate to cinema.
It’s been a wonderful life, but I’m probably going to end up more infamous than famous.
I’m ok with that. I actually like the choices I’ve made.
And nobody, and I do mean nobody, is going to turn my life’s story into anything but a cautionary tale.
“See what happens when you don’t stay on the straight and narrow children,” they may tell school kids someday. “You could end up like Michael Samadhi if you aren’t careful,” they would tell them, hoping to scare the kids straight.
Serafina’s laughing now, as I read those opening lines to her. It’s a wicked laugh. I think she’d prefer to be remembered more along the lines of “Bonnie and Clyde” than the “Bridges of Madison County”, if given the choice.
That won’t be my story either. Serafina, I’m sorry to say, that’s not us. We’ll never be that kind of infamous.
The one thing I am these days, for the first time in my life, is to be truly comfortable in my own skin. I like who Michael has become. It’s good to be me right now.
Like I have said, I don’t regret any of the choices I’ve made in life. Ya roll the dice and live with the results. And of late, the results have been very good.
I was sitting at the munch Saturday night, after announcing that Sinnja had accepted my collar earlier in the day. I not could help thinking to myself that I was the most fortunate man in the room.
Serafina is a beautiful slave. She’s everything I ever wanted in a slave.
And the energy and potential Sinnja now brings into the mix, it’s very heady stuff. Not just for me, but for Serafina too.
I had despaired that Serafina would ever again feel truly close to another woman after feeling horribly betrayed by my ex-wife. Now, it seems she’s found the the friend and confidant, the sister in leather, that she’d been longing to find, but had despaired would never come.
So I’m thinking life is really good right now, and driving home Saturday night in my 2001 Toyota pickup truck, I looked over at a man driving a new model corvette and laughed to Serafina.
I said I felt sorry for the man driving the corvette.
Knowing the punchline, Serafina smiled and waited for a moment, before setting up my joke.
“Michael, why would that be?” she asked.
“Because . . . He’s not me!” I roared.
I chuckled to myself the rest of the way home, knowing damn well how lucky a man I am.
If my friend Alpha were here at the moment, I’d turn to him and simply say – FUCK! – He’d know that means the same thing.
It’s good to be Michael Samadhi right now. That’s not always been the case during my life, but right now it is, and I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts. Could I really be so fortunate that this could last forever? Only time will tell that, as human existence is a fragile thing, our health and vitality are all temporary.
But for now, anyway, I can honestly say . . .
It’s good to be me!
“S” is for Samadhi – Michael Samadhi
“A purposeful look for asking a life changing question” . . .
Serafina captured my gaze moments before I asked Sinnja to wear my collar.
I know for a fact that “R” is for romance. Not like in a romance novel, but the real deal.
Romance with a capitol “R”.
Yes, I am a lucky man. There’s no doubt about it, I am truly blessed.
Today, it could be said I am doubly blessed. That’s literally true, as it’s official that I have a new submissive. It’s been announced to the local community at a munch, and added to our status at Fetlife. I’m shopping for a special collar as we speak.
Her name is Sinnja. She’s an enthralling woman, to say the least. Saturday, I asked her to accept a collar of consideration. She blushed, then said yes.
She and Serafina met first at FetLife. Then we met her in person at a munch in December. She was new to our local BDSM group, so Serafina asked her to sit with us. That’s not an uncommon thing for us to do.
I’ve been a pretty prolific at posting pics there at Fetlife. There’s far more to see there than gets posted here. Obviously, if you are reading this you know I have a blog , and that my sweet slave/wife and I are active in the community. So, it’s been pretty common for us to invite folks to meet us for their first munch. Sinnja was no different there.
The munch she attended was an odd affair, mostly due to the space we were in. The room only really had one long table. Serafina and I ended up sitting on one end, so we were isolated from a lot of the people and conversation. We met Sinnja and talked for a while, it was very nice.
Then, the worst winter in our area’s history hit. The most snowfall, the longest sustained cold, we broke serious records. We didn’t attend another munch until spring. But, when we did return, there was Sinnja, saving seats for us, smiling and talking like our last in person contact had been the week before, not three months.
I think she mentioned reading my SpiritulBDSM blog back in December. Sinnja’s been
stalking reading this blog the whole time since I started it. I made a comment about my new bullwhip, at a CROP Meet ‘n’ Greet, and she immediately chimed in with, “And how many people get to say their new whip was cracked the first time by a world record holder?” The girl’s sharp, and she’s a handful too.
No doubt she’ll be a challenge. I have no doubt I’m up for the challenge too. I’ve got a secret weapon, Serafina!
The chemistry is oh so very right. She and Serafina are very much alike in some ways, yet they are different in just the right ways too. Their friendship is wonderful and loving. They respect and adore each other.
When we hug each other as a trio, it feels as though the sky lights up at night. Sinnja literally begins to quiver from the energy. I wrote the post energy antennae about our first real play together, I simply don’t know how to describe it without being profane – fucking electric!
And Sinnja’s family already likes Serafina and I. OK, I shouldn’t say that as though it’s unbelievable, we are good likeable folk. But Serafina’s children will have little to do with her, and a lot of people want to keep their kink and their family worlds apart. it’s not like that with my sweet new submissive.
One of her sons has exchanged a couple of several hundred word emails with me, at FetLife no less. I’ve actually hung out with him some at a couple of munches, he’s a good guy I’m happy to call my friend. And, that would be true whether I was in a romance with his Mom, or not. Real good guy, he’s earned friendship with me on his own merits.
With all of that said, this is the Joy of Kink blog. I believe we are kinky beings having a human experience. I can’t complete a post about romance on 4/21/2014 without talking about the play. When I play with Sinnja, when she stares into my eyes as I torment her body, it is magical. I’ve only felt that particular kind of connection with one other lady, and she’s sitting right next to me as I write this post.
I’ve had my share of playmates, but collars are about commitment. I’ve only ever given out four collars in my life. Two of those ladies I married. One left the world of kink entirely, to better pursue her law career.
And now there’s Sinnja . . .
I hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into, my dear sweet Sinnja. You may be a challenge for me, but in return I can guarantee I’ll be at least as challenging to you. Of course that won’t be all, I’ll be romancing you too!
“r” is for romance
All my BDSM heroes are queer.
That may sound like an odd statement for a (mostly) heterosexual man to make, but it’s the truth.
Although this may sound silly, when I first became aware of the “BDSM community”, there was no community. At least not where I lived. To the best of my knowledge Davenport, Iowa never had a gay leather bar. And when you talk about “Old Guard Leather” that’s where the scene came from, it wasn’t a heterosexual community.
The very first book I ever read on BDSM was the Leatherman’s Handbook by Larry Townsend. It was far from perfect, but it gave me somewhere to go with my own ideas and explorations.
Well, other than the fact it was written for gay men. So, I had to try and translate the concepts, as best I could, to better work with the female psyche. I got that part wrong a few times, or so I was told. If men are from Mars, I figure woman have to be from at least Venus, perhaps even Pluto. Saturn’s a good guess too, most of the women I know like rings, after all. But, I digress.
During my “formative” years, in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s, when I was first able to begin exploring 24/7 BDSM relationships, my favorite author was named Pat Califia, now Patrick Califia-Rice. Back in that time period, pre-sex change, Califia was a leather-woman and radical sex-positive feminist.
Some of the fiction Califia wrote is still, to this day, the hottest BDSM fiction I’ve ever read. Her BDSM how-to book, called Sensuous Magic, was a major influence on how I look at BDSM. As a queer woman, when she said that she’d rather play with a leather-person of any sex before she’d play with a vanilla woman, I took notice. That was an attitude I could understand and relate to. Given a choice between being trapped on a deserted island with a vanilla woman, or a kinky assed leatherman, I’d certainly not choose vanilla.
I’m not positive about proper transgender etiquette, so I’m on a little bit uncertain ground as to how best to say this and be correct. I believe that Califia-Rice identifies as a bi-sexual man today, certainly though, back when I first discovered her work, she identified as queer, a gay leather woman who played on occasion with all sexes.
Laura Antoniou, creator of the Marketplace series, is my favorite kinky novelist these days. In a post over at SpiritualBDSM.com, I compared her to Lou Reed (EL James is to Bubblegum Rock as Laura Antoniou is to Lou Reed) and got a mention by Laura on Facebook. When I met her at IML last spring, that’s how I introduced myself, “I’m the guy who compared you to Lou Reed.” Dapper and stylish, Laura looks better in a “men’s” three piece suit than most guys I know. And, I’m sure you’ve already guessed, if you didn’t know already, Laura Antioniou is queer.
Joseph Bean and Guy Baldwin are two more individuals who’s writing has influenced my development as a dominant. Both are gay. I’m not exactly sure how Dossie Easton and Janet Hardy self identify, but it could undoubtedly be argued that the brilliant cohabiting coauthors are queer.
my name is mary, I’m a lesbian, I can do anything
The only person I could ever truly describe as a mentor, was a wonderful lady named Mary Helen. I owe more to Mary than I’ll ever be able to properly express here, on a blog. For a number of years, until we drifted apart due to distance, she was my best friend.
Of course, I’m sure you’ve figured out the pattern and already guessed. Mary’s queer.
I’ll never forget the day I met Mary Helen. I was working as a lead community organizer. Fighting for social change, I’d risen within the organizing hierarchy to the point I was recruiting and training others. Mary walked into my office one day for an interview, and promptly announced to me, “My name is Mary, I’m a lesbian, and I can do anything.”
That’s a hell of an introduction, not to mention a pretty big billing to live up to, but Mary did it. Anything I asked her to do, she accomplished. She made my life, and my job, so much easier. At work she was like my right hand.
Then one day, she joined my ex-wife and I for a scene. Mary and I co-topped BlissfulTorment. It was flat out fucking glorious! I’d never worked with a co-dominant before, it was an eye opening experience.
Mary was vocal, she was confident, and while I’ve always prided myself on knowing my way around a woman, my friend Mary really knew her way around a woman. Blissy had never considered herself to be very bi-sexual, nor submissive at all to another woman. Not before that. Within an hour, Mary had Blissy begging to have just a glimpse of her pussy. Wouldn’t she please pull her shorts aside and give a peek? Please?
If I’d have been smart, I would have had a notepad out, I’d have been taking notes. Mary was really that good. Bliss never did get to see Mary’s pussy that day, neither did I for that matter, but we had her back to play again at our first opportunity.
Mary became our “girlfriend” for the better part of a decade. She lived with another woman here and there, but it rarely lasted any significant amount of time. Bliss and I were a fixture in her life, as others would come and go, we were the ones there to help her pick up the pieces.
I was the one she came to when she was a victim of domestic abuse, showing up at my door in the middle of the night, bruised and bloodied to the point of being nearly unrecognizable. “Mary, how could she?” I cried, determined to make the abuser pay for the crime, offering to go make her former partner look just as bad. I was enraged.
She just said to me, quite simply, “Michael, I didn’t come to you to ask you to take revenge, I came here because I knew you’d help me heal.”
Despite all the tears, the swelling, the bruising, the blood; despite her injuries, the torn clothes, and all the mess; despite the fact that there wasn’t a fucking scratch on her abuser, I wasn’t even allowed to call the police.
“Really Michael, what good would it do?” she said. “I come from a marginalized population living in a backass hick town in the midwest. Calling the goons because another woman beat the shit out of me, calling them for anything short of murder, is only going to make things worse.”
God damn I hated to hear that. Thinking about it still brings tears to my eyes. It was one of the worst moments of my life.
You have to understand that the absolute worst feeling in the world to me, is the feeling of being helpless. I wanted to do something! I wanted to do anything! I wanted to beat the crap out of the bitch who’d hurt my friend. I wanted to see her arrested and taken off to jail, and I didn’t fucking well care if I was with her! I wanted justice. I wanted something done. ANYTHING!
Mostly, I wanted to believe in a different world, a world where any woman who’d been hurt could call the police. I had to learn, the hard way, that is not always the case. That wasn’t true in Belleville Illinois, in 1991 That wasn’t true when Mary knocked on my door at 3 am before collapsing. And, I know it’s not true in some places in our country still to this day. That bothers me.
There’s that old saying, the “Serenity Prayer”.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.
It was the acceptance part that was the hardest for me. A very difficult lesson for a dominant to learn, not to mention a dominant who was an organizer. Change? That’s what I do! That’s what I was brought to this earth to do! But some changes happen very slowly. Some changes don’t happen in this lifetime. There’s little comfort to that when holding a battered friend, crying together to get through the night.
And I was helpless to to anything but hold Mary in my arms. When even trying to wipe away the blood off her face with a wet paper towel was too much for either of us to bear, the pain too great, that’s all I could do. I held my friend. We cried together. The world was a very bleak and terrible place to me that morning.
Serafina has heard me say, on more than one occasion, so often that it might be called a “Michealism”‘ I say that I’ve rarely met a situation that couldn’t be made worse by involving the police. That’s a little bit of life experience and observation, and a lot of wisdom gleaned from that night with my friend Mary.
We recovered from that moment together. Life eventually got back to normal.
OK, I say that, but you know, it’s not really true. The bruises fade, the wounds slowly disappear, or turn to scars, but the memories and emotional scars remain. I shouldn’t kid myself, nothing is ever really the same after a night like that. But we went on. We lived and learned and grew, together and apart.
Mary taught me how how to read a woman’s body language. Mary taught me how to use a good pick-up line, and how to know who’d be vulnerable to it. It’s not a skill I’ve ever really used, but the information’s there, I suppose, if I ever need it.
What I truly know about the art of seduction, I learned from her. Mary taught me massage techniques for relieving a woman’s cramps during her period too. Mary taught me how to tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue. Most importantly, Mary taught me how to eat (and treat) pussy like I was stone cold dyke. That’s a damn fine skill for a (mostly) heterosexual man to acquire.
Yes indeed, her name was Mary, she was a lesbian. She really could do anything!
And you know what? Now so can I!
“Q” is for Queer