Space

I do not generally get excited about self-serving holidays, notably my birthday and Christmas (yes, for all the goodness and 'true meaning' of that season, I believe the consumer hype has won out by a few lengths). To note what could be considered a cliche, Peggy Lee's Is That All There Is?* has on innumerable occasions been the soundtrack playing on repeat in my head during past occurrences of these dates and others. My internal visions of what should be and what came about have never really aligned, whether due to the understandable limitations on the type of gifts my parents could provide or to the incomprehensible thickness of a boyfriend who, knowing full well that a particular color was my least favorite in the spectrum and I wouldn't be caught dead in that hue, bought me jewelry with that color stone. So I tend to keep my expectations low, if existent at all, in an attempt to minimize my disappointments regarding any potential gift receipts.

But then again, sometimes your wish is granted. You might, perhaps, get lucky enough to have your birthday coincide with the local play party.

Where the near-professional rope master was kind enough to take my bold hints that a girl should be so lucky as to get proper birthday spanking. Kind enough to dress me in a beautiful and intricate weave of red silk rope, binding my breasts and chests and crotch ever so tightly, hang my wrists from the chains in the ceiling and to proceed to work my backside up and down with everything from horsehair to floggers and slappers.

The public play was new for me. The small frisson of excitement driven by my exhibitionist tendencies easily overrode my hesitation at dropping my clothing in front of these mostly unknown people milling about the play areas. As this kind man worked me slowly and softly to the almost-can't-take-it edge with each new toy and occasionally forced my head back or to the side with a forceful grip on my hair, somewhere in the middle of that my space changed. I was no longer gripping the hand bars and leaning on the tips of my toes, balancing my high-heeled self between the spreader bar.

I was hanging from a cliff, and falling. It was beautiful.

There was no need to be careful what I wished for this birthday.

I'm going to keep dancing, my friends.

Is that all there is, is that all there is

If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing

Let's break out the booze and have a ball

If that's all there is


*Perhaps this warrants additional comment. The fact that my exposure to the popular music and singers of the thirties, forties and fifties was self-driven and began before I even hit my teens was a little difficult to explain to friends since it was soooo not cool in the early eighties. I'm sure there were other odd kids developing tastes for the wonderful variety of tunes from back in the day at that time as well. I just didn't know them. It's harder sometimes than others to find folks of your persuasion.

Suggestion

I took your advice. After all this time, I contacted the local BDSM group here.

After being cleared as a non-threatening potential attendee at the coffee gathering the evening before, I attended my very first public play party this weekend. All of my forays in this area to date have been within personal relationships - no general meet and greets or parties before this.

Apparently my version of "slutting it up", which is how my inquiry regarding appropriate dress for these parties was answered, is a little stronger than some others. The corset and tiny black skirt, topped off (or is that bottomed out?) with the black thigh highs and skanky dancer Mary Janes seemed to make quite an impression. I was touched by the friendliness and neutrality regarding other people's interests or proclivities. There were a couple of other new attendees, both men who weren't sure which side of the fence they were going to land on, or if indeed it was going to be one in particular. The two of them seemed obviously uncomfortable and nervous. It felt a little odd swinging into hostess mode to help ease them into feeling more welcomed and part of the group when I was myself completely new. The most amusing part for me was being tagged as a dominant until I clarified my true disposition when asked.

There was no playing for me of course, being both dom-less and on good behavior (grin) for this introductory session. The club directors were very sweet; they kept checking in with me to see if I was being "freaked out" by anything. They never seemed to quite believe me that I was perfectly fine being surrounded by a naked, hooded man or asses smacked raw or backs being cut by single-tails. As a matter of fact, I ended up having to leave before the purported "best scene" got much past the warm-up simply because I was tired and couldn't stop yawning. Even propping myself up against the elevated slave post didn't keep my eyes from drooping.

How perverse is that?