The Tao of Mag

Kink and Home Remedy

2010-10-26T22:34:00.000-04:00

Tonight, I came home and slathered myself in a mixture of mayonnaise, egg yolk, and salt. This is an old exfoliating and moisturizing technique that my mother and grandmother before me have recommended on regular occasion, and which I prefer to buying the expensive salt scrubs and hair moisturizers, if I can help it.

It isn't going to cure cancer, and it doesn't smell like my preferred cucumber and melon body wash, but it does its job and does it well.

Somehow, when describing this method to a friend, the idea of urine therapy was brought up.

Now, I have to say, I'm certainly not the type to eschew home remedies, but I'm also not the type for quackery; there are no legitimate studies that profess urine to be the goddess's gift from the body to itself, much less the goddess's gift to anything.

Let's quickly get this cleared up: a healthy person's urine is, in fact, sterile. Safe for consumption, and if I remember correctly, (I'm not turning this into a research paper, guys), also an old sterilizing technique for a number of things such as wounds. It's up there with leeches, which are also effective but outdated.

Mayo, leeches, and urine are not going to cure cancer, nor do any of them smell like cucumber and melon body wash.

I have tasted my own urine in an attempt to display acceptance of a submissive who wanted golden showers. Any good dominant knows what they are dealing out, right? Well, that night it tasted like pure apple cider. I was healthy and had done my research for the situation: a small taste taken from my fingers. I have no patience for empty taboo.

But I'm also not a urine fetishist. It wasn't going to cure cancer and it didn't smell like cucumber and melon body wash. I didn't drink a full glass as it didn't have that appeal to me.

When I'm healthy, I don't mind others drinking my urine for their own enjoyment.

When others are healthy, I'm not strictly opposed to tasting theirs for their enjoyment.

I am a switch, after all. And I have no patience for empty taboo. It just isn't my thing.

But it isn't going to cure cancer or smell like cucumber and melon body wash, and I refuse to take part in quackery. Fetish is OK when not forced or coerced; false claims are dangerous and should be met with no patience whatsoever, kink or otherwise.

Quick Copulation

2010-06-25T20:42:00.000-04:00

Let's get this done. Here, there, this that, oh, oh.

Finish fast; we rush our real life to return to days upon weeks upon months upon years of damage management. No slow, lazy tangling of limbs here: it's all a power struggle against time itself. My zodiac says to "go where fun goes to die," but I forgot how to play long ago, and realism trumps all.

Feel better now? OK. Back to the fray.

Arrival

2010-06-02T04:07:00.001-04:00

On the other side of the coin ...

I'm pinned down, he's on top of me, grinding and growling. I'm tensing, whimpering, clawing, writhing. He likes to grab me by the ass and crush me, hips to hips, when he's close. I love every minute of it and wrap him in arms, legs, teeth.

At the same time, when I'm telling him I want you inside me, I'm not talking strictly about his dick. In fact any part of his anatomy is only incidental; a vehicle for something else -- the expression of something both primal and transcendental. I want you inside me.

I pull you in closer because I want you so far inside me that I see stars. Paint constellations on the back of my eyelids: I'm coming. Not just achieving orgasmic release; arriving.

This plane of existence is greater than one person, a shared mythology that spans the depth and breadth of communication itself. It's artistic collaboration at its finest.

And you don't have to hurt me to make me cry. At least not in the traditional sense.

Sexless

2010-05-31T04:13:00.003-04:00

If I was celibate and sexless, I could still create art, travel the world, study history and sociology, write film reviews, learn to skii, swim in the ocean -- do all sorts of things that would leave me breathless, achy, sweaty, and too worn out for sex -- and I can tell you, each memory would last longer than most of my amazing sex stories.

Please note, and you can check around, I'm disillusioned, jaded, and blase towards sex because I've had plenty of awesome sex; now I want to get out and do something real for once.

The main thing that stops me is the fact that it's not me and/or my vagina that are wrong. It's general social attitudes of sex-centricity that are wrong. People identify as their sexuality, judge the sexuality of themselves and others, identify children from birth primarily by their sexual organs, pre-ordaining their taste in not only partners but aesthetics and values and attitudes. Movies don't do well without a "love interest." Life-long partnerships are identified and sought after based primarily around sex. It's ludicrous.

Plato said so.

Only I'm not a gay man in a society where women are owned and used for breeding, so I might not go as far as him in thinking that sex is entirely animalistic and trite, second-best the preference for pontificating between philosophical peers ... (I think I let Stan Lee write that one)

Still, I think it's worthwhile to say chill out. Sex is not the right measuring stick for everything. In fact it's really quite compartmentalized in a small area of pleasure, risk, and reproduction. It shouldn't be used to value or devalue anything else whatsoever.

The only thing removal of my organs would do is send a very strong message about my disdain, and in order to make it really work, I'd have to get a lot of publicity, so most people wouldn't even believe me anyway ...

Subtle Roller-Coaster of Stylistic Values

2010-05-27T19:04:00.001-04:00

I just explained my taste to a prospective sub as follows:

I expect subs to be incredibly proactive and productive, to have their own agendas and report on their progress. EG, if you're going to college, I want to know that you're putting all of your effort into success. If you're a business man, I want to know that you're making and meeting goals. If you're an artist, I expect you to make and keep a schedule, orchestrate a career of some sort out of it, etc.

I can go meta in setting up a structure and work you like a horse, I can hurt you to clear your mind and direct you through a strict regimen. I also apply this to social phobias and insecurities. I forge in fire; to the recreational weekenders I don't seem to do much, because I prefer to take subtle control. However, I don't seek to create service zombies, so the majority of my regimen includes empowerment of my subs.

I can tease and direct release; though it's not an erotic experience for me, it amuses me. I tend to giggle when causing pain (I gave one of my boyfriends a massage for an epic knot in his shoulder the other day. He said he "saw god." I was laughing the whole time. And we're relatively vanilla.)
I enjoy giving CBT, tease and denial / delay, figging, nipple torture, attention deprivation. I can give a good spanking, but my taste is more cerebral than that. I would rather do deliberate, slow sadism with eye contact than stare at your reddening ass for fourty minutes.

I also like to delegate practical aspects so that I'm free to focus my attention on the people at hand.

Ultimately, I'm very lifestylish about everything. I don't have hobbies as much as stylistic values applied to every aspect of my life. At the same time, I have a strong taste for boundaries in general.

I'm a very subtle roller-coaster. Even completely platonic, vanilla friends often find that I have a transformational effect on their lives.

I even get a twinge of contempt when the term "play" is used to sweepingly describe what I do, because much of the time, my passion is in very deliberate, responsibility-ladened interactions: fulfilling and enjoyable, but not play at all.

I'm certainly not a game.

I can do the more mild community scene thing with people I can trust to get me there and back safely, but still seek a general friendship / rapport outside of fetish regardless. If I can't hold a normal conversation over coffee with you, I don't want to put clamps on your testicles. Make sense?

On Taming

2010-05-12T15:16:00.001-04:00

It was then that the fox appeared.

"Good morning," said the fox.

"Good morning," the little prince responded politely, although when he turned around he saw nothing.

"I am right here," the voice said, "under the apple tree."

"Who are you?" asked the little prince, and added, "You are very pretty to look at."

"I am a fox," the fox said.

"Come and play with me," proposed the little prince. "I am so unhappy."

"I cannot play with you," the fox said. "I am not tamed."

"Ah! Please excuse me," said the little prince.

But, after some thought, he added:

"What does that mean--'tame'?"

"You do not live here," said the fox. "What is it that you are looking for?"

"I am looking for men," said the little prince. "What does that mean--'tame'?"

"Men," said the fox. "They have guns, and they hunt. It is very disturbing. They also raise chickens. These are their only interests. Are you looking for chickens?"

"No," said the little prince. "I am looking for friends. What does that mean--'tame'?"

"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. It means to establish ties."

"'To establish ties'?"

"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . ."

"I am beginning to understand," said the little prince. "There is a flower . . . I think that she has tamed me . . ."

"It is possible," said the fox. "On the Earth one sees all sorts of things."

"Oh, but this is not on the Earth!" said the little prince.

The fox seemed perplexed, and very curious.

"On another planet?"

"Yes."

"Are there hunters on that planet?"

"No."

"Ah, that is interesting! Are there chickens?"

"No."

"Nothing is perfect," sighed the fox.

But he came back to his idea.

"My life is very monotonous," the fox said. "I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat . . ."

The fox gazed at the little prince, for a long time.

"Please--tame me!" he said.

"I want to, very much," the little prince replied. "But I have not much time. I have friends to discover, and a great many things to understand."

"One only understands the things that one tames," said the fox. "Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy things all ready made at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. If you want a friend, tame me . . ."

"What must I do, to tame you?" asked the little prince.

"You must be very patient," replied the fox. "First you will sit down at a little distance from me--like that--in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day . . ."

The next day the little prince came back.

"It would have been better to come back at the same hour," said the fox. "If, for example, you come at four o'clock in the afternoon, then at three o'clock I shall begin to be happy. I shall feel happier and happier as the hour advances. At four o'clock, I shall already be worrying and jumping about. I shall show you how happy I am! But if you come at just any time, I shall never know at what hour my heart is to be ready to greet you . . . One must observe the proper rites . . ."

"What is a rite?" asked the little prince.

"Those also are actions too often neglected," said the fox. "They are what make one day different from other days, one hour from other hours. There is a rite, for example, among my hunters. Every Thursday they dance with the village girls. So Thursday is a wonderful day for me! I can take a walk as far as the vineyards. But if the hunters danced at just any time, every day would be like every other day, and I should never have any vacation at all."

So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near--

"Ah," said the fox, "I shall cry."

"It is your own fault," said the little prince. "I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you . . ."

"Yes, that is so," said the fox.

"But now you are going to cry!" said the little prince.

"Yes, that is so," said the fox.

"Then it has done you no good at all!"

"It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields." And then he added:

"Go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that yours is unique in all the world. Then come back to say goodbye to me, and I will make you a present of a secret."

The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.

"You are not at all like my rose," he said. "As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world."

And the roses were very much embarassed.

"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on. "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.

And he went back to meet the fox.

"Goodbye," he said.

"Goodbye," said the fox. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

"What is essential is invisible to the eye," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

"It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."

"It is the time I have wasted for my rose--" said the little prince, so that he would be sure to remember.

"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose . . ."

"I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

Saint-Exupéry, Antoine de, and Katherine Woods. The Little Prince. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1943.

Professional Clarity

2010-05-11T19:49:00.002-04:00

I have a general disdain for the grey-area terminology of the Escort industry.

I like my business dealings to be defined in clear-cut and explicit terms. I can talk a special dialect of implication and innuendo with people I have a deeper rapport with, but when I am working with perfect strangers in professional settings, I would really rather say, what I expect from a client, deliver on my end of the bargain and demand a certain level of mature composure, rather than having an unfortunate exchange later about what "time" and "roses" and "services" all mean.

Summary: You will pay currency money dollars for the focus of my attention and a domineering or directorial attitude on my part, usually with some sense of sadomasochism attached.

My Time: ... it may be valuable, but regardless of the professional or industry, you are obviously using time as a reference point for payment, not paying for actual time. I can't give you time, time can't be packaged, time can't be valued on it's own terms; my time in the bathroom has a different value from my time focussed on what you're saying or doing.

This is not code for "you will pay for the time it takes to have sex with me." I do not have sex on paid time. I do not get you off on my paid time. If it was legal -- and for extra emphasis, if it was legal, which it is not -- I might deign to engage in such business practices. Under certain circumstances. Very specific circumstances.

As it happens, with me -- and in most of life, in every possible context -- you make your own "happy endings."

Roses: I am not looking for "roses." I barely feel comfortable using terms like "donation" or "tribute," though those at least give a sense of drama. However, I do this for a living. For cash. I can say this because I have no intention of straddling the grey-areas of legality and no desire to play off of terminology loopholes.

Also, the things I do are things I like. If you have a career rather than a job, you understand this point of view -- (and if not, this is something we can discuss while you're at my less-than-tender mercies, as I will NOT stand for someone wasting the one lifetime they can actually bank on having) -- getting paid does not make you any less valid in your interest, correct? So I expect never to hear the words come out of your mouth "I thought you were 'lifestyle.'"

I do this with people in my personal life, don't get me wrong. They earned it through their own time, shared rapport, a show of dedication and effort, and I charge them as such. There is always a fair exchange. Some of those people read this blog, too; they know who they are, and they know what I demand. From everyone else, I require to spend what I would consider a highly flexible working-day to pay my bills while enjoying myself, regardless. My personal life is run by invitation only, just as yours should be.

In short, if you see me, you are getting a specific service. We're not going to do the terminology tango. Nobody is going to try and put one past anyone else. The exchange is equal, professional, and cooperative.

This isn't only what I ask, it is what I demand, and I offer the same in kind. Treat me with the utmost professionalism and I will do the same for you. If it isn't working, nobody is obligated to continue the exchange, end of story.

The Fall of an Icon

2010-05-10T15:49:00.000-04:00

March 10th, 2010. Frank Frazetta, a major icon of Sci-Fi and Fantasy art, passed away at age 82. He had a good and productive life, but it was still heart-wrenching to lose such a great mind.

Widely regarded as the godfather of fantastical illustration, Frank influenced an entire generation of artists and filmmakers with powerful images of strapping warriors defending curvaceous maidens from creatures that were undoubtedly spawned in hell. Some of the more notable collectors and fans of his work include Hollywood types such as Steven Spielberg,George Lucas, Peter Jackson,Clint Eastwood, John Milius,Guillermo del Toro andSylvester Stallone. His impact on the world of illustration, comic and concept art is undeniable. You cannot walk into a game studio, visual-effects house, comics convention or onto a film set without finding someone who was heavily influenced by Frank’s work at a young age, which in turn affected his or her own career decision.

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/herocomplex/2010/05/frank-frazetta-painted-with-fire-.html

On Vicious Cycles

2010-05-04T16:27:00.000-04:00

Recommended reading: Indecent: How I Make It and Fake It as a Girl for Hire proves I'm not the only one who sees it this way. Just sayin'.

Talking to a friend today, she suggested that I try stripping. I'm not against stripping -- far from it. My main issue, however, came up when talking about becoming a bartender in the interim between now and perfecting my dancing skills:

The girls don't fuck with the bartender.
Well, it would be nice not to get fucked with.
At least, the girls who know better don't fuck with the bartender.
Why, what would she do?
Ignore them. When they want a drink, when they want to get a drink for a guy, when a guy wants to get them a drink. Ignore them.
Oh, haha, what a catty industry!
Yeah, it is. That's why I left: it turned me into a real bitch.

Guys probably think that the girls who get into stripping are bitches by default. I'll tell you, that is not the case. We go in naive and come out jaded, having been fucked up by a mutually objectifying culture attached to a perfectly valid art-form.

I'm sure you get a similar thing the first time your friends drag you in, wet behind the ears, for a lap dance. You want to watch a pretty girl dance, have her sit on your lap, and see her smile. Maybe if you give her a dollar it will help with college or child-rearing or whatever else she tells you about her personal life. You inevitably find one to be particularly enamored with and, depending on your personality type, might go back a few times to chase her archetype.

You're most certainly special. She'll notice eventually.

But she never does, and when you show up broke and rained on, looking for her smile, she bails on you. She's sitting on the lap of some real-estate agent two couches away from you, giggling at him. Am I right?

So you make peace with the fact that this isn't a covert dating service for girls with low self-esteem and hard knocks. It's an industry of titty-tassels and ass-shakes, and you're a walking cash machine, and all the lovely mysticism is drained from that first naive infatuation with the pretty girl who sat on your lap.

Oh yeah. But you keep going back. Jaded. Some stumbly gazelle of a girl shows up while you sit in your corner and drink your beer, and her smile is captivating, but you know that you are just a walking cash machine. You're nice to her, but behind that razorblade smile, you know she's just all titty-tassels and ass-shakes. Maybe she'll get out of here on time, but she's probably just gonna be another lippy whore.

So she comes to work, stumbling like a baby gazelle. Two girls practically hijack her at the door -- giving the sweet new girls makeovers is one of the few consolation prizes of their job -- and two others issue backhanded compliments to keep her in her new-girl place. She feels constantly out of place, out of step, but gleeful about self-expression, and is certain that someone in the audience will recognize her special touch to the art-form.

You smile at her, offer her a drink, buy a dance, talk to her. You certainly are different, aren't you? Maybe you do appreciate her art! But one day when she shows up particularly shaken, having been catastrophically maimed with cruel rhetoric in the dressing room, she's sure one of the other girls stole her purse, somebody poured nail-polish directly into her makeup bag, and she tells you that while she's disheveled, rent is coming up and she hopes you can afford to help her out by buying extra dances or tossing her extra tips -- (because you're different, you see. You're a client, but also a friend. You smile, banter, tip, and don't make lewd comments or grabby motions. You're different, you appreciate her craft, you see her art, and she knows you'll help her, because you appreciate her, right?) -- you are appalled by the gall of yet another lippy whore who is going to try and take advantage of you.

Turns out she's just like all the rest.

Maybe you toss her a tip. Maybe you pretend that business has been slow, and you don't. Either way, you probably switch to another club, and if you're feeling especially vindictive, start telling people she's a scam artist.

And you see, these girls are clever. More clever than you can possibly imagine. The more vapid they act, the more likely that it IS an act. An act designed not only to trick you out of your hard-earned cash, but one to now hide their art from you -- because as each individual girl put together when your archetypal demographic stopped checking in on her, you would only ever see her as titty-tassels and ass-shakes, and you are a walking cash machine.

So we let another ridiculous consumerist industry dictate our behavior to match the nature of cold, hard cash by being cold and hard to one another.

My Title: Moirae

2010-05-03T02:46:00.000-04:00

The ancient Greek Fates. This is the perfect title for a woman who identifies as a steadfast switch, representing each stage and aspect of life in especially female terms.

The Moirae or Moerae (in Greek Μοῖραι – the "apportioners", often called The Fates), in Greek mythology, were the white-robed personifications of destiny (Roman equivalent: Parcae, euphemistically the "sparing ones", or Fata; also equivalent to the Germanic Norns). Their number became fixed at three.

The Greek word moira (μοῖρα) literally means a part or portion, and by extension one's portion in life or destiny. They controlled the metaphorical thread of life of every mortal from birth to death.

Moirae. (2010, April 17). In Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. Retrieved 06:53, April 30, 2010, from http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Moirae&oldid=356684438

Switch Theory

2010-05-01T15:00:00.000-04:00

Technically, guys, I am not a dom; I'm a steadfast and established switch.

I've been into BDSM in my private life for 14 years, lived in spurts as both a dom and a sub, studied theory and watched cult S/M movies. I am a switch. I am not confused, I am not trying to choose. I am a switch.

Still, I don't submit to strangers. Not really. I can take a spanking or flogging or binding at a club, I can speak respectfully and fulfill tasks diligently, I can look ever the obedient submissive. However, outside of a deep rapport and feelings of innate love and trust, I never switch out of the dom mentality.

Percussive torture is a form of therapeutic massage. Tasks are a responsibility to be met with due diligence but never a sense of subservience. A randomized dom above me is an acting partner.

Furthermore, I'm not sure it's that easy, from an instinctual standpoint, to truly submit if one does not trust their authority figure and feel safe, which is no bad thing for basic survival.

So I'm a switch; just not your switch.

2010-04-30T15:00:00.000-04:00

More than being motivated by money, I am motivated by having just enough professional stature to give and demand a mature attitude from everyone involved in a transaction. Usually the industry manages to disappoint me, but then, sometimes this loss of patience causes me to contribute to the problem.

Just to make this clear: outside of a dom and sub session in which someone desires, and preferably negotiates, to be abused or humiliated, no-one should be abused or humiliated.

Period.

It's one thing to point out an action or idea that is wrong and explain why in a rational and compassionate manner. It's quite another to become a raging ass. I charge money for my time and services specifically because I require certain positive behaviors in all areas of my life. I refuse to be the ass-end of a humiliatrix scene in the service industry ever again.

Money talks, and the money I charge is attached to a clear set of protocol. Loud and clear, if you don't pay, I don't serve, and you aren't obligated to patronize my time.

2010-04-30T02:07:00.000-04:00

My taste for BDSM lies solidly in a cathartic, transcendental mindset. I like using it for personal growth and study; I love the experience of gaining tolerance and irreverence. I love the deliberated application of sensation typically associated with danger, the discipline present for all parties simply found in studying safety and communicating intent.

In theory, BDSM is what I want all relationships to be: fun, honest, intimate, growth-oriented, and on purpose.

Of course, every community or lifestyle comes with the demographic that fails to fulfill the ideal, and which in fact serves as an absolute trainwreck of a warning, but aren't fun, honest experiences which cause us to grow as people exactly what we should be seeking together?