Writing is a muscle. Exercising the muscle is therapy

“Getting there” is not a process of locomotion, but one of cogitation.

Cogito ergo sum. I think therefore I am.

The rationalist René Descartes

Thinking is not enough. The “more of that” comes from making thought concrete.

Writing is a process of thought made manifest.  Travel from the ethereal to the real is alchemical.  What happens?  Thoughts are born in the liminal space between soul and body, spiritual and physical.  When they become real, the solidity which results changes us.  We can speak them to others, but like sand castles, their shapes can change with time or circumstance, or be washed away altogether. 

With the written word, the permanence changes us and all who contact it.  This is the truth which lies behind the might of pen over sword.  This is the truth of female power, which is a spring eternal, and male power, which is ephemeral, strong in the moment, but lost in time.

The very essence of woman is to unite the spiritual and the physical, the soul and the body.  Not only does she alchemise these processes, but she incubates them, births them, nourishes them, and fights for them.  The womb is the launchpad of life, as eternal as reproductive can be.  For us, a near universal.

What is man?  A witness.  It is no small feat.  For to witness is to make manifest.  Without the witness, without the conjugal spark, this magic cannot take place.  How does a dance take place when there are no partners?  No lead?  For the magic to happen, this must come alive.  We dance together.

I am puzzled by how young people, including me, most often dance alone.  We may dance with others, but often without touch.  Thank goodness for cultures, the Latins, who bring us together, and get us to move our bodies sensually, together.

I remember a friend of a friend from ages ago who had all conquering male energy.  He was not particularly good looking.  But we couldn’t go out as a group of friends for the evening, and not notice that he would “pull”.  He had a sex magic about him.  A confidence which emanated from the groin.  Not physically.  He would just start talking to someone and then they wouldn’t stop, and almost always he would leave with her, us with our drinks in hand.

His best friend mused on this often.  I didn’t much care, I had already discovered how hard it was to find a partner as a lesbian in a man’s body, as an ugly duckling, a ballerina giraffe, a boy-child who was wanting a woman to pounce on “him”.  I needed explicit instructions.

My friend asked this fella what it was he did.  He didn’t know.  He just talked to her.  I know.  He’s talked to me.

He’s a megawatt man.  We know I don’t like men that way (or do I…sometimes I am not sure, but getting a sex change sure seems like a wild way to end up with a man and feel okay about it).  And generally, and more and more, I don’t even see men.  Not as in, hang out with, or date or anything else, I mean, they don’t exist.

This is a bit odd, but I have a lot of male energy in my family.  Most of my family, the families of my siblings, even the male partners of my siblings, have placed me in a situation which is immediately male.  Of course I see these people.  Very much.  But strangers?  Not at all.  I went to a pop concert recently of someone whose music I adore, and it was essentially a lesbian crowd, even if the artist may or may not be gay.  She sings a lot about men, in ways both good and bad, mostly bad, and also about women, in good ways only.

There was a leather dyke skinhead who shared our standup table, perhaps mid-30’s.  Tall, leather pants, white t-shirt, hard.  A lissome lass in her early 20’s swept into her vortex for the first time, and never left.  It was beautiful and fascinating to watch.

This man does similar things.  I saw him one evening at a gala dinner.  The last time I had seen him was a time difference to be counted in decades.  He did not appear to be partnered, at least not that evening.  Our mutual friend was there, a non-friend for me, but that matters not.  When this man turned to look at me, it was like an energetic search light had landed on me.

And in all the times that I spent with him years before, I had never felt this.  I had gone from man to fuckable.  And I could see it in his face, feel it oozing from him.  Not in a gross way.  He was beaming at me.  Quite literally, with a smile that could tear his face open.  He sauntered over to me, and placed a hand on me.

I was wearing a silk slip dress, spaghetti straps to show off my skinny little neck and small shoulders, naked but for the tattoo which drapes across one.  His hand was on my arm, and then on my waist.  A big, solid hand.  It was there in a gentle way, but his eyes were teasing and dancing.  And he told me how nice I looked.

“Oh my God, you look amazing,” he said, “it’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” said my female voice coming out without effort.

“It’s been so long, but these changes, they are so welcome, you must feel great.”

“I do.  I’ve never felt better.”

He wanted to see me.  I was pinned by his magnetism.  This is a kind of sexual attraction which we are complicit in.  It is not a creepy kind, a predatory kind, but rather a playful, amused kind.  He was toying with me, in a sexy, manly way.  And making me feel things in my body just by standing a little inside my energy field, by making a very gentle, and un-possessive physical connection with his hand, and by talking to me just so.

After, I understood why most any woman who talks to him ends up sleeping with him.  He just had this really seductive man-boy energy, rascal that you want to play with kind of thing.  It was fun.  I returned to my table and my friends, changed somewhat by the encounter.

My posting schedule has been abysmal of late.  I don’t lament this in balance, as my life is very full at the moment.  In all ways.  Thankfully I am still writing as much as I possibly can.  Though some posts will never see the light of day on this blog, others I simply cannot post because you-know-who might read them, will read them…and they will have to wait until things are settled between us.

This blog, however, is going to generate a book.  Ex-Mistress used to tell me that most of what I wrote was dross, interspersed with a few gems.  I know that she was “right” certainly for her and her interests.  I think many of us who write, do so for ourselves.  Even when I am “so busy”, an inexcusable state of affairs, especially since I am not even working, writing as my first act of the day remains vital.

Part of this is getting up at an ungodly hour.  5:00 am.  This is the key to productivity, for I live a full life before anyone even gets up.  But this also means going to bed early.  And to be honest, that is also good…for body, soul, mind.  But given all the socialising and partying I have been doing, all the wonderful people who have waltzed into my life, baby’s bedtime is often hard to come by.  I miss it for it throws me akimbo.

Ex-Mistress missed the point.  This is a diary.  It marks time, it marks conscious process.  This is beyond the importance of its alchemical role in my life: to understand requires the physical manifestation of this blog.  Making these musings public is an important part of making it real for me, of thinking things through.  Better still when people who come across these ramblings and comment or write to me on other platforms like Twitter or Instagram about some of what they find here.  It is a form of being born witness.

Over the coming weeks I have so many potentially life altering experiences in store for me, none of which I can write about straight away for the confidentiality of the others involved, but they will come out sooner or later.  I am a lucky girl, though.

I have come across a new Mistress.  It is a wonder I have not met her before, or even found her online profile.  I guess there are just so many.  The marketing that any professional domme puts out is a reflection of her, and what she is like, what she likes.  This one has landed.  

I know that many would-be clients revolt against the screening process, not wanting to provide their details to someone…I used to do it all the time, and got repeatedly “catfished”…it’s okay, I was terribly naïve.  And didn’t learn quick enough.  Thank goodness I’m a sweetie too, and nothing bad ever happened.

Somehow I have found that the more heavy the screening process, the better the person on the other side.  We are speaking of degress, because I saw someone recently who didn’t screen at all, calling herself “old-school” as we scheduled, but when I met her in person, she said, “I can tell from the first email whether I want to see you or not.”

I liked her.  Will we see each other again.  Probably.  We played in a special way, but she has real expertise in something which I am desperate to learn and experience, because I love it more than anything, the feeling of being overpowered by a physically strong woman, but also because this is what I would like to bring into my own practice as a domme.

This new person demanded references on top of everything else.  It is common.  I hate doing it because I don’t like breaching the intimacy of the shared experience…But I always do exactly what I am asked in screening and without complaint.  I also give something back to the person who extends the reference.  The message came back that I was “cleared” and that my references were glowing.  It feels nice.

I sat with my referee a few days after and she told me how hot she thought this new domme was.  Thankfully, she is not possessive and allows, encourages me to play around, but likes me to be intentional about it too.  That suits me fine.  And after all the back and forth, we couldn’t make the dates work, so now I have to be really intentional and book several months out.

She is someone who would have been very dangerous for me to meet a few years ago.  I know that I would have fallen down the rabbit hole with her even more than I did with ex-Mistress.  I am glad that I have been able to learn from this and glad that I could go and see someone who I know will affect me profoundly.  I am blessed by a Mistress who has played with me, toyed with me, and been an anchor, in part because of time spent together.  This new one is very much like who I want to be.  She will be one of my teachers, both actively and passively.

I am mindful of a metaphor about writing.  That we write ourselves into our own history.  The process of manifestation is a conscious form of this.  Writing is a muscle.  So too, is spell-casting.  Being a witch improves with practice.  Magic begins when we can see it, and this opens simply being open to it.

After, we learn to channel and guide it.  My muscles are developing in this way.  More and more people are receiving me as a woman.  And those who don’t get a dressing down from me.  Or my friends.  I don’t put up with it.  Not for a second.

Before society, I am a woman, and I always have been.  Our laws dictate what we have collectively agreed or been party to, at worst, subjected to, but are formal boundaries.  What is between my legs, or not, is a symbol of sex that I wear with such insatiable joy.  Before God, I feel my life decisively female…even if I look somewhat unorthodox.  But most of all, before myself, I am woman.

Why write? Because it is an essential part of being. To create my own narrative. Even the fiction seems to become real, as the fiction is a form of manifestation. We make our lives. For some of us, the act of writing is what makes it real.