Sunday, Sunday, Unsexy Day?

hmmm…maybe I shouldn’t say that. Someone on facebook posted a great link about a mom, who told her daughter she was beautiful, but when told that she herself was beautiful, too, poo-poo’ed it.

She was middle-aged.


Stretch marked.

Her breasts had lost the fullness of a 20-something girl, and had sagged.

But wait a second,  she thought…was she setting her daughter up for future self-disappointment? Not many of us have the body of mick’s Mistress Molly. No time, no energy, no time. But does that make us “un-beautiful”…?

Sure to mass media, perhaps. I’ll never grace the cover of Rolling Stone. Okay, coz I don’t sing much in public but *waves hand*…that isn’t the only reason. Even Playboy, for all the good it has worked towards with gay marriage, and open sexuality, and not being ashamed about feeling sexual…contributes by having 18-year-old bunnies…how the hell can I compete with that?

But still…does that make me not beautiful?

Master tells me I am. It’s rare, but He has said it from time to time. (it always makes me …shivery-proud-happy when He does say it.) It doesn’t come from a mass-media perspective. It comes from the physical, from the connection, from the submission…it’s a “package beautiful” I guess.

This woman’s point on Face Book was that we are all inherently beautiful…and that to not be open to that in ourselves, we are, in essence, teaching our daughters that when they hit 30, or menopause, or their hair grays or they have children and gravity and stretch marks…then they are no longer beautiful.

pish-tosh to that!

So today I *am* owning my sexy. I *am* owning my beautiful. Yeah, my nose is crooked, my smile isn’t brilliantly neon white. (oh what those peeps doing mega tooth whitening gonna pay down the road…)

My beauty is my own. My freckles, my wrinkles, my soft belly…all mine. All earned through the gift of living for more than half a century.

Holy fuck.

Half a century? Man…that’s fucking old!

But still beautiful after all these years!


Master and I, if you haven’t seen in various comments, are back on track. He sent me a very personal email late on Tuesday, and I snuffled and sobbed my way through it. Snuffled at work. And finally got permission to text Him. We have yet to “speak”…but even being allowed to talk via text was an improvement.

Do you Dom/me top-types have *any* fucking idea (pardon the disrespect implied there) how hard it is on us sub-types when you withhold yourselves from us that way?

It is torture.

It is pain.

Really, really bad pain.

If I could have safeworded myself out of it, I would have. It hurt so much I didn’t think I could bear it…and I’m a very strong submissive. Maybe not Kaya strong, as far as pain goes, but I can take a lot of pain.

But I couldn’t have lasted too much longer without His touch, that’s for darned sure.

Writing helped. I wrote thousands of words in a few hours, the passion just pouring out of my fingers until I could blink without crying. It sucked out some of the sad, and put it into a more cope-able format for me.

I was in a bad way…and I thank you all for your kind words, thoughts, and hugs. It meant a lot to me. I won’t respond to those individually, because it will only make me cry all over again…but know that your words gave me solace. And I thank you, humbly, from the depths of my not-so-aching-anymore heart.


This is the weekend leading up to the Thanksgiving holiday here in the USA…and I’m busy between home life and my job, which is very holiday dependent, ergo..I’m working extra shifts. Am very much hoping that I’ll be able to sneak in some Master-time, as we’ve not seen each other since play day. (big pout)…not to mention the whole “nilla was a bad submissive slut” thing. I really want to hug His neck, kiss Him, love on Him a little. I’m sure He wants to pinch me. Bruise me. Make me yelp.

In other words…heal one another, fully and completely. Does anything say “I love you, you dumb slut” more than fresh bruises?

I didn’t think so.