Forgiveness and Ritual

I've explored how confession is one part of forgiveness.  I've explored how speaking some deeply, darkly buried truths is another part of forgiveness.  Also, there is a third part to the forgiving that comes from the safety and the sanctity of ritual.  To carve out a space sacred to one thing.  To wait until the right time.  To take the right amount of time and focus, dedicate to one task.  To confine oneself to one purpose and shut out the chattering noise of doubt and fear and anxiety.  To retreat from everything, just for a little while, and explore this sacred space made special because of the love that built the walls to keep love in and keep fear out.  In this space, during this time, focused and intent upon a single point, it is possible (if one is in the company of a true Master) to see into the darkness and to understand what cannot otherwise be understood.  I love to believe that people are capable of achieving monumental acts of courage in a relationship, and in fact that such is what relationships are for.  To be stronger together than the sum-potential of two separate souls.  People can help other people to forgive in a ritual space.  A Master is the architect of this ritual space and the navigator of these terrible waters, terrible only at sunset but not at the sunrise.  When I imagine an ideal relationship between a Master and his submissive, this is what I imagine it to be -- this sum potential of two souls, these willing architects whose pillars elevate each other to new seeing.

The Hammock of Aftercare

Time spent at J2D is time well spent: so much is achieved before I've even poured my first cup of tea.  Before lunch, I accomplished two successful, impromptu photoshoots with some truly beautiful couples (inside and out), and secured a future as a photographer for the sim.  (I'm sure there will be more of us, in time, who love to take pictures and who will donate their gifts to the very worthy J2D.)

Sometimes it's hard for me to say in words what I can say with a picture.  Articulating what I mean to say, verbally, is good training.  If we cannot articulate with words, we're trapped.  Words are, after all, our only reality... unless we can show some other way.  During one conversation today, I wanted to answer a question that was posed to me: "What does aftercare mean to you?"  It's one of those questions that continues to pop up (like "topping from the bottom" and "switch") regardless of where I go and with whom I speak.  But I suppose the best way that I know how to answer that question about what it means to me (as opposed to what it means in general)  is, "It means neither of you will exhaust your loving selves."

I realize, now, that a very long time ago, when I was privileged to be in a relationship with an excellent roleplay-Master (no longer in the game) that I was exposed to fine, fine aftercare.  I miss it now, keenly.  I have not forgotten the grooming of my tastes.  But I digress...  What does it mean to me?  Aftercare will restore the heartbeat to normal; will gentle the senses back to normal; will still the blood and cool the flush.  It will preserve the sanity.  It will taste like a chocolate mint after a salty supper.  And the mint will linger and freshen, cleanly, watery and soft.  On this little archipelago, for example, a solitary tree, some rocks, vast ocean, and a wooden shack.  The wind moves my hair as I stand innocently at the door to that little shack, shivering from a sudden chill and the absence of birds, thunder rolling in from the north, and then footsteps crunching the sand behind me.  The force-fantasy inside the little shack ends after several hours of intense, disciplined creativity and mood-refining, and then nearby there is The Hammock of Aftercare.

I just named this hammock now, at this moment.  I hope Wendy Xeno doesn't mind (all these pictures are from her sim Humanoid, a lovely place to imagine yourself in).  Thinking symbolically, the little table is to intimacy what the hammock is to aftercare.  The hammock for two is the place where both of you are suspended in the caring arms of each other.  The Dom and the sub both get to enjoy the aftermath of satisfied exhaustion and the aftercare of re-building.  The Hammock  is not an established D/s ritual... it's just something I invented (and maybe others invented also, in other places and other times).   For a long time, I have passed by hammocks and thought them cozy; but now that I immerse myself into Our Lifestyle I understand The Hammock of Aftercare  to be a sacred place, just like Intimacy is a Small Table.

But how can I describe the hammock other than to show it?  It looks flimsy; it's easily overlooked, in fact.  But to those who know what it means, to those who know how valuable it is (how life-saving, relationship-saving, and pretty damned important all around) they can recognize The Hammock of Aftercare no matter what sim they are standing in.  It is a net, with pillows.  It is the safety net.  It is the cradle we all require when we've just finished something dangerous.  You'll see The Hammock situated in so many places you visit, in Second Life.  The fantasy is in the familiar:  The Hammock of Aftercare is as much a requirement of the fantasy as the seduction, the ropes, the sweat, and the cries of ecstasy.

Ocarina Forever

I spent the morning, today, looking out over virtual waves into a virtual sun, listening to water lap against the dock and surrounding rocks.  I read, and I analyzed.  I looked through definitions and resources.  I am fulfilling my mission to learn and to absorb.

Of course, though my logical mind dictates otherwise, my artistic mind bends toward beauty and discovery.  Transformation.  I can no longer look at notecards when the whispers of a real person propel me towards transformation and re-discovery.  There is a nymph in the water (there isn't, really...) and she plays a panflute (she does, too) and the flute beckons.  It is an instrument I knew lifetimes ago... so many moons have passed since that one gift from that one soul.  A soul long gone.  I cannot muse for long because there is a nymph in the water (there isn't, really) and she plays a song that I simply must capture and recapture.  So long ago, drifting off in my memory, I used to serve with music.  So long ago, I used to sit upon rocks and play to the sand and the sea.  So long ago I would wait, and wait, and wait... Playing and serving.  It was an enchantment that even I could not resist.

And so I dressed myself.  Silk sleeves and ropes tied about me loosely; my hair knotted and adorned.  I sat upon the great rock and prayed to the great moon to send me another flute.  (The prayer was granted, but it took a little more convincing than needs saying here...)  And then I played once more.  The water stilled as the notes rushed past.  The hollow reed-sounding flutes lulling the tides to rhythm... even the cattails bent to hear.  Lilies and tadpoles doffed their hats to have a listen, and the nymph (who isn't really there...) quietly slithered away to her secret place and ticked another job off her list of things to do.  "Help a silly girl recover her soul, check."

So, I rose to face the moon that whitens the earth.  Once again, I wait.  His absence, I feel keenly.  My lessons, I do not feel so keenly.  A notecard is no substitute for strong arms.  No definitions guide me as does le bon mot.  There is no darkness like the darkness of a man's eyes in the throes of appetite.  Well... perhaps there is, and it is only my own vivid imagination that brings such bright imagery into dark corners.  I still wait for that moment of pure fantasy for my soul to intersect with.  I have had tastes in Second Life.  I have had several tastes, and my appetite has been whetted for a long time.  Someday I will claim the tails of ropes that I see straggling and I will fly them like kites and sail away, brave enough to self-determine, "Ready."

Bondage Part Two: Ropes

There was a time, a long time ago, when I was introduced to the idea of bondage.  It was a gentle introduction.  I played along, completely new to the very concept of someone deriving pleasure from binding me and teasing me sexually.  Bit by bit, I grew to understand the subtle, nuanced urges that developed as a result.  My tastes were trained, in other words; the grooming was successful.  I wanted the rope (as much as I wanted the leash).  I wanted the challenge of describing, virtually, what my skin, really, responded to with every new position.  With every new knot.  With every new touch.  She who introduced me is never far from me in my memory and imagination.  Closer than I believed, in fact.  She who introduced me, I carry with me always.  And now I want Him, He whose chair awaits, to continue the lessons.  (I don't know who He is.  I will know for certain, eventually.  I have no doubt He exists.  And I am in no rush... I still have too much to learn before offering anything.)  Nice chair, though, right?  Only the best for my imaginary owner and Master.  And the best comes from Maxwell Graf of Rustica fame.  It is mesh; and I love mesh; and I love everything Sir Maxwell creates.

If I were going to groom a girl to develop her taste for Shibari, I would make sure I kept a diary of all her expressions, all her reactions, all her slightest hesitations and eager presumptions.  I would make sure the diary was close to the suspension rig so that very little need interrupting as I recorded her personal growth.  I would make sure there were flowers nearby; lavender or roses.  Aroma is hypnotic.  I would want her focused and aware, distracted only by sweet fragrance or arousing rhythm.  I would make sure, then, the rhythm was arousing... Drum beats.  Percussion.  The sound of distant thunder.  I would make sure the only voice she could hear was mine.  I would make sure the only walls she could feel were mine.  I would make sure the only hands she could feel were mine.  Until such time as it was necessary to let other hands sample that beauty which I owned.

The ropes demonstrated in this pose are from Netsui Kigo; the very ropes on which I was trained, so long ago.  Misao Nakamura is a true artist: her poses are superb.  The ropes are good on their own (nadu and tower postures, or hog-tied and little-wee-package postures...) or with a suspension rig (delivered on command anywhere anytime with a click) or with the kinbaku rig or any other contraption available at the store.  But her poses really are quite stunning.  And the fit of her wares is very convenient.  There are many sizes available.  I enjoy being able to mount a suspension rig anywhere in my house (or anywhere on the grid that allows me to create objects) and just hang around like a tarot-character.  The ropes are RLV-enabled if you wish; and they are owner-activated if an owner is set.  Or, they can be set to public access if you're in the mood and do not necessarily have access to RLV set-up.  Miss Nakamura has considered everything.

In speaking with Sir RB about ropes, yesterday, it got me in the mood to reclaim my yearnings and secrets and knot them all together in a string of fantasies that feel safe and sound because they are tied to something strong in me.  My submission now reminds me of a growing vine, winding and encircling, like nature's rope.  My submission is in the pages I keep; it's in my seeking; it's in the never-ending search for high-quality items of comfort; it's in the never-ending quest for perfection in image; it's in the ever-present feeling of someone incredible looking over my shoulder even if I cannot see; it's in the waiting and the sure demonstration of patience.  My submission is channeled into all of this.  "Why do you submit," someone will ask me, someday.  I will answer, "because, my Master, to you I am so bound."