Archive for July 11, 2012

The Gift of Death

One of the earliest memories I have is from when I was 4 years old.  I remember my mother being very upset and then leaving for several days.  I remember her explaining to me that my great grandmother had died and that she was going to go back home to go to her funeral.  I can still remember my mother’s face; her puffy tear filled eyes looking searchingly at me.  I remember feeling like it was all okay and that I understood that she needed to go. I felt that death was important. After all, I knew what death was since I had had several pet frogs and a cat die. As much as a 4 year old can, I understood that death must be attended to and honored.

By the time I was 10, I was living with my father and his second wife hundreds of miles away from my mother.  My mother called my father in a panic and explained that her father had just died and he needed to send me back to Indiana to attend the funeral. He refused and they had a huge fight about it. I remember he told me my grandfather died as part of explaining to me why it was so unreasonable that my crazy mother would expect him to foot the bill for an airline ticket. That is how at 10 years old I learned that death causes anger and frustration.

When I was 15 my father took our family on a sailing trip for several weeks.  When we returned to our home dock, the harbor attendant was waiting for us anxiously with a note.  My father called his sister from the club house at the marina and found out my 17 year old cousin had died in a shooting accident.  Dad left for the airport without changing clothes and went to be with our extended family. It turned out that my cousin had been playing Rambo style roughhousing with several of my other cousins and thought it would be funny to get out my uncle’s service revolver as a prop.  Somehow he managed to trip down a flight of stairs and shot himself in the head.  He died in my cousin’s arms within moments. The family was devastated.  I was confused by the whole tale.  How was this a ‘shooting accident?’ Who thinks an actual gun is roughhousing fun?  I was dismayed that my father seemed to carry on with this ‘shooting accident’ explanation of the events leading to my cousin’s death and so at 15 I learned that death is often shrouded with false history for the conveniences of those still living.

At 18 I gave birth to my first child.  He was born after a long drawn out dramatic process that ended in an emergency C-section late in the evening.  In the morning, as I fumbled to figure out what exactly a new mom was supposed to be doing to care for a newborn my stepmother arrived at my hospital room. I asked where my father was and she did not offer an explanation. This was striking because through the entire trials and tribulations of the prior day, my father had been present and more than accounted for.  He was constantly asking doctors and nurses ten questions and stressfully hovering over me and eventually my newborn. So where the Hell had he gone?  I couldn’t imagine why he would be absent.  He called me a few hours later and broke the news that my 16 year old cousin, the youngest brother of the aforementioned now deceased cousin, had committed suicide in the night as I delivered my son. Several weeks later my aunt, mother of three sons, two of them now dead, came to see me and my new baby.  I thought it odd that she would be up to traveling so soon after burying her youngest child until it became painfully obvious why coming to see my baby was so pressing.  She had decided that her son had committed suicide so that he could be re-born as my son.  Wow, talk about creeping out a too young mother who was already pretty freaked out by the totality of the situation. This time at the ripe old age of 18 I learned that death can make you crazy with grief.

When I was 24 I got a call one morning from my mother’s brother.  In a ragged voice he told me, “She’s gone, she died, your mother, she died in her sleep, she’s gone.”  I remember falling to the floor and wailing, collapsed from the weight of the shock and loss. I was undone in that moment like never before. I had just had my second child, a daughter, and my mother was scheduled to come and visit her for the first time just two days from then.  I was grief stricken and suddenly understood that phrase was more than a poetic term. That was when I learn that death strips you naked and has its way with you. Death is overwhelming.

At age 32 I had just entered into my final semester of undergraduate school.  I had four children by this point and was working my ass off to finally get my act together and be a responsible member of society as my father would have put it. Dad called me one evening and explained that he had stage four lung cancer.  The doctors had decided they could not operate and Dad was going to try an experimental chemo. I once again felt Death the Great Overwhelmer clawing at my sanity. I pulled myself together and offered to come to help.  He declined and said he would be fine. He was unable to attend my graduation. I sent him photographs. By that summer he was admitted to hospice care and finally asked me to come and help him.  I spent the last weeks of his life with him as he died.  I watched the care and service that the hospice team provided to our family.  When he died, I was devastated but not broken.  Dying can be done well. Love can transcend death. That is when I learned death can be comforted.

After my father died, I changed my graduate school plans from research to clinical and went into hospice work.  Death and I had spent a good bit of time in each other’s company and I felt it was the right place for me. As I have worked with the deaths of others and their families these lessons have come in handy.  I have been able to comfort and empathize with others.  More importantly I have served as witness to their grief because I have learned that death can be so very lonely for those enmeshed in it.

So what does all of that mean?  Well for me it has meant that I have learned to accept the gift of death.  The gift is the knowledge of how precious life is.  I have learned that no matter how old you are when you die, you are still too young. I have learned that you can do nothing to extend your days beyond what you are given. Fate stands ready with her scissors at some unknowable point in your personal timeline and nothing you can do or say will stay her hand from cutting you off. This is the gift that lights up each day for me.  This is why I live an authentic passionate life.  This knowledge resides in my thoughts constantly.

People often question my decision to live as a slave in a full-time lifestyle. For me, this life, the life of empowered service and loving devotion, is the life that I will never regret. We only get so much time on this planet and I know in my core that I will never wish I had one more day of being a vanilla wife.  I will never long for an extra hour of a standard American pastime. I will never long for one more moment of selfish motivation.  When I am attending my own death, I will only long for more time to serve him, to sit at his feet, to be fucked by him, to be undone by his pain and lust.  The gift of death is that I know I too will die and so I choose to live each day fully surrendered to my beloved Master with no regrets.

Dirty Sex

Recently as we sat visiting with some dear friends on their patio, Master and I were talking about sex.  This is not rare for us; we tend to be very comfortable talking about our sexuality and our experiences including the good, the bad, and the messy. This particular conversation turned toward female ejaculation. I suggested that while anatomy and such all likely impact why some women squirt and some don’t, I also felt like part of the cause for non-squirting could be attributed to a woman feeling self-conscious during sex.

As we grow up, women tend to be made very aware of their hygiene and physical appearance.  This is perhaps not universally true in all cultures, but it does seem to be fairly standard issue in the United States.  Think of all the warnings about, “Be sure you always have clean underwear on in case you get into an accident.” Consider that smelling like a human being is considered poor form and so deodorant companies make millions from selling us things to keep us smelling less like humans and more like flowers. Being clean and presentable are part and parcel of most girl’s upbringing, certain they were part of mine.

I think this can also be said of boys and their upbringing, yet I honestly think it is to a lesser degree.  Boys know that getting dirty outside and playing with frogs is allowed now and again.  Men are reared to understand that while there is certainly a time and a place for being gentlemanly and looking dapper, there are also many times and places where men are allowed and even expected to get grubby.  I personally know that a sweaty man is often deeply appealing and very masculine. Think of the greasy auto mechanic or the blacksmith swinging his hefty hammer with sweat pouring off of his hard muscles. These images engender sexual stirrings in many a heart.

Women tend to not have these same freedoms. The wild woman spirit often longs to be out and muck about in the woods, yet this is frowned upon and we are discouraged from being wanton and muddy. Women are expected to trim, pluck, shave, scrub, peel, clip, curl, tuck, lift, squeeze, poke, and iron out all manner of parts of their body in order to achieve being beautiful or feminine. I remember my mother telling me, “It hurts to be beautiful.” She was not making a social commentary on how difficult it must be to bear the burden of beauty but instead teaching me that my role as a woman would require me to suffer pain in order to be desirable.

Womankind often carries this need to be kempt and lovely and so many women find themselves continuing to carry these fears into their love life. Women with these fears of being messy or unclean often shy away from many types of sexual play.  I have had many conversations with women about their avoidance of anal sex because there might be poop involved and how they are too scared to really cum during sex because they might pee by mistake.

There was a pamphlet I got at my OB/GYN’s office about “Urinary Incontinence and Sexual Dysfunction.” In the pamphlet, it described how many women lose the ability to orgasm because they are so ashamed that they squirt when they cum.  The point of the pamphlet was to encourage women to seek help for this via surgical intervention to resolve this debilitating problem. While I agree, not having orgasms would be debilitating I do not think peeing when you cum is anything to be upset about.

I also remember reading several passages in various pregnancy and birthing books that discuss how to bear down when pushing a baby out.  These each carefully instruct mothers to be to not concern themselves with the possibility of having a bowel movement during this process because the staff would be understanding and would whisk any poo away quickly. Many years ago it was standard practice to give a woman in early labor an enema, in part, to avoid having her resist pushing due to her fear of pooping. Good gracious!  Seriously, there you are in the throes of labor about to crown this seemingly impossibly large baby head through your vagina and you are worried about shitting?? Seriously?  Yet, this is a real concern that women have struggled with enough to make it part of labor instruction manuals.

Let it go girls!  Let yourself be free enough of this fear of being dirty to at least enjoy wild dirty sex. I don’t profess to avoid personal hygiene, far from it. The first things I do every morning are shower, shave, brush my teeth, put on deodorant, and fix my hair. I am all for being lovely and clean.  I feel best when I am clean as I begin my day.  When it comes to sex though, I am unrestrained.

Farting because I cum really hard does not freak me out. Squirting is all good, the larger the spot on the sheets the hotter the cumming was. Whether or not the squirt is made up of pee or some other liquid is not important at all. Even if it is 100% pissing while I cum, still all good with me. I have even on occasion said in a breathless husky post coitus whisper to Sir, “I think maybe I pooped, can you check?” Thus far he has always been able to report that I had not actually pooped to my relief but even had he come back with a different report, I would not change the way I abandon self-awareness. Sex for me is about being raw and undone. There is nothing withheld from Master. Sweat, tears, piss, shit, blood, and snot all spring forth without restraint.

As we sat and talked about sex and the issuing forth of various bodily fluids (I know, our conversations are so genteel aren’t they?) something occurred to me.  I was not always like this sexually.  I have always been wild in bed.  Even as a teenager I was a cat in heat whenever I had the chance but I was not always without self awareness during intercourse.

I thought about when did that change and as with so many things in my life I realized it was Master’s doing.  I remember that the very first time we had penetrative vaginal sex I was on my period. Master and I were very new and dating and he had suggested that he was planning on fucking that night. I became really nervous and finally after much prodding as to why I was upset, I admitted that I was having my period and I was scared to have sex because it might upset him.  I remember him laughing and saying, “Even better!”  I was really upset then and started crying and explaining to him that he didn’t understand because he was a man and girls are taught that periods are very dirty and I pretty much had a little emotional meltdown.  Once he saw that for me this was really a problem he stopped chuckling, looked me in the eyes, and explained slowly and sincerely that period or no he wanted me.  Period blood was a part of me and my womanhood and he wanted all of me.  Needless to say, we had some hot fucking in pretty short order.

Master spent many an hour expressing in clear and direct ways that every part of me was acceptable to him, desired by him, and owned by him.  Finding out that his pleasure was secured best through my willingness to be exposed and vulnerable to him in all ways was the key to finding myself completely unaware of my fears about my body during sex.  I never think about my body as unattractive or dirty when he is fucking me.  Now I feel only lusty sexy open desire to be consumed in his lust.  Perhaps that is unseemly in some way, but it is not unseemly to him and he is all that matters in my sexual world.