Tag Archive for Vanilla Neighbors

On Joy, Lies, and Inkless Tattoos

I am a terrible liar. When I try, I always get this red cheeked goofy expression on my face and stammer and pretty much give up.  I can play poker ok. I can tell a white lie to spare someone’s feelings by giving a compliment that is based in truth.  I can cover my internal emotional responses when in a professional situation. Generally, I am a functional liar in all the ways that are socially expected of humans but when it comes to just flat out lying, I suck.

For example, there was this wonderful scene Master and I had where he did a cutting on my back of geometric shapes on my shoulder blades. A day or so after the scene, I forgot all about the cutting and wore a tank top.  My teenage son walked into the kitchen and said, “What’s that on your back?”  He was about 18 but Master had determined that we did not speak openly about our sexual habits so I knew I was caught in a moment requiring a lie. I stammered, “It is an inkless tattoo.”

I thought that I had done very well indeed coming up with a sort of true vanilla-ish reply until my son responded with, “Who did it?” He, being the curious type, wanted to know where such a thing as an inkless tattoo parlor was so it seemed to him a fair question.  At that point I panicked, unable to come up with a follow up to the half truth, pointed and Master and said, “He did.” Master then had to come up with suitable deflections as I had just completely thrown him under the bus.

Today at work this problem arose once again but for a little different reason.  First it should be noted that Master and I are traveling a good bit during the next several months.  Taking a little extra time off of work is part and parcel of attending and presenting at various conferences across the country. In my office, there is a calendar on my wall that shows what I am up to at work and when I am out on leave.  There are three days this week marked with ‘on leave’ because Master is taking us to attend Northwest Leather Celebration in San Jose, CA. I have been giddy with excitement as I cross off days till we head out on our adventure.

My coworkers, being curious sorts, often ask me where I am going or why I am taking leave. I have no good vanilla explanations for traveling all over and when I return to work, I rarely have clear tales of my vacation time to share.  This frustrates them but I am able to come up with inkless tattoo level responses and manage to be friendly without being direct.

Today one of my coworkers asked me, “When are you leaving on your big trip?”  I was caught off guard and said, “Which one?”  She looked at me as though I was crazy and said, “Alaska, of course.”  Well at that point I was in a socially awkward bind because I clearly was planning another trip aside from the fabulous adventure that is going to Alaska.  The idea that I hadn’t mentioned a whole other trip just weeks before leaving for Alaska clearly upset her. I managed to say, “Oh…uhm… we are going to San Jose this weekend, I wasn’t sure which one you meant.”

This is when the conversation got really hard. She looked at me and in an instant I knew that she was not questioning why I would go to San Jose or why I was going to Alaska.  She was simply jealous that I was going anywhere at all.  It was no longer the kinky part of my travel that was a social problem to be covered up, it was the embarrassment of riches in getting to travel so much that was lighting up the angry fold between her eyebrows.

How could I lie away my joy?  How could I make up a tale to allay the fact that I was living a life filled with happy adventures with a husband that, strange to the vanilla world, I always spoke highly of?  How could I apologize that my life is one I adore while 99% of the people I work with wander through a life they feel saddled by, doing work they don’t find fulfillment in, and living with long since estranged partners that they feel obligated to stay with? As I mentioned, I am a terrible liar and faced with this level of social awkward I did the best I could do and simply said, “I am really looking forward to it,” and walked away.

There is no way to justify when you are unacceptably happy to those around you.  BDSM and M/s are not proselytizing religions. I am not called by a higher power to lead them to the ‘truth’ of better living through authenticity or submission. There is nothing I can do to make that real and possible for them because I have no way of knowing if it would even give them joy.  All I could do is walk away and continue to be happy. Though I felt bad that she was jealous, what I felt afterward was not guilt but appreciation for all that my Master has provided for me.  He works diligently to find ways to give me pleasure, joy, and fulfillment of all that my heart desires before I even am aware I desire it. No amount of service or surrender seems worthy of all he does for me.  I wish with all my heart that the grumpy coworkers around me could feel joyful too.

The Lucy Saga

Today while I was at work I received a text message from my slave stating that our dog Lucy had turned up missing.

Lucy is a hard dog to describe.  She appears to be a Blue Heeler-Basset mix as assembled by Dr. Frankenstein.  Her coat is a mottled mix of blue-gray, black, and brown, and she looks a lot like someone painted a German sausage and attached legs which were both too small and ill-fitting.   Before we got Lucy she had given birth to a litter of puppies (well I presume they were puppies, I never saw them so in theory she could have given birth to a litter of jackals or kangaroos).  Any any rate, not long after she had her pups, she had been fixed so her teats her noticeably saggy even by the saggy skin standards of Basset hounds.

One day my slave and I went to the pet store for something and as we walked in, there was an animal rescue that had set up shop to find pets to adopt.  They were packing up as we arrived, but Lucy and a Boxer were still in a pen together.  The Boxer saw us approach and started preening.  I was reminded of the descriptions of old orphanages where the orphans would be lined up before perspective adoptive parents and examined in the same manner one might examine cattle at a livestock sale.   Lucy’s reaction to us approaching was decidedly different; she flopped down (not sat down mind you, she flopped as if to say, “fuck it, I don’t care.”), rolled over onto her back, and let out a strange plaintive wail.  My slave saw the Boxer and was immediately taken with him.  I was immediately drawn to Lucy.  After her performance, Lucy decided to get up if only to walk to the far side of the pen.  It was then that I noticed the missing fur by her tail.  She was this fantastical combination of spare parts, mangy coat, and lazy, and the perfect pooch for me.  (My slave later asked if my taste in dogs was reflective of my taste in women; they are decidedly different.)

We asked the animal rescue folks about Lucy. The few minutes of conversation were enlightening.  They informed that Lucy’s missing fur was likely the result of an allergy (this later turned out to be true as her hair grew back in and she was a smidge less unique than at our first meeting).  I also determined that the “rescue” was likely one that had been, or likely would be, featured on one of the many animal hoarder shows that are all the rage on cable.

Soon enough we were invited to take Lucy for a “walk.”  Lucy was having none of it.   Rather than attempt to follow the leash, all 60 pounds of sausage body and stubby legs would walk a few steps and promptly flop to the ground with great fanfare but not so great effort.  While most prospective dog owners might find that off-putting, I found it endearing.  It was hot as blazes that day and had I been Lucy there’s no way in Hell I would have been eager to go for a walk on a leash either.

In short order we had passed the rigorous adoption standards of the rescue, paid our adoption fee, and found ourselves the proud new owners of Lucy.  We coaxed her along as we bought new items for the dog we weren’t expecting and loaded the new dog items and new dog into the car.  Once we were all in the car, we were overwhelmed with a smell that words alone cannot do justice to.  It was a decidedly foul odor I had never experienced before and hope to never experience again.

Bringing Lucy home we had a few concerns.  First and foremost was her stench.  We tried valiantly to find a dog groomer to take her to but could find no appointments that day so we had to tackle that job ourselves.  Just as we started to give her a much needed bath we discovered Lucy’s motivated, go getter side.  Unfortunately, she directed all of her energy and heft into avoiding a bath as if her life depended upon it.  Three baths later, our persistence paid off and Lucy’s smell had been reduced from nauseating to a far more tolerable dog smell.

Our other concern was how Lucy would react to our other dog Satan.  Satan is most everything that Lucy is not.  He is a tiny Chihuahua who weighs all of four pounds soaking wet.  He is also a perpetual motion machine.  Even though Satan was neutered as a puppy, he steadfastly refuses to acknowledge this fact and his favorite pastimes involve humping anything that he can.  Given their size difference, I was concerned that at their first meeting Satan would become lodged in Lucy’s throat and I would be spending my evening at the emergency vet clinic plaintively asking, “this happens all the time right?” This fear was unfounded as Lucy is far too lazy and gentle to bother with Satan.  At their first meeting, there was the standard doggy introduction of butt sniffing followed promptly by another one of Lucy’s trademark flops.  In short order, Satan was vigorously humping Lucy’s stubby leg as though he were trying to be the canine John Holmes. He was blissfully unaware (or unconcerned) that he was off the off mark.  Lucy for her part lacked the interest, motivation, or both to stop Satan’s amorous advances and they were soon partners in crime.

Today, when I received the text that Lucy had gone missing, I was anxious.  I have often heard stories of dogs traveling hundreds of miles to find their owners home after a move the dog was otherwise unaware of, and I am sure that all these dogs are far smarter than is Lucy.  If Lucy were a person, I’m fairly convinced that her parents would be double cousins and she would ride to school in a bus that was shorter than the bus the other children traveled in.  Given that Lucy acts confused about where she belongs when we move her crate, I was pretty sure that as her panic stricken self fled the rainstorm there was little chance she would make it home without some sort of human intervention.

By this point, you might have come to the conclusion that Lucy is a tad quirky and you’d be right.  Even though we had registered Lucy, she never wore her collar.  This is mostly because she detested it and always managed to contort her long body in such a way that her short paw would be stuck in it.  Unfortunately, she lacked the sense and skill to extricate herself from her collar and in short order you could hear her plaintive yelps begging for assistance from this self-inflicted self-bondage.

Naturally, we drove around our neighborhood calling and looking for her.  I gained a new appreciation for how many confusing curved streets and cul-de-sacs there are in our little piece of suburbia.  We would also stop and ask anyone who happened to be outside if they had seen our dog.  This was a somewhat interesting experience.  Most of the adults were friendly but none had seen our dog.  The children we stopped to ask were far less helpful.  They all froze and asked, “a dog?” as if a dog was a concept they had never encountered in their short lives.  It soon occurred to me, that to the children our station wagon was a Good Times van with dark tinted windows and my inquiry about a dog was new slang for “would you like some candy little girl?”  I suspect that our missing dog launched at least one dinner conversation about “stranger danger.”

Just as we were about to give up the search for the dog and go back home to make flyers we saw a couple of guys standing outside talking about whatever it is that vanilla suburbanites discuss amongst themselves with at cocktail hour (I’ve suffered through several of these conversations, and my only takeaway is “I don’t understand vanillas.”)

Asking them about our dog seemed a fruitless pursuit, and immediately after we asked, I saw the headshaking that says both no and sorry at the same time.  But that headshaking was immediately followed with, “did you say a gray dog?”  “Yes, yes I did.” And then our search was over.  Not only had he seen our dog, he had stayed with it.  It turned out that we had managed to ask the off duty police officer who found our dog while on patrol.  Soon enough he was showing us pictures of Lucy on his cell phone and calling the police station to get us the number to call to claim her. He told us the long tale of how Lucy had followed a couple out walking their dogs, before he happened to stop them and learned that Lucy wasn’t theirs.  He went on at some length about what a great dog she is and how he stayed while animal control gently corralled her.

Unfortunately, it was afterhours, so we couldn’t claim Lucy tonight, but she will be back among our flock tomorrow.

Throughout this process, I have learned several things.  First and foremost I learned that there’s a hole in the fence that Lucy can use to escape.  I learned that I actually value my dog far more than I would have otherwise realized or copped to.   It also turns out that the local police do other stuff than write speeding tickets (I still maintain that if the little bastards haven’t figure out how to cross the street by high school, my mowing them down isn’t a tragedy just a thinning of the gene pool) and they are friendly and even helpful.  Finally, I learned that I really should have spent the extra cash to have the dog microchipped.  The more you know…