Aug 292014

When we last left our heroine, she was sad, drunk, and holding bolt cutters…
continued from breaking up (the collar), part 1

detached collar rings with overlayed text:

One of the O-rings is mine.

My intention was to turn it into a bracelet I could wear every so often — maybe when I’m missing him — but that didn’t work out so well. It did make a lovely bracelet, but I have freakishly tiny wrists, so it was too big for me to wear (aesthetically or comfortably). It would make a much better necklace, but I’m damn-straight not going to wear what appears to be a collar around my neck.

I think I have another idea, but with work deadlines looming, I’ll have to wait a while before I sit down and figure out if it will work. At some point (not now), I’ll post photos of my failed bracelet and maybe you all could help me come up with some ideas for what else to do with it.

collar with left and right d-rings and o-rings removed

One of the o-rings is J’s.

I made his ring into something else — a kind of usable keepsake, I guess. It’s not for him to wear or keep on his person, but I hope he keeps it around. I won’t disclose what it is here — it’s a bit too personal (and likely, too boring for anyone who isn’t him or me).

Although I gave the other ring to J to hold, it doesn’t belong to him. It’s mine, and I want it back someday… along with the boy wore it.

repurposed collar with two rings removed

The last ring stays on our collar.

If our paths cross again, I want to put our rings back on our collar and put the collar back on the boy. I want him to be my boy again — not forever, but maybe for a little while.

It’s not a promise, it’s not wishful thinking, and it’s not false hope. It’s possibility.

It’s all I’ve got at the moment, and that’s what I’m holding onto.

Aug 262014

Your life story has some plot holes... but it's still an entertaining narrative.I haven’t posted in 13 days. I don’t think I’ve ever gone so long without saying something, even if it’s only something stupid.

I haven’t said much because I’ve been busy, and also, because I’m not sure what to say. And when there is something I want to say, I’m not sure I should.

If I’m honest with myself, the big reason I haven’t said much of anything is because I can’t decide whether “FUBAR” or “clusterfuck” is more appropriate to describe the situation.

Almost none of the FUBARs that comprise the clusterfuck were unexpected. I knew some tough shit was coming my way, but I had no idea how hard it would hit me.

Also, I didn’t know it would all hit at once. I have no idea what I expected, but this isn’t it. It’s FUBAR x 5. It’s compound FUBAR, and everyone knows compound FUBAR = clusterfuck.



Aug 132014

I have a relatively well-appointed workspace in my garage, but it’s for woodworking. I don’t do metal beyond Firehouse, junior high shop class level soldering, and occasional short-lived obsessions with various arts and crafts. I don’t own a bandsaw, a blow torch, or bolt cutters.

In theory, taking O-rings off a collar isn’t difficult or complicated, but in reality, it took me while to figure out. It required multiple trips to Home Depot and several frustration-related cocktail breaks.

In hindsight, I should have taken some measurements and read up on what’s required to cut through different gauges of metal. Or I could have just taken the collar with me to Home Depot and asked an employee for a recommendation.

I mean, Home Depot is pretty fucking kinky anyway (it’s my favorite place for pervertibles). And I don’t give a fuck if Employee-of-the-Month Dax McJerksov realizes I like to fuck boys while they’re collared and chained to my bed. If he does, I’m sure his bright orange apron will hide his hard-on well enough.

bdsm pervertables at hardware storepervertibles: WD40 isn’t an appropriate substitute for lube, but zip ties are made of awesome.
aprons to hide hardwareDax McJerksov, Employee of Month: the apron hides the boner… I mean… the ‘hardware.’

Anyway, the first bolt cutters I bought didn’t cut jack shit. They did little more than put ugly dents in the D-rings, so I assumed I just needed bigger bolt cutters. Once again, I didn’t bother to read anything — I just went back to the store and bought a bigger pair.

The bigger bolt cutters made bigger dents, but didn’t cut even halfway through.

At some point, I noticed the odd hex screws (eccentricity bolts?) and realized that bolt cutters need to be calibrated in some way. (The damn things don’t come with instructions and I didn’t think I needed any beyond step 1) buy bolt cutters, step 2) cut bolt.)

kinky crafts bolt cutters

Adjusting the bolt cutters correctly took some time (and even more frustration-related cocktails) — surprisingly, there aren’t decent instructions online. The instructions I found told me to adjust the blades until they were a sheet-of-paper-thickness apart (almost touching, but not), but they didn’t tell me how to do that. (Yes, I knew it was the hex bolts/screws/nuts/whateverthefuck, but with three of them, I didn’t know which of them to adjust, in which direction, or to what degree. If I got the blades parallel, they were too far apart. When I got them close enough, they weren’t parallel….)

Anyway, I fucked around with the adjustments, had another cocktail, and at some point, I finally got the blades parallel and almost-but-not-quite-touching.

bdsm collar craft repurposingDon’t be a douchebag and email me instructions on how to adjust bolt cutters. I don’t give a fuck.

After I adjusted the bolt cutters properly, I had a celebratory cocktail, cried a little, had an “I’m sad” cocktail, and passed out a short time later. Thankfully, I made it out of the garage and fell asleep on the couch. Still, waking up with a ratchet and a bunch of different sockets on my coffee table was a bit disorienting.

The next day, or maybe the day after that (more breakup sex was somewhere in there), I returned to the garage, stuck the rings in the vice grips and bolt-cutted a half an inch of steel out of the D-ring on the left and the D-ring on the right. It was fucking transcendent — I felt purposeful, powerful, and masculine (wait… stereotypical ‘dudes’ don’t use the word “transcendent” to describe their feelings… do they?). The only thing that would have made it better is if I had been wearing a cock while I did it. Unfortunately, not wearing pants in the garage is a health hazard on a number of levels.

It took exactly 4 minutes and 47 seconds from when I started turning the vice grips on the first D-ring until I finished loosening them after the second D-ring (and that’s including time in the middle to admire my handiwork.)

bdsm collar craft repurposing
I left the center D-ring and O-ring intact — and that’s the way our collar will stay for the foreseeable future.

As for the detached O-rings… I have plans for them.

More on this… soon.

Aug 092014

Obviously, I’m not a photographer. I’m far more comfortable with words than I am with images (and perhaps I’ll explain why some other time).

Since I was thinking about (and writing about) what I intended to do with J’s collar, I figured I should take some photos of it before I took it apart to make it into something that better suits it’s shifting symbolism.

While I’m not generally invested in photos I take, these were a giant disappointment. They were ridiculously boring — more flat and straight-forward than rich and resonant.

First, it’s disappointing that I can’t possibly communicate — in words or in images — how beautiful the boy is when he’s in it. The love, the obsession, and the hunger can’t be captured  in a way that does justice to the feeling of seeing my boy wearing my collar.

Second, it’s disappointing that the photos are so… dull. They’re lifeless, bloodless, and chaste. You’d never know that collar was part of such fantastic, kinky stuff. Wearing it, J’s been forced to suck my cock, lick my pussy, jerk off into a glove, edge himself, and entertain me during dinner. He’s been tied, spanked, fucked, pegged, figged, hooded, needled, and recorded.

Since the photos didn’t evoke debauchery or portray intimacy, I did some Photoshop-fu and Instaglamorizing filter-fuckery in an attempt to make the photos more interesting.

As you can see, all I came up with was some 7th grade level emo art… but I like it, so I’m posting it.

bdsm submissive collar art


Aug 062014

In the three and a half years we’ve been together, I’ve only cried (really cried) in front of J twice. The second (and last) time was during butt sex (his butt, not mine).

The first time was very early, before this thing we had could even be called a relationship. Maybe that’s when I first realized it might be a relationship — I’m not sure.

We hadn’t been dating long when I decided the whole D/s thing was just too much pressure — it required too much reading, responsibility, and too many rules. I just wanted to enjoy his company, fuck him silly, and satisfy some kinks, and in those areas, we were a good match.

But J also wanted me to be dominant (or a dominant), and he wanted to be submissive (or a submissive). I just wanted to be myself and I wanted J to be attentive, accommodating, and compliant — not in general, but to me. Looking back, the irony (coincidence?) is not lost on me — but at the time, those things seemed incongruous, and perhaps they were. Regardless, my perception was overwhelming dissonance where there was actually potential for compatibility.

signs at the intersection of dead end and devotionTo me, his being “a submissive” demanded “a dominant,” — both roles (as I understood them) seemed too codified, prescribed, and pornofied, for me. Besides that, his “submissiveness” came along with a lot of wants, ‘suggestions,’ and occasional weird capitalization.

Back then, I couldn’t wrap my brain around the dissonance, much less articulate it. While J and I had talked about his want for a D/s arrangement, and my hesitance toward it, I didn’t reference any of that. I was tired of all of it, and I was just… done.

We hadn’t been dating long, so I didn’t think breaking it off would be a big deal to either of us.

I was wrong. When I told J I didn’t want to see him anymore, my own tears took me by surprise. While I had feelings for him, obviously we weren’t a good match — he wasn’t what I wanted and I wasn’t what he wanted. Rationally, breaking it off was the right decision, and it should have been and easy one (free of the annoying emotions that cause unwanted wetness on my face).

Finding myself in tears caught me off guard — I didn’t expect to feel as strongly as I did, nor did I expect to show it. In an effort to explain my anomalous emotions (perhaps more for me than for him), I offered this:

“I’m only crying because I think I’m in love with you… a little.”

In my head, it sounded like a reasonable explanation for unreasonable emotions about by a man I hardly knew and couldn’t possibly love.

But I did. I loved him a little, and I already loved him enough. None of that was logical, but it was true.

What I failed to consider (and failed to account for in my ‘explanation’) is the fact that love isn’t reasonable — it’s not logical, nor predictable, nor explainable. It just happens sometimes, even when it isn’t ideal or easy. It’s a lesson I’ve been learning for the past three years or so, and one I expect to continue learning for some time.

“Devotion Street – Dead End” by Joey Rozier, (2002). Work licensed under a Attribution-NonCommercial 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC 2.0). [deviation: cropped, sepia filter]