el tercer ojo

Party on! (But watch your drink.)

 As the holiday season moves into full swing, I was sad but not surprised to read on Minx and Zille's blogs about two different cases of drink doping at scene parties and events, each on opposite sides of the country.  Zille fortunately had a helpful and supportive experience when she reported her suspicions to the event organizer. Minx, sadly did not have this experience but was, instead doubted and pressured to keep quiet.  I know it can't have been easy to stand up and talk about what happened. No one wants to believe this goes on, especially in our nice little closed circles.  But it does and more often than should be comfortable for anyone.

As someone who worked in a university residence hall for a number of years and on a university campus for many more than that, I know how wide-spread drink doping is. Of the 10 to 15 times I took students have their blood and urine tested following a suspected doping, drugs the students had no memory of taking were found in all but one case (generally the drugs were ambien, xanax or valium rather than the rarer date rape drug "rohypnol"). Even more common is the spiking of low alcohol or non-alcoholic beverages with 100+ proof white alcohol -- something that's gone on since my mother was in college. (That happened to me years ago -- though I fortunately noticed due to the oddly chemical taste.) It's sad to say this, but communal drinks just aren't safe and probably haven't been for a while.  Sadder still is our not being able to leave drinks even for a moment, even at private functions.  

I'd like to think that the group sponsoring Minx's event is just unaware of how widespread this problem is and that her blog entry will prompt others who've experienced this to come forward and help all of us who haven't experienced this to be more aware. Rohypnol and other benzodiazepines (used in the rarest but most dangerous sorts of doping) are found more and more frequently on university campuses along with other legal and illegal drugs. I assume this means they're also becoming more widely used in the general population.

It's not that there's a lot of people who dope drinks out there, but the ones that do are good at it and rely on ignorance on the part of their victims (and hosts). What we hear about most in the press are the very worst of the worst -- those who dope drinks in order to rape. But there are those who do so, as Zille points out, in the mistaken belief they're sharing, loosening up the party or helping guests have a better time.  So anyone who might be tempted to do "share" in this fashion, can I remind you that there are those of us who have to watch how much we drink because of other medications?  Personally, I can't have more than one drink when I'm on lithium without running the risk of becoming very ill. 

Anyway, this ended up longer than I intended.  My point is, have fun but watch your drinks. 

---

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tapps/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Notes on FetLife: I'm Not Really There

   A while ago, curious after being told by Chris that everyone was there, I started exploring FetLife.  It's a very cool social networking site for the kinky.  I had a great time, met some cool people and basically enjoyed myself. 

Note my use of the past tense.  I still get emails notifying me that people, mostly old friends who are arriving there themselves, have seen my profile and want to connect.  This would be cool, but I'm not really there anymore, not because I don't like the community but because, for now anyway, I don't have time. Something had to give and that something was FetLife.  

There's a few reasons for this.  I've always had trouble reading there -- my eyes don't like white text on black background -- too long gives me a headache.  My main issue though is that it's just a very kinky site and I no longer have privacy when I'm using my computer at work.  This isn't a criticism of FetLife.  It should be an adult site with adult connect and explicit images.  But there's no way I can even go to it and check messages at FetLife while I'm at work.  By contrast, Typepad, Tweety, MacSoup (for usenet) and Newsfire all look pretty generic, whatever their content may be -- in fact I'm being paid to blog for my office several hours a week. 

But surely, you say, I can use FetLife at home.  This is true, but not happening enough (see comment about the colors and my eyes) that I'm participating. So my question is, should I take my profile down?  Or just mention this there, when I can actually get to the site? 

Maybe I'll ask Chris on Saturday. When we connect by actually talking in person. Such an odd idea, that.

Happy Halloween & A Story

Over on his delightful blog, Rad's written about his Halloween costume -- a priest's Roman collar -- for the party at Paddles tonight.  While I won't be at the party, I got to see Rad wearing this costume for the Shadow Lane party this past Labor Day. At the same party, I got to finally watch,** curled up on our bed with Alex and Bailey, the DVD Spanking Confessional.  Great fun!

Rad and his collar looked great at the SL vendor fair -- wish I was closer to Paddles.  I suspect that tonight he'll get to hear a number of confessions.  

My own confession is to cop to the priest fantasy as being one of my favorite and most sexual fantasies dating to my high school days. Along those lines, I'm posting an old story based on one of those fantasies.

Copyright 2001 to <mijita (at) thetreehouse (dot) net>. Please respect this copyright. Don't distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it's not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.

First Fridays

On first Fridays we have to go to confession. Every month we're in school the nuns walk each class over one at a time. We kneel and reflect on our sins as we wait our turn in the box. A lot of girls think it's boring, but I don't.

Not with the thoughts in my head. Not this month.

I'm next for Father Damien. So cute. Totally wasted as a priest. Maybe I'll give him a thrill. And me too.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, by my thoughts, my words, my actions. It's been a month since my last confession. These are my sins."

My sins. My hands slipped beneath my skirt and I slid my panties down, letting my knees step over them so I could take them off. The kneeler squeaked and I wondered if he could guess what I'd done. The plaid pleated skirt felt rough against my skin, bare beneath it. I squirmed, pressed my knees together tightly.

"I - I've sinned grievously, Father. I don't know where to start."

I spoke the words softly, low and right into the screen, my voice catching just so. I imagined I could hear him sighing and shifting on the other side.

"Go ahead, my child. God can forgive you."

"I've been wicked, Father. Done things I know are sinful, but I don't know which sins they are." I lifted my skirt with my left hand.

"Tell me your deeds, girl."

"I - I touch myself, Father. Repeatedly run my hands over my body and, and between my legs." As I spoke, my right hand brushed against my thighs and then up between them. I licked my lips and imagined him listening. Maybe even starting to sweat a little just above his lip. Running my tongue over my own lips I could taste the salt.

"I know it's wrong, Father, but I can't help myself, love the feeling of my own skin beneath my fingers."

I moved my hand back and forth, stroking gently, quietly.

"My boyfriend touches me too. Under . . . well, you know, under my skirt, Father. Over my panties. And, and well, I touch him through his jeans."

He cleared his throat as if to speak. I spread my knees wider and let my fingers push inside, more deeply and insistently. I breathed quietly, through my teeth, but my breath kept coming in faster gasps.

"At first I mean. And then he unzips and I feel him through his underpants. And he gets, um . . . he gets hard Father. And puts his hands inside my panties. Sometimes I let him take them off me."

"You're putting yourself in danger with these actions, child. Wanton behavior can't lead to good. What would your family say?"

"Oh Father, they know! I mean, I think they do. Last week I left my panties in the car and my boyfriend's father found them. And then his wife told my mother. Who told my father."

My hand became more insistent and my body began to move in response. I covered the noise in my throat with a sob, not quite pretended.

"The next day, my father met me at the door when I got back from school. He had my panties in one hand and the paddle in the other. He threw the panties at me, telling me where they'd been found. And slapped me too. Then, right there, in the front hall of the living room he yanked me over his lap and began whacking me over my panties, telling me what a disgrace I was to them."

My fingers moved quickly against my own wet slipperiness as I poured my thoughts out to him. I could hear his watch ticking. Hear his own breathing.

"He, he, he stood me in front of him and yanked down my underpants and told my mom to check to see if I was intact. I could feel her finger push inside me, Father. Because she had to know. I cried and felt like such a sinner."

"As well you should, young lady. What if you found yourself with child? You're putting yourself and your boyfriend's souls in jeopardy - becoming a near occasion of mortal sin."

At his words I moaned slightly. So bad - such a bad girl.

"After she finished checking me, told him I was a virgin, he pulled me back across his lap and paddled me more, this time on my bare bottom. I cried so hard I was screaming, Father. I swore to them I'd sin no more."

"And pray to God for the strength to honor that vow, child."

"But when they sent me upstairs, I lay on my bed in the darkness and ran my hands between my legs, feeling the heat rise. I - I can't stop sinning, Father. Has God deserted me?"

My fingers touched my clit and I felt myself explode as the blood rushed through me, filling me with pleasure as I moved frantically against my own hand. But I lost track of my audience until the light blinded me and I dropped my skirt quickly but too late. He'd come around to my side, opened the door and saw me - well, you know what he saw me doing.

He said something I didn't hear - but heard the anger in his voice. Did he call me harlot, sinner, Eve? Not sure. But then Father Damien grabbed my upper arm and yanked me to my feet, pulling me from the confessional. I could say nothing, could feel the shocked eyes of my classmates, my teacher, on me. As he pulled me toward the front of the church, my last image of the box were my white panties against the dark wood floor. I could feel my nakedness beneath my modest plaid skirt.

The priest's finger tightened into my arm as he pulled me across the sanctuary to the sacristy behind. His voice was low but clear as he stood me in front of him.

"You've sinned most grievously, young woman. In a manner I'd have scarcely thought possible for one so young. What you've committed today is sacrilege. I wish I could violate the confessional and tell your teachers and family what you did while you were pretending to beg God for forgiveness. Ensure you're punished as you deserve to be."

I dropped to my knees before him in tears.

"Please, Father! I beg you, forgive me. I'm sorry, truly sorry."

Father Damien's hands were on my shoulders, shaking me as I cried harder.

"Beg God's forgiveness, not mine. If you dare. You deserve to be punished, but I can't say what you've done. The confessional is sacred, even when abused as you did." His hands were at his waist, beneath his robe. For a second I feared violation but then his object became clear as he pulled his black belt from around his waist.

"Go across to that kneeler and stand before it. Good. Now bend over and place your hands on the pad."

The wooden prayer book shelf dug into my stomach as I stood on my toes to reach the padded kneeler. My skirt rose up to my thighs on its own before Father Damien threw it roughly to my shoulders, baring me from my waist to the top of my knee socks.

"I suspect that your story of being spanked by your father for your wantonness was a tale to seduce me and yourself. Let's see if you enjoy being thrashed in reality nearly so much."

With that he cracked the leather across my bottom and I kicked and tried to rise, biting my sleeve to keep from crying out. His left hand pushed the base of my spine, keeping me bent over.

"Burns, doesn't it? I promise you when I'm finished your hands will never even consider roaming your body without remembering this hell fire."

The strap burned my skin again and again as I struggled and choked sobs into my arms. My thighs were lashed along with my bottom as I promised him never again and confessed my sorrow at offending him and God. Finally I could bear no more and my sobs broke through, echoing through the church, leaving my classmates no doubt as to my penance. . . .

I watch as the door opens and the red light turns to green. A girl kneels on the pew in front of me to begin her penance.

It's my turn to confess before God and Father Damien.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned. By my thoughts. . . ."

---

** Paul had been at the filming last December, but I hadn't been able to make the trip to Vegas, even though people I'm so fond of were doing such a long-standing fantasy. This definitely made up for not being there though. Almost.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/gak/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Flash Fiction: Distant Thunder

Yesterday, over on her delightful website, Casey Morgan put up the week'sFlash Fiction challenge.  The brief is

Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday. Come write a 250-word story (erotic? tgi oriented?). Start any time Friday, finish by 6pm PDT Saturday. Post the link to your story in the comments below or on Twitter (@caseydamnmorgan). Try to include the wildcards. (Find out the wild cards by going to Casey's site).

As ever, Copyright 2009 to mijita (at) thetreehouse (dot) net. Please respect this copyright. Don't distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it's not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.

"C'mon, do the jigsaw, Lizzie."  Bradley shakes the box, coaxing.

I turn away.

"C'mon, I can't alone.  You know." 

I spin back, snapping, "I do know you can't, you little shit. Get of out my room, now."

"I'm telling," wails the little shit, running for the door. 

My mother raises her voice so I'll hear, "Stay away from her. Your sister'll get hers when your father gets home."

When your father gets home. Her words make me feel sick, and I slam my door. 

I'm alone with my thoughts.

If only I could rewind today, not have talked in class, not have talked back to Horrible Mrs. R. Most importantly, if only a letter hadn't come home. 

I close my eyes, trying to focus on tomorrow.  No.  Tomorrow is distant future, with too much between now and then.  

I try not to think about him coming home, try not to imagine my mother showing the letter, telling him what a horrible  
girl I am, finally crying to show her frustration. 

I know he'll open my door without knocking, eyes grave with disappointment, my own burning with defiance.  

The lecture will go on and on before his hands unbuckle his belt and my father orders me to pull down my panties. Before I take a pillow and bend over the end of the bed. Before I feel his hands on my skirt. 

My defiance will be stripped away. I'll be left crying begging, promising, finally screaming. 

I will hurt.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to hide from the inevitable. 

Like the far off thunder of an approaching storm, his car rumbles into the drive. 

My father is home.

[Note: I wasn't able to do it in 250 words -- this came to about 287. Maybe next week.  I did, however, us all the wildcards.]

Archiving Ourselves

I include Niki and Amy's anti-piracy video not because it's entirely relevant, but because it's my favorite YouTube video.

As many of you know, despite the blogging and online forums where I also play, I still read and post on usenet (yes, I'm that old) on soc.sexuality.spanking.  A recent discussion there prompted these thoughts.

Question: Why anyone (like me) would object to any free site archiving stories we've given away anyway. There are authors like John Benson that give their work to be reproduced and archive freely. Why won't I do that?

It's not about money. I've only written a couple of stories for profit and even then I was paid peanuts and the copyright reverted to me after 24 months. Those stories are also, with only a few exceptions, archived on The Treehouse and have been for more than ten years now. So why *would* I care if someone else puts them up on another free site? Is it as simple as a selfish "they're mine"?

Not exactly, but sort of. They are mine. Moreover, they're me. I post them, but I can't and don't let go.

These stories aren't just closely linked or even the product of my explorations of my spanking fantasies -- the act of writing them and they themselves were explorations. Some early ones are accounts of child abuse, remember and relived in fear, anger and pain. Some are accounts of scenes with other people or were written as gifts to them -- statements of love and hope. Others are fantasies that were so secret I'd never dared write them down before this moment when I did. They were all written in part as a gesture of thanks to my beloved alt.sex.spanking and soc.sexuality.spanking for freeing me to embrace this part of myself.

It's been a long time, but when I re-read them, I remember writing each one, sometimes crying, sometimes shaking and sometimes incredibly turned on, almost burning with a desire to tell someone what I was seeing and feeling behind my eyes. I remember my heart thudding as I wrote and then again as I tried to decide whether or not to delete the story, whether or not I could bear to post it. This is all just a long way of saying that my stories may or may not be very good (and some are worse than others) but for me and to me they're all very important.

When I first started posting to the group, someone put some of my stories on their website along with some pictures and a bunch of other work. They didn't ask, but when I found the site (or rather someone else did) I was stunned and flattered. It was a simple little site on a free server (Free Yellow? -- can't remember). Within a month the owner got dropped from their free server because of content and bandwidth (remember when we used to have to worry about that? Yeah? Then you're old too!). They moved the site to another free server, but this one was an adult server. The site had xxx banners with very explicit sexual imagines of, well, sex.

This wasn't what the stories I wrote were about. This isn't what I'm about or turned on by. I didn't want them to be somewhere I felt I had to avert my eyes from every time I surfed over. I was horrified and asked that they be taken down. The owner was annoyed with me, feeling I didn't understand the effort involved in formatting my stories and the difficulties of finding free hosting. I pointed out I hadn't asked him to do this, that, in fact, I hadn't even given permission.

At the same time, a number of authors on ASS were struggling to get their stories off any number of pay-sites that were sprouting like mushrooms and using the stories as both content and to drive traffic. Those stories, hundreds of them, had to a significant extent been ripped off a free archive, created with good intentions but without the permission of the authors involved. This struggle went on for years. In fact, for all I know, it's still going on.

In response to this, and so we could say to people who wanted our work archived that it already was, Paul built The Treehouse, registered the domain and gave it to me as what is still the absolute bestest Christmas present ever. Although the site could do with a facelift (do you know how long 10 years is in internet terms?), it was and is the way I imagined those stories being presented. Every part of the site was talked about between us both at the time and after. The space was supposed to be an expression of innocence. Not innocence shattered or parodies, but reclaimed. Not dark or sexual, but light and fun. Nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about.

We pay for the domain and the hosting -- no ads or sponsors. The control of the space is important enough that even when we were broke the hosting fees for The Treehouse were always a priority. The control is that important. It's why since then I've given permission for archiving only to good friends and only for a few stories here and there. I'm not alone in this -- a number of story sites, both current and past, were started for the same reason. Others stopped posting stories altogether or only post them to their own sites -- it was just too much work to explain Usenet isn't public domain. I know at least one person who only sends out stories via email as PDF documents.

And yes, I do complain when my stories are on sites without permission. I won't stop doing that -- whatever the site's intentions might be. But I am going to try and speak a little more softly when I do so remembering that there can be good intentions all around.

[edited 28/10/09]

iPhone: Kinky Apps

I've made a more serious post about how Paul and I use technology in our discipline / punishment scenes over on the Punishment Book including our more recent use of the iPhone in conjunction with Apple's MobileMe. This blog entry is about the more fun and kinky iPhone apps I've discovered since Paul gave me one for my birthday this past July --I mention this in case there's any doubt that Paul keeps me very indulged and spoiled. The screening process Apple uses hasn't screened them out, at least not so far as I can tell.

The most obvious of the kink apps is iSpank. No really and for true, it's there in the iTunes store, in both a free and $.99 version (you get more implements for the money). It's fun -- some of the sound effects are better than others. While the paddle is only okay, the belt or strap always makes me start a little even when I'm holding it. One danger of the app, however, is what I think of as the Wii problem -- it encourages the spanker to swing their iPhone around. So make sure you have a tight hold. You then get rated on the strength of your swing. I rarely get more than 5/10, though Paul thinks I don't need swing so much, that it's all in the wrist.

But the kinkiest one I've found is called either iGrounded or UrGrounded. Its makers market it as a "parenting tool" claiming, "Kids need boundaries. This app helps parents set and enforce consequences. -urgrounded games-makes grounding easier for parents and kids." Nothing too kinky there (well, except the idea that punishment's a game) -- but then it goes on to say

WE ARE A GENERATION OF WIMPY PARENTS...and we are creating a generation of kids that are lazy,rude, entitled and who show a lack of respect for RULES. 

iGrounded is A QUICK POCKET GUIDE FOR PARENTS When kids break the rules,they need immediate logical consequences. 

iGROUNDED INCLUDES: 

•  UR GROUNDED WHEEL OF CONSEQUENCES GAME.. 
•  THE MYSTERY DOORS CONSEQUENCE GAME! 

Parents, YOU enter and edit the consequences in both games. 

Guide to: 

1. LYING 
2. CURFEW BREAKING 
3. STEALING 
4. NOT CHECKING IN
5. DRUGS /ALCOHOL 
6. SEXTING 
7. DRIVING ISSUES 
8. ATTITUDE 
9. POOR GRADES and more... 

 Parents, YOU enter and edit the consequences. 

Keep track of who's grounded in your home. E -mail your child (and yourself) with the consequence as a friendly reminder.

Excuse me? Let's just look at that last sentence. Are we talking about Girl's Boarding School here?  I mean, I don't have kids, but do most parents really need to have emailed reminders sent to themselves to remember which child has been grounded and for what?  How many teens are living in this "family" anyway?  The offenses also look like something out of video (or story) plot -- parent scolding and punishing teen for breaking curfew, or better yet, catching them "sexting."  Lovely stuff.  The app has scolding prompts to remind parents why lying is bad (seriously).  

Keeping with this theme, I do find it odd that "not checking in" appears between "stealing" and "alcohol/drugs."  

Which brings me to the Wheel of Consequences.  As downloaded, the wheel, which spins with a flick of the finger does not have corporal punishments.  Insteadm, they start out with punishments like forced runs, losing game consoles, cleaning the cat box, losing pet (!!!) or having to stay home or in ones room (bliss!), but can be easily edited to fit a more CP turn.    The thing is, I can imagine this "spin and be punished" game being used at a Shadow Lane Party a lot more easily than I can by a parents as a means of deciding how to punish a teenager for a drug offense.  

One last gem. The maker claims this app is "Recommended by Pediatricians"  -- I'm  imagining a conversation a bit like this:

DOCTOR: Good Lord Sir / Madam!  Your child is clearly an out of control brat  who is both lazy and rude!  You are a wimpy parent!

PARENT: I know doctor, he/she has no respect for the rules. Maybe it's because I can't figure out what the logical consequences of their misbehavior should be. For that matter, I can't even keep track of whether or not my son/daughter is grounded. Whatever can I do?

DOCTOR: I've no idea.  Your situation seems hopeless. Unless... I say, you wouldn't happen to have an iPhone by any chance?

There's nothing I can see that's serious about this app, but it might be a great help for spanking story writers or roleplay enthusiasts.  And what could be more fun than that?  

When Worlds Collide: Part 3

Over four years ago I posted my first academic world meets fetish world startle regarding a CFP email. Startling, but my field is lit and one happily grows to expect some BDSM study. It was only a week (or was it two now? I do blog slowly...) ago when I got another. I opened my email this week only to find another CFP startlingly titled:

"Spanking and Poetry: A Conference on Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick"

No, really, that's what it says. But I do think CUNY (yes, City University of New York again) is, as the British say, taking the piss. The first sentence of the call reads (how had I not remembered this Sedgwick quote?)

"When I was a child the two most rhythmic things that happened to me were spanking and poetry." (Sedgwick, Tendencies 182)

And then goes on to say

Eve Sedgwick lovingly, if none too gently, slapped open the sphincter-tight boundary rings of critical scholarship on the sexual and affective relations between bodies.

Sadly the kinky stuff mostly ends at this point save a couple of paper suggestions (Fisting-as-écriture and Shame and Generic Discipline respectively). But hey, if you like Sedgwick and want to go, check them out at their blog.

I killed Niki Flynn

True! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

By the dark of the night, far past the English witching hour, I put the final touch on the death of Niki Flynn. Yes she survives on in memory, Google is filled with pages of links to her images and even some of her words. Amazon continues to sell her books. But Niki's site is no more.

Do I have your attention yet?

Okay, then that's probably enough of the gothic for now. I'm afraid I lack the flare for it. But what I wrote is true enough. Late last night I did click the "delete" button on Niki's Not Blog -- Paul removed it from the 'net at her request. If you go there today you'll get the Laughing Squid "page not found" message. Those who have been following her blog writings are probably not surprised. Niki announced she was leaving earlier this month. Galleries had been disappearing even before that. The blog already was closed for comments. Still I'm sure some people are surprised this morning / afternoon / evening to find it gone altogether.

This chapter of my friend's life is closed.

Earlier this week I read Ludwig's insightful thoughts on Niki's demise -- both his last interview with her and a final blog entry on her leaving and wondered if when the time came I'd have anything to say. Clearly I've found something.

My thoughts are a little different than some who've known Niki Flynn. She was a surprise to me despite (or maybe because) I'd known the woman behind the masks of Niki and Fiona years before they appeared on the 'net or in text and know her still. For all the mystery behind Fiona Locke, she seemed to evolve organically as an author / 'net identity. Quirky, reclusive and oh so fine a writer, I knew her of old as it were.

Niki, emerging, as she did, out of my friend's need for an alternate identity as she made first one film and then more and more, was someone else entirely. She was not the mad writer in the garret or a lost little woman-child. When I met her at her first Shadow Lane appearance, I was dazzled. Don't get me wrong, she had always been beautiful and sexy but Niki radiated a sexual confidence (and just a general confidence) I hadn't seen before, especially when meeting people. Niki was definitely another aspect of my friend -- a public one, seen, as it were, through a glass brightly. I'd seen the pictures and films Niki was making, but this was my first experience of her as a distinct personality.

The same sense of the surreal washed over me as I read (and re-read) Dances With Werewolves and Over the Knee. I know a few people have commented that people should have guessed sooner based on the writing style, but I disagree. Even knowing they were both penned by the same person and having read other writing by her, the author's voice in Dances With Werewolves has always seemed distinct from Fiona's work. There's a easy confidence and even extraversion to Niki I'd never associated with the woman I knew. That said, both, of course are her. Niki was just, to paraphrase Tori Amos, pieces of her I'd never seen --but was glad to know as I grew to recognize her voice (as did so many of us) through her blog.

I do believe closing and deleting the blog and site is the right thing to do. Niki isn't writing any more and the site was always intended to be for fun (no money was made of it -- indeed I wouldn't be surprised to find that it was a break-even proposition) and a way for her to get feedback from others in the scene. In the almost three years it was up, it was never neglected by its author, this despite her having told a number of us when it started that she didn't see herself as being much of a blogger (hence the name "Not Blog"). Rather than let it lapse into dis-use and be taken over by spam or become a chore rather than a pleasure, it's better for it to be gone.

Nothing on the 'net is ever really gone -- Niki in archived form certainly won't vanish. Even knowing this though, I did feel a tiny twinge of guilt as I pushed "delete."

A final note. As Ludwig pointed out on his blog, our friend has opted for privacy -- she removed her site and didn't leave a forwarding address. Don't write to me asking me to forward any mail. It's not that I can't -- it's that I won't.

[...]ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness -- until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.

No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a sounds as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. [...] Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what could I do? [...] It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! -- no, no? They heard! -- they suspected! -- they knew! -- they were making a mockery of my horror! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now -- again -- hark! louder! louder! louder! Louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! -- here, here! -- it is the beating of [her] hideous heart!"

The photo was taken by Billy of Monkey Twizzle fame. The fiends ignoring Niki's death are Paul and Lucy of Northern Spanking.

My Ugly Shoes

Earlier today I tweeted this picture of my ugly new shoes.  I'd just bought them at my favorite charity shop (benefiting the American Cancer Society) across from the local Coffee Bean.  They're from a charity shop so the shoes aren't really new, but new

enough as to make no real difference).  These are, as was confirmed by my dear friends (also on Twitter) Adele, Natty and Casey, ugly shoes.  They are sort of shoes a girl is forced to wear, are purchased for rather than by her (despite my activities to the contrary). 

These particular shoes make my US7 / UK5 sized feet look huge and long -- like a teen forced into little girl mary janes.  Their brown color is drab and boring.  They have flat leather sole which are slippery, noisy, sturdy and the very opposite of high-heeled glamor.  They make me think of shoes purchased for a 15 year-old girl during WWII -- a girl longing for pumps and stockings but forced to wear (and be outwardly thankful for) ugly practical shoes. [Note: Tony Elka added to this fantasy for me by pointing out a girl of that era not grateful for her good fortune is probably due a cold bath and then some.]

I've got a lot of shoes and many of them are quite ugly.  Ugly shoes seem to go with my sense of being oppressed into wearing uniforms and other attributes of childhood / girlhood without being either overly cute or frilly. Most of my ugly shoes are school related -- and I've included a selection of pictures here.  True, I photographed only one of three pairs of my buckle Docs, but you get the idea. 

Chief among the shoes I think of as "ugly" are my black and white saddle shoes.  I think of them as probably the most fetish-y footwear I own and will ever own.  They were purchased on a special outing with a scene friend more than ten years ago (I wrote about it at the time for soc.sexuality.spanking -- the original story is archived on the The Treehouse.  At the time I wrote that I  expected never to wear them enough for them to break in, let alone wear out.  As it's happened, wearing them for scenes and Shadow Lane parties has been enough to run the heels down just a bit.  A great irony however is there was a time first grade when my feet were still too small for black and white saddle shoes and I was forced to wear the all white kind (to much teasing of wearing "baby shoes" sad to say. So when I wear them, I remember my father driving up to Los Angeles from San Diego where the coveted black and whites were carried in my size.

When I was in second grade I was forced to memorize a poem which, as is the way with my brain, has never left (though don't ask me to decline Latin nouns please).  Here it is, as best as I can remember it.

New shoes, new shoes,
Red and pink and blue shoes.
Tell me, what would you choose
If they'd let us buy?

Buckle shoes, bow shoes,
Pretty pointy-toe shoes,
Strappy, cappy low shoes --
Please give me some to try.

Bright shoes, white shoes,
Dandy-dance-by-night shoes,
Perhaps-a-little-tight shoes,
Like some? So would I.

...but

Flat shoes, fat shoes,
Stump-Along-Like-That shoes,
Wipe-Them-on-the-Mat shoes,
That's the sort they'll buy.

The fact is, I do have pretty shoes too. Paul would claim I have lots of those as well, though I would disagree -- I don't have very many compared to most women of my age that I know.  There's a reason for that and he's partly it.  Unlike many of his gender, Paul doesn't like the sight of women in heels (or garter belt and stockings for that matter). The shoes he's bought for me have all either been "school" related or, in the case of last Christmas, an inspired gift of very snug and comfy Ugg boots.  When I wear my "pretty shoes," the ones with straps and heels, I can feel him mentally changing my feet into something lower and more comfortable. 

More sensible.

And uglier.

When Worlds Collide: Part 2

It's always strange when my academic life meets up with my kink one.  It happened back in 2007 with a CFP (that's "Call for Papers" in the larger world) and then again today.  Opening emails like this in my vanilla account is always a bit startling. 

[I've left the contact information in case any of my friends want to write a tedious academic paper on the science of pain and suffering.] 

Call for Papers 
Annual Interdisciplinary Graduate Student Conference: 
The Poetics of Pain: Aesthetics, Ideology, and Representation 
February 25th-26th, 2010

Pain has always occupied a problematic space in any discipline investigating the human condition. The question of how to manage the unmediated experience of pain in the face of the social and ethical imperative to communicate it has spawned countless theories of and approaches to pain itself and its representation. This conference seeks to foster dialogue between a broad range of approaches to pain and suffering, including medical-scientific investigations of the neurological processes involved in the experience of pain, socio-historical analyses of the connection between individual pain and collective trauma and literary/linguistic inquiries into the possibilities and limitations of a poetics of pain. Theorists and thinkers will include, among others, Jean Amery, Elaine Scarry, Sade, Sacher-Masoch, Deleuze, Wittgenstein, Foucault, Ballard, Mirbeau and Kafka. 

How can the ineffable sensation of physical torment be conveyed by its sufferer, or acknowledged by the other? How is individual suffering converted into collective experience? How, in turn, is an individual’s experience of pain socially determined? How do the varying discourses of pain bring the sufferer into contact with the world and break down the barriers between self and other? What are the conceptual mechanisms that guide our understanding of this physiological experience? 

We invite papers from all disciplines approaching the subject from a variety of critical perspectives that explore the ways in which pain is articulated, narrativized, framed, interpreted, subjectivized, and imbued with meaning. 

Topics may include but are not limited to: 

• Torture, War 
• Illness Narratives 
• Medical and Diagnostic Language of Pain 
• Sadomasochism - from Rousseau and de Sade to LGBT “Leather Scenes” 
• Biopolitics 
• Animality and Humanism 
• Martyrdom and Religious Representations of Suffering 
• Theaters of Cruelty 
• Politicization of Pain and Collective Accounts of Past Suffering 
• Violence and Politics 
• Survivor Memoirs 
• Victims of Crime and Assault 
• Trauma and Testimony 
• Physical Suffering in Light of the Cartesian Mind/Body Problem 
• Religious and Secular Theodicies 
• Victimhood, Voice and Agency 
• Desire, pain and subjectivity. 
• Technologies of Punishment
• Bioethics

Please submit a 300 word abstract for a 15-20 minute paper by October 10th to painconference@gmail.com. Proposals should include the title of the paper, presenter's name, institutional and departmental affiliation. We also welcome panel proposals (3-4 papers).
The Graduate Center
The City University of New York
365 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10016-4309

Thoughts on the "poetics of pain"? Bueller, Bueller? Anyone, anyone?