Delia Day

Locked up tight

2003-12-02T01:26:24Z

I feel better after a full day of work clinging to my beloved obsessive routine. I wrote most of the day, articles and email, and cleaned house the rest, washing dishes and clothes. Everything feels better after that except my crotch. My pants are a little tight now. I'm packing more in them than I usually do, and so far not complaining, not out loud at least. It was two this afternoon when my owner came inside. He had been out in his office working while I was working. He briskly marched passed me, ducking into the bedroom, then came right back out. I thought he must have been going to get something, and I was right but never could have guessed what he was getting or why when he commanded in that voice that begs immediate compliance like a drill sergeant, "Stand up and drop your pants." I stood up then I saw the big brass padlock in his hand.

He unscrewed the top barbell through my labias and slipped the padlock through them, snapping it shut with a click. That was it. I pulled my pants back up and tried to sit down again, afraid of the pinch I knew was coming. The lock is big, it's two inches wide and three inches tall, weighing several ounces, which sounds light until it's hanging all day long from holes in your genitals. A few ounces start to get heavy very fast. I'm glad he just brought one lock out, which I presume he did because he means to leave it there a long time. He's got four locks just like that, one for every pair of holes through my labias. With them all in the weight pulls them down stretched two inches and the bulk of them makes walking normally all but impossible. I can't put pictures to illustrate here. They're a bit too risky for LiveJournal and pages linked from AOL. Those have to stay at My illustrated life as a sex slave behind the scary disclaimers.

One hasn't been so bad today. It's been a lot more comfortable than I suspected, but I'm still paranoid of that big pinch when I move just the wrong way that I'm certain is still coming. If not today, then tomorrow. Something tells me the lock isn't coming off for a long time, and I know he's getting a thrill from the inconvenience it's imposing on my movement, even if he hasn't uttered another word about it, yet.

Bright and early Monday morning

2003-12-01T09:21:31Z

Well, not bright. It's as dark as a cave outside I'm up so early, but I'm raring to go again after a relaxed week of Thanksgiving holidays. I need a holiday from them being my usual obsessive self.

It's weird relaxing. It's hard for me to always reconcile 'productive' with what is productive when the things that make money, the measure of production, aren't the ones that are 'work' in my mind.

I was very productive this week in one sense. I engaged in much debauchery, made tons of raw material content for My illustrated life as a sex slave. That didn't feel a whole lot like work doing it, though. It didn't feel like work when I had to fill a five gallon bucket up the hard way expelling enemas into it. It didn't feel a bit more like work when I got drunk and fucked Ashley for the second time in a week. It didn't feel like work when I got taken shopping for new funky make up and dressed up slutty after.

It just felt like there was a lot of work I should have been doing that stressed me on an enforced holiday of fun, which was fun, but I'm glad it's over. I don't like my routine of slave labor interrupted too much. Holidays always throw me.

I am a dessert

2003-11-23T19:52:25Z

Just decorate my head with whip cream and lick it clean. It was... embarrassingly silly. It was the start of a very long night, too. I've got a hangover, a workedover, and have had 'wild lesbian monkey sex' now for the second time in my life to quote someone. It was fun. I'd definitely do it again, but I'd like to wait until I recover a bit first. These long nights wear me out a bit.

There have been many group sex experiences infrequently over the years, but in the past, lack of forethought in some cases and individual shyness in others meant not a single time before had publishable photographs taken. This time was very different in that respect. All the graphic details will soon be on My illustrated live as a sex slave, which I now have a whole bunch of writing to go do for, hangover or no.

Some days I wish I got days off to recover... I could use one today.

Some days

2003-11-15T03:50:41Z

Some days just make you wonder. I think this has been one of them. I've thought about a lot, mostly around in circles, coming to no conclusions. It hasn't been a bad day or a sad day or a traumatic day. It was actually very happy, because I was much relieved the dog is seeming much better. Still a bit worried, but he's back to playing and acting his normal self.

Sometimes I am just a little ill at ease with hearing what some people think and being so exposed as to hear those things, even when those things are balanced by other things that other people say.

When in the same day you can be called a role model and thanked for the reality check and inspiration to pursue individual happiness and scary crazy with a guy that must be even scarier and crazier it is to say the least pause for thought.

I really don't know what to think of that. It's a little confusing. On one hand there are so many different people in the world with so many different thoughts and perceptions rooted in their own experiences, and what anyone says about the things I write or the life I live says a lot more about them than it does me. I am just me, the same person, when someone says good or someone says bad. What's said doesn't change me, doesn't make me any better or worse. I'm just me.

But it actually does change me, that's the catch. Every experience I have makes a permanent impression, however so small they are individually, cumulatively in the long run I do change what I feel, what I think, how I act, ultimately who I am, becoming a different person from them, because what things people say to me are my experiences, whatever is said.

That's the same for everyone, and more than anything I usually wonder what kind of experiences other people have had that are behind whatever they say. I don't know often and can not often put the pieces of that puzzle together.

It makes me wonder. It makes me wonder a lot pondering questions I can't answer hoping that when that inevitable change happens from all these experiences that it is a change for the better, not the worse.

I am acutely aware of just how profoundly I changed under the influence of one person. That was one person I knew well and had all the context required to be able to weigh his words for what they really meant about me. I don't know most of the people I hear words now from at all and lack that kind of context to be able to accurately see me from any of their eyes.

It makes me feel uncertain, because I'm not entirely certain the words of some random stranger in the end will have any less impact than the words of someone well known, well loved, and well respected for his insights and caring.

It makes me feel conflicted, too. Should I say this? Should I say that? I have no answer. I'd like to say a lot of things. I'd like to say I'm docile and I'm easy and I'm desperate to please and desperate to suck your cock sometimes and not feel awkward and uneasy that no matter what expression I make how there is no way everyone will approve of it. I'd even like to pander on occasion to the mysoginist fantasy and revel in momentary self-loathing. I'd like to be hear an excited person call me a vile, shit eating pig piece of fuck meat any day over someone questioning my romantic expressions or lack thereof.

I'd like to hear someone say they wanted to beat my ass and feel like I could safely acknowledge it as the compliment it was, without worrying if some well intended but misguided person would feel the need to rescue me from myself or from my owner and utterly ruin my life. Please, beat my ass. Hit me, hurt me, use me, abuse me, call me Edna, even. I won't take it personally, will likely enjoy it. That's me. Disapproval on the other hand has always been really hard for me to take. It fucks with my mind.

I think I'm going to proceed to be a gutter slut for a while. It's been a while since that's side's really come out in words, and it is so me. It's a lot more comfortable than prim and proper ever was.

You have no idea how much I want to taste you in my mouth now and completely loose myself to the abandon of being nothing but a dirty hole for a room full of strangers. That's me at my best and always has been and frankly it's because there really just isn't a whole lot of performance pressure involved in that.

Mandatory reading

2003-11-13T09:55:19Z

PRIVACY JURISPRUDENCE AND THE APARTHEID OF THE CLOSET, 1946-1961

Something I stumbled on while browsing aimlessly tonight. It'll make you think.

Annie Oakley

2003-11-12T15:14:11Z

Yesterday I got shooting lessons all morning long. There's been a bit too much excitement around our house lately. Someone is being stalked, and it's not me. Saturday before last my owner intervened in a 'bit of a domestic spat', which our neighbors from two houses down the road were having in our front yard. She was naked, save for a black pair of panties, and screaming her head off as the fellow knocked her down and started dragging her kicking and screaming back to his house. This did not go over well with my owner, and he bolted out the door barefoot with a pistol bellowing "Put her down now!"

She got put down, but only after he fired a warning shot. It was a nervous and tense stand off that followed for thirty-eight minutes until police arrived. I had to call them three times because it was taking so long I was not sure they were bothering to come. I watched and tried to listen from the front door, but I couldn't see much because there were bushes in the way and I could hear, but I couldn't quite understand what was being said from the distance. My hearing is really going down hill fast, I think.

What I didn't hear were in order "I'm going to kill you if you come any closer." Said as my owner came closer. "I'm going to kill you if you call the cops." Said right before my owner yelled back at the top of his lungs "Delia, call the police now!" Then just "I'm going to fucking kill you," as the fellow dove into the bushes by the road and ran like Hell finally as the police car came into sight.

The fellow is a new neighbor. His mother has lived down the road ever since we have lived here. He has lived mostly in prison, on the other hand, and has just rejoined polite society after his second term for felony burglary.

The fellow's girl friend lives next door to him. I think she's still in high school. I don't know her name. She didn't press charges against him, and the police didn't arrest the fellow, or even look hard enough to find him, given that she didn't want to press charges.

He remains at large.

The day it happened, not an hour after it happened, our neighbor Will called me to say that the guy had just called his grandson, who's the same age as the guy and school buddies with him, to ask if his grandson had found any bullets for a gun the guy had. First, the guy is a convicted felon, which means shouldn't be in possession of a firearm. Second, he didn't even know what kind of gun that he had the week before as he tried to 'borrow' some bullets for it from Will, so I am pretty sure that adds up to he just stole it from someone.

Will's grandson was not inclined to help with that plan, and called Will to let us know what the guy said. It apparently took the guy a week to finally get the bullets for that gun. Last Saturday he was target practicing from his yard, and shooting at a target across the road. That in itself is illegal. You're are not supposed to fire a gun across a roadway or from one. It's unsafe.

The next night, Sunday night, but past midnight so it was really Monday morning, the fellow with two other unknown people, one of which was female and probably his girlfriend, roared into our driveway in an old light blue car with one door that was a much darker blue color. It looked like some 70's model Buick and had no muffler from the sound of it. It had been so loud in fact that my owner had already gone outside to see what the noise was long before it ever came around the curve in the road and into our driveway.

They didn't see him to realize he was already outside and patiently waiting for them to do something really, really stupid before he did anything himself. They proceeded to make so much noise it woke the whole neighborhood up trying to get him to come out of the house. The revved the engine. They cut a half donut in the driveway pulling back out onto the road. They drove up and down the stretch of road in front of our house squealing their tires, screaming, and honking their horn. They stooped the car just out of sight around the curve and then there was loud shouting between the fellow and the girl like they were having a fight. I could hear the yelling, but couldn't understand what was being yelled. I could also hear someone else was still in the car, revving the engine, while they were outside the car yelling, which is how I know there were at least three people involved.

It went on for about a half an hour. It was scary. It was, legally, disturbing the peace, and pointless to call the police. They would have driven off. They never got into plain sight to say positively who was in the car, though there was only one possibility for who was in the car and behind it. They didn't put the first toe in our yard, though they did put tires in our drive way briefly.

The whole thing just reeked of set up. I imagine if he had come out the front door then and towards them, there would have been an attempt to make good the previous threats made.

I got a two hour nap finally that morning, but my owner didn't sleep, staying up to make sure they didn't come back. After the sun came up, he finally took a short nap on the couch, and I woke him up when his mother arrived like he asked me to. Then Matt got there, and while his mom stayed with me, he and Matt went shopping. They didn't get back until after ten o'clock at night, having had to go all over the place to find what they were looking for, a practical shotgun suitable for home defence.

My owner has been an avid shooter all his life, but never been one for hunting much. The only shotgun he had was an over and under for skeet shooting. It nor anything else in his collection was really suitable as a defensive weapon, not after dark, at least.

I know he went thinking about a Benelli Black Eagle, which he's wanted for some time because it's the only left-handed semi-automatic shotgun made. My owner is a left-handed shooter, though he's not left handed. It's an eye thing. He drove to his favorite gun shop to find out they couldn't order a Benelli for him, not being a Benelli dealer, then drove on to the closest Benelli dealer knowing who it was after that. He decided not to get the Benelli, though, saying "I'd feel really bad if I had to club anyone with a $1200 gun." Meaning there are guns to use, and then there are guns to coddle and clean after you use them.

He picked a cheap, well used 12ga Mossberg 590DA pump, which is standard police issue practicality. The previous owner had added sling mounts and a spare shell holder on the side, too. It holds nine shells with six spares on the side. It looks like it would make a great club, too.

The next morning was when I got the shooting lessons. I grew up in town and was never taught as a matter of course how to shoot anything. I've fired his rifles a time or two before when he took me with him to target practice, but never had serious lessons or fired a big, intimidating shotgun before.

He started with lessons on how to load it, which was the easy part. That wasn't hard at all, much to my relief, because when he tried to show me how to use one of his pistols, a semi-automatic with clips, he gave up and said he'd trade one of his guns he didn't like much for a revolver for me. I couldn't pull back the slide on his pistol to chamber a round after first struggling to load the clip. The shotgun was a breeze to load, and I liked the cha-chunk of the pump action.

Then it was time to shoot it. It was still big and scary looking, though. I was afraid it was going to hit me in the head from the recoil when I shot it, and I fired the first shot with much trepidation and my eyes closed. I didn't get any where near the coffee can fifteen feet away with that one, but wasn't scared of the recoil after that. It wasn't very bad, much less than his skeet shotgun. We didn't have enough 12ga shells to spare the amount of practice aiming I needed, so he got out his good shotgun for that, since he's got cases of shells for it. That one hurt to shoot, even though it didn't look nearly as intimidating. It's only a 20ga, too, with much smaller shells. It just weights much less, only 6.3 pounds fully loaded with all two shells compared to over ten pounds loaded with the Mossberg. Bigger is better not to have a sore shoulder, I learned, and made no more complaints about how heavy the thing was after firing the Citori. I had to ask could we please switch back to the big one.

About twenty more shots later I finally hit the can and finally got a rudimentary understanding of aiming, very rudimentary. I grinned and giddily said, "I bet I can do it again," then proceeded to miss it entirely. It took another whole box of shells before I was hitting it consistently at only fifteen feet away. There is a lot more skill involved in aiming than I had ever thought.

I'll be practicing more. I had a ball shooting all morning. My arm feels like I was lifting weights now, though. It's a little sore and stiff this morning. I'm competent to shoot at this point, just not really to aim, but that doesn't make me feel much better about the guy stalking about with harm on his mind now.

It's far, far too much excitement for me. I really don't lead an exciting life from my point of view, and I really like to keep it that way without having to worry about stuff like that. Stuff like that is very distracting.

Yo' man don't really love you...

2003-11-07T01:10:20Z

"Yo' man crazy as shit, too, you better watch out for his crazy ass!" The email I just got, Jerry Springerized, because that statement, in its original, seemed to belong more on the Jerry Springer show than in my mail box.

It takes a lot of righteous presumption to proclaim what someone you don't know may or may not feel emotionally. It takes a lot of denial to think a twelve year track record of happy, as reported by me and him - the only people who's opinion counts on that assessment, relationship amounts to "dangerous" and "crazy" and to "he does not love you in any way shape or form."

Now we're talking about the guy that is tickled more when I don't orgasm than when I do, which was a matter related to that less than supportive comment, and the guy that makes no bones about reveling extreme sadomasochistic sexual practices, which I don't either. I like that stuff. I don't think he's cruel and uncaring to do those things for me (Note, I did not say "to me.") I would think he was cruel and uncaring to not do them, telling me they weren't right in judgmental dismissal of my own feelings about them. We're also talking about the guy that's done more for me than any other person in my life. The guy that's always there for me. They guy that cuddles with me watching movies, brings me coffee in the morning, tells me funny stories to make me laugh, and has not in twelve years ever been judgmental of me or let me down the first time.

It's an impressive track record, to say the least, and frankly, it kinda pisses me off when someone proceeds to preach to me about what his feelings may or may not be because they can't quite comprehend that whole extreme sex thing and the things I say about it don't fit neatly into any mold of romantic stereotype.

I do not wonder why I feel much safer in his company than in the company of the moral majority and s collective social conscious at work. I do not question what emotions he feels either, they've really been pretty obvious to me all along. I do live with the fellow. I do know the fellow. The good, the bad, the beautiful, and even the ugly, inside and out.

It would actually be hard for me to imagine anyone with more self-awareness and self-comfort than him. He exudes calm tranquility and stability. He is the most well rounded, emotionally well adjusted, and nice person I've ever known, which is the antithesis of "dangerous" and "crazy".

There are a lot of stories that attest to his character I've told, but oddly to me, sometimes people think my facial expression in sex says more about him than those stories, or that my thinking out loud about my own feelings somehow does.

The reference of why the commentator said what she said about him was just that, my own thinking out loud on the subject or orgasms, and reaching some clarity of thought. Good clarity. Clarity to just stop worrying about them. There's not all that important to me or my sexual gratification anymore, which has been a change that's slowly happened over the years propelled by a combination of factors from his influence to my own growing level of self-awareness and comfort.

I don't give a rats ass whether I have an orgasm ever again. I frankly get a lot more satisfaction from not having them than I ever did from having them. This is perhaps difficult for the orgasm-centric typical person to understand, though. I am quite happy with it as the atypical individual myself, however.

The only word I can use to describe the change there is liberating. It was. I am appreciative for the pushing towards it, which was deeply linked to a previously repressed out of fear of unacceptance aspect of myself. It got me out of the old closet, and comfortable admitting to the world I'm a queer queer.

Can you imagine telling the person you love, your mate for many years, who knows you as one sex, that deep down inside, you don't feel like that at all?

"Honey, I want a sex change operation." Followed by a stunned, blank look, and a divorce. That isn't something most would not just accept, but embrace, going out of their way to be supportive of you and modifying their comfortable routines of sexual practice to accommodate you better.

There are several pieces to the puzzle of orgasms.

There is him, and he is surely humored and pleased that my greatest pleasure is from pleasing him. Sex focuses on him. I focus on him. He focuses me on him. He always encouraged that, a little more and a little more until it was as natural as breathing for me. Sex is all about his physical pleasure. Gasp on that, that seems to be the statement a lot of people gasp about.

Sex is all about my psychological pleasure, and well, that is a much bigger and better pleasure, if you ask me. It's not about the sensations for me, it is the feelings, which I get in spades of gratification and satisfaction from it. Deep feelings, not shallow, fleeting ones that fade with the sexual flush. Contented feelings of meaning, purpose, and giving.

Sex is all about penises and vaginas and gender roles, as well, and when you've got to answer the question, "Gender, male or female?" with "none of the above," sex gets complicated and conflicting. There was always a conflict inside, and I always had a love hate relationship with my cunt. It was a fight that was never settled, until someone stepped in to help make peace, realizing the turmoil was not all together healthy, and also realizing an opportunity to push things more in a direction that amused him at the same time.

Looking back, I wouldn't have held in my feelings there for so many years had I known they would be so welcomed and fit so well within our relationship, but it finally did come out, and what he said was not what I had feared. It was "Well, that explains a lot. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

I don't much get fucked like a girl anymore. I don't much get reminded I have a vagina anymore. I don't much feel conflicted with myself anymore, though. I get called a faggot a lot, which really turns me on to hear unlike those other more traditional pet names of slut and cunt and whore, and humored greatly. I get to feel comfortable being me, and I get to have even more satisfaction from sex. I don't find it in conflict with other parts of me anymore.

Just let me suck your dick and fuck my ass and leave my pussy out it as much as possible, please. That makes me a happy boy, and I do feel quite loved for that and uncountable more reasons.

The puzzle of why someone would tell someone else that someone didn't love them remains unsolved, though. On the Jerry Springer show those are the sort of mean and ugly statements made to undermine the emotional security of rivals for that man that don't love you because he love me instead biiatch.

It's a reprehensible, but more obvious behavior in that context than here. Here I'm really not sure what the fuck the point was. I don't think there was one.

Happy Halloween

2003-10-31T21:16:22Z

This is my Halloween look today.

My kind

2003-10-31T03:23:00Z

Lapit77: Your quote has described the Great Mick
Lapit77: I am a public speaker and travel the country. What do you write about?
Lapit77: Can you play the harp?
Lapit77: Do you know how to type?
MarkedGirl: Depends
Lapit77: I see you want control right away
Lapit77: Control is an illusion
Lapit77: people should really try to give it up
MarkedGirl: Let me know how that goes for you.
Lapit77: meaning?
Lapit77: please be direct when you talk to me
Lapit77: i can out think you, out talk you and out wit you on my worst day
Lapit77: I have done more in one year of my life, then you have done in your entire lifetime
MarkedGirl: Oh, this is going in the journal...
Lapit77: and if you were smart, you would become teachable, instead of challenge me
Lapit77: where are you?
Lapit77: i have to go, I have dealt with your kind before. You need to get out of yourself and realize you're nothing but a piece of sand down here like everyone else. Become teachable and you'll be fine. bye
MarkedGirl: Right here, about to introduce you to my audience.
MarkedGirl: I feel so very out witted now. You really put me in my place.

You know, the kind that doesn't think you're nearly as great as you think you are... I suppose that would be my kind according to him. He is Thomas aka. "The Great Mick", so his AOL profile says, aged 45 from New Jersey and divorced (shocker there). He might be smart, but it would have been a lot easier to think that if he wasn't acting like such an arrogant fool.

Frankenweenie

2003-10-30T21:29:05Z

In 1984, while working at Walt Disney Animation, Tim Burton made a 27 minute long live action film named Frankenweenie that was almost never released. Disney deemed it unsuitable for children, finally changing their mind at some point, because I've got a copy of it now. It's a spoof of the classic Frankenstein plot, except Victor Frankenstien in it is the average American kid who brings his dog back to life after it's been hit by a car. If you've seen the movie, you'll see the resemblance here...

I wish it was just special effects for Halloween, but instead it's a $747 dollar vet bill after small five pound dog was in territorial dispute with large 220 pound dog over the food bowl. Zoe, aka. Frankenweenie, spent three days in the hospital and had major surgery. When you think about it, the price was terribly reasonable. If that were me getting the exact same level of care using the exact same medical supplies in a people hospital the bill would have been about $10,000. Medical care really stands out as overpriced when you think about the prices animal hosptials charge to provide equivalent care, and those are profitable prices for them.

Zoe is well and good, in good spirits, and most remarkably considering it was more gore than I've seen in a B movie, no pain. She's home and hopping up and down on the couch like nothing happened, not wanting to hold still at all for the trouble of changing bandages.

Wild duck chase

2003-10-25T08:58:26Z

Yesterday - I should say day before because my day today has crossed the dividing line into the next - I went to sleep exhausted just before dawn, crawling into the bed next to my owner, who made no signs of waking up as I did. I situated myself flat on my back and clutched the covers up to my chin. It wouldn't be a long nap. The phone woke me up at 8:15, "US Govt" is said on caller ID, which I learned meant the post office as I answered with a very groggy, "Hello."

"We've got birds here for you." The irritated voice on the other end said. I'm sure the voice belonged to the mail carrier that makes the rounds here every day, a codgety looking old man with grey scraggly stubble always on his face and greasy black and gray hair slicked down with sweat and dust from the dirt roads. He's afraid of our house. He doesn't like our front steps or our dogs. The last time we had a package of birds he brought them over instead of calling us to come pick them up. He went up the steps on a rainy day, knocked on the door and Daisy stuck her head out and said "woof." He fell backwards down the steps, eyes wide as saucers as he got up and brushed himself off. It scared him half to death and left him badly bruised. I don't wonder why he doesn't like delivering packages that won't fit in the mailbox anymore. "Can you please bring them over?" I asked as nicely as I could.

"You can't come get them?" He said, still irritated. I doubt he always sounds so irritated. If you've ever shared a confined space with a box of baby chicks, you would understand why that's grating. They never shut up and what first sounds so cute becomes like Chinese water torture after a short while. The post office is less than half a mile away from our house. It's not very far at all, but not a really a fast walk. I don't get to drive anymore.

"I'll have to walk if I do." I said. He muttered under his breath and said he would bring them over, telling me to meet him at the mailbox so he didn't have to get out of his truck. I threw on a t-shirt and some jeans, and grabbed a hat to cover my bald head before going outside to wait three minutes before his old blue Chevy truck came around the corner, kicking up dust on the dirt road.

There was one box of chickens from Murray McMurray. It looked just like the box we got two years ago when we first decided birds were just the thing for the back yard. We got sixty chickens, twenty ducks, and thirty guinea fowl then, and they committed suicide in creative ways, were picked off by predators, and died of diseases, mostly West Nile, which is Hell on birds, until there were only three ducks, one chicken, and one guinea fowl left two weeks ago after something broke into the coup and eleven birds disappeared in one night. We ordered more. Twenty five chickens and fifteen ducks this time, enough to hopefully make it back up to egg laying numbers to hatch some more.

There should have been two boxes. One of chickens and one of ducks. They always send different kinds of birds in different boxes. I didn't think anything of one arriving before the other, though, as I took the box and thanked the post man.

I was happily amused with all the baby peepers. We got Araucanas chickens this time. They lay pretty colored green eggs, like they've been dyed for Easter already. I was thoroughly distracted and giddy with them for the next few hours until the phone rang again. "US Govt" it said on caller ID once more.

It was the post office, only it wasn't our post office this time. It was the post office in a town ninety-five miles away, and they were calling because they had a box of ducks addressed to us. They weren't sure how they had them, but they did. Shipping baby birds is a tricky business of timing. They have to be delivered as quickly as possible and in under three days, because in three days if they don't eat and drink, they start to die fast. The remainder of the yolk sack of nutrients is used up. The birds had been traveling three and a half days already by the time I got that call. My birds were in mortal peril.

I hesitated, "Um. OK. We can come get them." I said knowing my owner was still sound asleep. He hadn't woken up, yet. I had to wake him up.

I tried timidly poking and prodding first. "Wake up, we have to go get birds." I said. He grunted and rolled over burying his head under the covers. That approach never works. It's funny. You can not, can not wake him up, but he'll leap out of bed wide awake at the tiniest out of place sound or smell. There's a filter in there at work. If there's trouble, he's awake. If there's not, there's no hope. He's sleeping till he feels like waking up. I had to resort to drastic measures and the only way I know to wake him up dependably.

I fucked him.

Erections are an entirely sub-conscious process. You don't have to be awake to get one. I sucked on his nipples, and up he came, still sound asleep. I sucked on his dick and he squirmed a little, still asleep. I kept sucking. I think he actually woke up right before he ejaculated after about thirty minutes of work. I'd gone from sucking to a lubricated hand job, worried that my recently broken tooth I haven't gotten to go to the dentist for was like rubbing sandpaper over his dick. I was self-conscious about that.

His head was under the covers, still but he started moving more and finally said something. "Mouth." One word that I knew exactly what it meant. I swallowed and smiled as he pushed the covers off his head looking dazed and confused. Then I told him about the bird situation, and went to fetch him coffee as he looked for pants.

After a few cups and splashing his face with cold water he was out the door and going to the rescue, while I stayed at the house playing with the chicks. I was wearing the orange dress he bought me in New Orleans. I had been planning on dressing up with the Goldilocks wig I got there, too, but the bird problem put a kink in those plans. I had only made is as far as the dress and my makeup before being sidetracked. I never got my wig on.

It was four hours and very late afternoon before he returned looking grim. I had changed clothes to something more comfortable, the other new outfit I got in New Orleans last weekend, which doesn't have a tight skirt down to my ankles. "They're in bad shape." He said. "Three fatalities." Within the hour it was seven fatalities. They had been too long in transit and too stressed. The post office killed half my ducks with their blunder. I spent the next few hours trying to keep as many of them alive as I could, dipping their tired little beaks in a bowl of water so they would drink.

Normally misrouting mail isn't a life or death blunder. Normally when it ends up at the wrong place, which it often does, you never know, because they send it back to the right place. Not this time.

I'm not sure we'll have enough ducks make it to adulthood to replenish the back yard flock. The mortality rate is usually pretty high even when you get healthy chicks and ducklings to start. The hatchery won't be shipping any more ducks this year. Those were from the last available batch, so it'll be spring before we can get more. That sucks.

The chicks are all happy and healthy at least. They're all female this time, too. We paid extra for sexed birds because I hate those cocky bastard rosters.

I fully comprehend exactly what 'cocky' means as an adjective now, and I've finished the weekly picture update for My illustrated life as a sex slave. I am on to my usual weekend of writing the stories that go with the photos.

Let me rephrase that...

2003-10-22T14:27:47Z

I was saying that I've set up another journal as part of the members content of My illustrated life as a sex slave and now that I have the same ease to add the stray bits of writing there as I've had here with the content management system of LiveJournal, I'll naturally be putting in more effort there and less here as I've got an obligation to provide the most value possible to subscribers, which I would like to encourage everyone to do as I've always taken every opportunity to encourage here, there, and elsewhere because this is my day job, you know. I do this writing thing for a living. I really like to think of it as writing and not "porn". Sure there are plenty of tits and ass but there's so much more than just tits and ass. I don't get nearly as many compliments on them as my writing that accompanies all the photographs from life.

That's my "thinly veiled advertisement" born of "self centered insanity", which "eventually comes from running your own porn site", as you "convince yourself that virtual prostitution is some kind of entitlement" and the sarcasm born of overdoses of human nature where people have some very funny reactions and some unexpected big red buttons that sneak up on you sometimes. Someone I previously thought was a nice guy just said all that and more in one of the most insulting and down right mean spirited emails I've ever gotten. Apparently he construed a "thinly veiled advertisement" as "bitching at him for not paying to hear my self involved dribble."

For thinking it was dribble, I think he took that very personally and made some awfully big deal of it. Apparently I did not express myself well in my last try and am trying again now. I got his message loud and clear, though. It was not a "Hey, you stuck your foot in your mouth, you might want to rephrase that." More a "I'm not really a nice person after all, and I am letting you know by calling you all kinds of names and doing my damndest to insult you."

That kind of thing sometimes surprises me. I think it surprises everyone when a person suddenly presents a completely opposite side not seen before and does it with shockingly abrupt hostility. I wonder about it, but I wonder about lots of things, often expounding on them at length in my "dribble", which can be read at the exceedingly affordable price of just $8.32 a month in its entirety or here for free in limited quantities, bearing with the "thinly veiled advertisements" in it. Your choice, as always, and either one you make is fine with me, but I hope, ideally, those enjoying the labors here would choose to enjoy all of the labors and contribute a bit to the support of the effort. I appreciate that. It fuels all my "self centered insanity" you know... capitalism marches on relentlessly.

I'll go back to work now. I was just momentarily shocked. I'll get over it. It's not like it's the first or the last time I'll get to see the worst part of human nature. That's OK, because the pro to go with that con is I get to see the best parts of human nature even more and that gives me reason to smile and keep from becoming too cynical. I'd already seen the best parts from same said person... I really did have a very good impression of him before and it might have been the first hostile comment from a reader I've ever gotten that actually did upset me to receive.

It wasn't from a total stranger. I knew a little something of them. I find it to be demoralizing. I find it to be the exact shit that makes it difficult for most to attempt to express themselves at all, too. It's funny, people tell me all the time how brave I am to be able to be so open. I'm not really brave. It kicks me in the gut too when this judgmental shit happens from anyone the least bit more acquainted than a random stranger out of the blue, and I recoil predictably from the people who perpetrate such offences, whether they are great like saying I am an insane self centered whore and boring writer of worthless dribble while throwing in an I'm not going to be your friend anymore, or small like saying they don't like it at all when I wear men's underwear to use two fresh examples.

I've said before too that if you can ever make someone feel truly accepted, free from those judgmental condemnations on any level, they will worship at your feet and that's true. It happens just as predictably as people recoil away from those judgmental people voicing condemnation that people are drawn magnetically to the rare people that are totally accepting.

I'm not brave, I'm just me, and getting paid to share what is still every bit as difficult to share, even when getting paid. There are lots of emotional risks to it. There are, and I try to always keep this in focus, lots more emotional gains to it. Sadly the negative experiences always seem to stand out more than all the positive ones. They are what sticks the strongest to everyone and it takes great determination to not fixate on them.

You might be redneck if...

2003-10-20T07:13:02Z

I'm going to wrap my red and swollen neck in a nice hot towel and go to bed now. It was a long weekend, a very long weekend.

Jerry Clower tales

2003-10-17T01:59:33Z

I started off this morning at 12:15 AM, the sun wasn't even up for me to go outside and pee. That was yesterday when I woke up in the picture above, not allowed to use the toilet. I used the toilet today. No one said go outside. No one else was even awake I started the day so early with so many things to do before the trip into the Quarter this weekend for my neck tattoo. I had a lot of energy then. I was on a roll. I got the weekly site update done just as the sun came up. It was 6:30 AM then. I had it uploaded by 8:00 AM, then put my makeup on quickly to go to town with my owner, who "let" me go with him, practically insisting I do. We went by the bank first. I waited in the car smoking a cigarette and reading a book. One of the A Series of Unfortunate Events</em> books, The Ersatz Elevator. He came out grumbling at how long it took because the teller didn't have enough cash. "You wouldn't have thought I was breaking the bank," he said. "Cash? We don't have cash, we're a bank!" I said. Banks do not deal in cash much these days. The last bank account I had of my own I closed angrily because they refused to take $8 in change I took to deposit because "The person that counts change is only here on Tuesdays." They said. "Can't you count?" I said, right before a few choicer obscenities.

After the bank we went to Wallmart, and almost bought new eyeglasses, lingering in the opthamologist shop there. Only after picking out frames, we were told how many people were ahead of line to have their eyes checked and decided that would be waiting entirely too long. Oh well. Glasses aren't that important. We both have them but seldom bother to wear them. My owner was thinking about it because of the trip. Reading street signs downtown is not easy at night when you have astigmatism, and his don't help much anymore. He needs a new prescription.

Determined like the good little consumers we are to spend some money anyway, we wandered back to electronics section and bought batteries for my Walkman and of all things, a Gameboy Advance SP and Zelda. It seemed just the thing to make a long car ride and sitting six hours in a tattoo shop less boring. The Legend of Zelda was one of his old original Nintendo games and there was a bit of nostalgic flashback as he went "Zelda!" and I hunted for someone to unlock the cabinet, right before the announced on the intercom that our car alarm was going off.

Car alarms are on a long list of once novel but now totally useless ideas. The one in our car is on the fritz. It's going off at random if you lock the doors at all now. My owner has been threatening to start cutting wires until it quits, just like one of his friends did to disarm another errant alarm. No one listens, or rather I should say no one wants to listen to car alarms so they're ignored. Useless. Pointless. Annoying. Yet, listed on the bullet points of "features" of every new car.

He paid, we left and headed through a McDonalds drive through. He got a Big Mac, I got a fish sandwich, and we drove to a parking lot in front of a boot shop he thought about going in to check out. We sat there eating fries and talking until we were finished, walked up to the shop and read the sign on the door. "Closed for inventory."

"None of my ideas are working out today, are they?" He asked rhetorically as we walked back to the car. Undaunted, we went to check out a new thrift shop he'd found the week before. It had a lot of stuff, but most was over priced, except the books and exercise machines. Books were a quarter and they had a vintage Nordictrack, attractive and made with real wood, for $15.00. They also had an Apple LaserWriter for $20.00. Both of those got much speculative attention, but we only left with a stack of books, spending all of two dollars.

On the way home he stopped to "check on" his tenants, which means "collect rent" since they hadn't paid it already because he hadn't gone to pick it up. They've got no bank account to put a check in the mail. They didn't have it, which makes the second time they didn't have it, coincidentally the second time he's been late to go get it. He let them slide again without a fuss, but said they could pay an extra $50 a month until they were caught up instead of the "Next month we'll pay you double" line, knowing next month they'd surely not be able to manage money any better than this month. They get their checks and a week later whatever they have is gone. They've lived that way all their lives and will for the rest of them. Money has little value to them. They've never worked much to earn it, always living off welfare, disability, or odd jobs under the table, mostly collecting junk and selling it for scrap only when they needed a few dollars. Every month they get two checks in the mail from the government, one each for disability payments, that are more than most people get paid for 40 hour work weeks. Cliff has a bum leg from a car wreck when he was a young man, and Martha has some back problems, though neither of them appear to be very hindered.

They're nice folks Cliff and Martha, a couple in their early fifties some years our senior. Good people, just not particularly responsible with money people. Glad to help you out, glad to share what little they have when they have it, honest people. Genuinely likeable people, and with a very funny sense of humor, too. They are a trip. They would fit right in, in a tale told by Jerry Clower or Jeff Foxworthy. The front yard had seven cars in it this time, none were running except a ragged old blue pickup truck heaped high with a literal ton of old phone system wiring that had been ripped out of some bank building during a remodel. They found it all in a construction dumpster. Next to the truck there was a can of gasoline and a dented metal trash can with a blazing fire going in the bottom.

They were roasting off the insulation from the wire so they could sell it for fifty-three cents a pound as copper scrap. The can was billowing thickly noxious toxic smoke and Cliff and a crowd of his relatives were all sitting around it like they were roasting hot dogs. Tossing in balls of plastic coated wire and fishing them out with an old rake when it was bare.

We talked a "bit". Martha is one of those almost inescapable people. She would talk for twenty-eight hours straight, and your only chance is to turn and run at some random point because the conversation is never coming to any sort of stopping point. We played with their dogs, socialized, and tried to blend with the crowd of their relatives.

Martha's got tattoos. Tattoos done by someone she knows that made a tattoo gun out of a Bic pen and uses Testers model paint for ink. They're rather amazingly well done you realize after hearing the story of how they were done. She keeps saying she wants me to do one for her, but she says a lot of things she wants and never takes the first step to do, just like Cliff. I don't think they want to do a thing but to live their simple, uncomplicated lives, just like they always have. They have no aspiration any day except sit around, drink beer, and goof off.

It's pretty luxurious when you think about it. I don't think they are as poor as they are poor. I don't think my owner will be late to go pick up the rent again, either, though. They drank our beer money for this weekend before we got the chance to do the same thing with it.

We finally pried ourselves away, and headed back home. My energy and vigor that started the day, faded. I'm dragging now. Trying to tidy up loose ends before leaving tomorrow. At one O'clock Saturday I'll be getting tattooed then going to meet Amber, who sent me the book I was reading today, for coffee and girl talk, sucking up some luxury in a posh hotel room, and trying to spend my new hundred dollar bill from the bank. I have cash in hand and it is most novel.

So novel I really haven't a clue what to do with it, but I'm sure I'll figure out something. I always managed mine about as well as Cliff and Martha do theirs, something will be pretty and sparkle and I'll just have to have it as we pass the shops in the Quarter.

I have a dream

2003-10-15T11:04:25Z

I've been trying to resist the temptation to make another post here for a few days until I would talk about something silly instead of political. That, and I've had a lot of work to do, which should have been keeping me busy, but I'm not concentrating on it well. It's going slowly, my mind still stuck on stuff like this, which some obviously lost (in more ways than one) random Web surfer left in my journal anonymously.

"It's mostly overprivileged white folks who have the time/money to spend their whole lives on silly sex games while 85% of people in the world don't even have a bank account... White Americans are some of the most self-obsessed, spoiled people on the planet. Black kids get their limbs hacked off in Sierra Leone and all white people do is play games wondering what it's like to be oppressed."

Roll that off your lips, "white folks". What's any different about that than "them niggers"? I keep thinking about it and I can't find anything different. The only thing I find is it's not the "white folks" being racist, prejudiced, bigoted, or trying to pick a fight at the moment.

The "white folks playing slavery" aren't even all white. They're every racial and ethnic background imaginable, and they aren't playing... They're living.

It is their life as they choose to make it, which they would like to live free from oppression, prejudice, and discrimination. Doesn't that sound familiar? I think it does.

Personally, I can deeply empathize with every person who has ever suffered from prejudice and discrimination. I have suffered that myself. I know what it feels like. Yet, I have no sympathy for fools, and it's a fool who sees all the world in the black and white juvenile simplicity of us vs. them. It is myopic.

I'm a lot of labels. One of those is slave. Another one of those is activist. I am an activist, a very outspoken activist and one of only a few for my culture. We could use a lot more. When it gets down to it, there's no difference between what I do in that and what the good Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. did. None. Where I've looked to him as inspiration and courage to take a stand, others forget he wanted to end racial discrimination, not just turn it in reverse.

"The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. They have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone." - Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

I expected a lot of things when I first stuck my head out on this course to be an example of openness. I expected plenty of negative reaction, but I am truly surprized by the racial reaction of the moment. I am not surprized that "slave" is a racially loaded word in America. I knew that. I am surprised that people do not know that "my people", to borrow Dr. King's words, aren't defined by race.

We come in all colors. We come from all ethnic groups. We come from all religious backgrounds. We come from privilege and we come from poverty. We come from every continent of the world. We are all sexes. We are all genders. We are all orientations. We are just people.

Where most cultures are best defined by similarities, ours is better defined by diversities. That we have so many is what stands out as remarkable. We have not got a lot in common, besides we're all sick and tired of discrimination for our beliefs and practices, desiring the freedom to pursue our choices in peace. The hypocrisy of pots calling kettles black (or white as is the case) stands out as doubly strong to us for that.

That was all on my mind today as Shannon Larratt, the publisher of BME, emailed to ask if I would consider writing a monthly column there. I've always admired BME for its community activism and I drew a lot on that site and what it's done when creating My illustrated life as a sex slave. BME, like my own site, serves more than one purpose and accomplishes them all well from being visceral smut to educational resource to political advocacy. In a word I admire it greatly.

In a word, too, I said yes to Shannon. I'm going to step up the activism a bit, and I hope my example is followed. The reason I choose to show so much of me is that it provides context to the kink. The one thing I hope anyone looking at my site sees is me as a person, a real person. Someone who might be their neighbor or coworker or friend or family, someone they can know as a person, not a kink.

That's activism at it's best for acceptance, showing the rest of the story, as Paul Harvey would say. That's what I believe more people should do in more ways to help overcome the prejudice. Prejudices are never against individuals. They are against stereotypes, which letting people know you as an individual break down.

Jesus built my Hotrod

2003-10-12T23:43:29Z

It was mid-afternoon today as I groaned and climbed out of bed to the tune of Ministry playing Jesus Built My Hotrod, which is frenzied to seizures it's so fast for those that do not know the music of Ministry. Sometimes I wish I was one that didn't. I've heard that song ten million times. It's a favorite work tune of my owner. He plays it loud and plays it on repeat. It's mindless, and it's fast, the proper motivational backdrop for the over-achiever at work.

As I made my way to the bathroom to pee, he followed me in and gave me a kiss and a morning hug, sweet fellow that he is, and went to put on coffee for me, oblivious to my existence again by the time it perked, lost in his own little frenzied world of productive ding a ding a dang a dong dongings. He's writing something. I haven't looked to see what. I don't peek over his shoulder. That could be a lot of things he's really doing behind the superficial and furious typing. He's a very difficult man to get a straight answer from about what he does for a living. "I smile and type pretty." He often says, as he does, "You know, people just send me checks in the mail. It's the damndest thing." There are a lot of witty answers that at first seem less than forthright. The whole picture only comes out slowly as you get to know him well, which avoid all of the loaded misperceptions of his lack of career conformity.

If he said "I'm a writer," then people would have a certain mental image that would be wrong. He is a writer, though, and I learned everything I know about that from him, just like I learned most valuable things I know from him. That mental image would be largely different, but no less wrong, if he said "I'm a software designer," which in turn would be just as different still than if he said "I'm a publisher." Likewise, "I'm a real estate developer" would be very different again, and just as different as it would be if he had said "I'm an inventor" or "I'm in marketing." All of those labels and likely a dozen other ones are just as true, but none of them really succeed at communication. That only comes from the slow revelation of the big picture.

The big picture is easily summed up, but the simple terms of it often impress people very negatively, as much to that negative extreme of perception as the 'ideal' career labels above often impress people too positively to a point of envy. The big picture is more like "I am an expert at manipulating people for personal gain and prefer to do the least amount of work possible to get by."

In either expression, the easy black and white labels or the wisely accurate reduction of it to the simplest terms, communication fails because irrational assumptions of meaning are made. Words are units of syntax, but they are not units of meaning. Communication is difficult to achieve. It is actually best achieved in very round-about ways, like crossing mountain ranges. You do not just start climbing. You look for passes around the impasse of the peeks and prepare for the challenge of the task by building on concepts like you would layer on clothing against the vacuumous cold of altitude or ignorance.

To effectively communicate, you can't just say what. You have to say why, and you don't get a chance to say why if people leap and bound to conclusions. If that happens, the opportunity to exchange knowledge is lost. You can try your best to present things in ways that people will stop to think, but you really can't pry open someone's head with a crow bar to make them.

People choose to be ignorant and stay ignorant when they are ignorant and not willing to evaluate new ideas for what merits they might just find in them if they did. Ignorant people are judgmentally dismissive. They have convictions. As Friedrich Nietzsche, the esteemed philosopher, said so eloquently in his now classic book, Human-all-too-Human, "Convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than lies."

People like Monique below who are so certain and so convinced they know it all they never know anything and just end up embarrassing themselves in public. I find myself sometimes, not unlike Monique, disturbed by the seemingly extreme behaviors of other people. I have as much difficulty understanding hers as it seems she has understanding mine. There's really not much difference there. I would have to say if there's any difference at all, it's that where she feels need to attack those things she doesn't understand, I just want to understand them a little better if I can.

I've learned a lot of valuable things with that outlook, and I realize that I actually owe Monique and others like her some amount of gratitude for all the positive learning opportunities they have presented me by being good examples from which to learn how not to shoot myself in the proverbial foot as well as invaluable practice honing my communication skills while vainly trying to pry open their thick skulls to pour some uncommon, common sense inside.

That effort may be lost on some, but it's never lost on me, and it's apparent from the words others have contributed here, it's an appreciated effort, good and very worthwhile to many.

Guts anyone?

2003-10-12T02:33:40Z

It seems I have a nemesis. They wonder if I have "guts". They just left this as a comment in my journal on a totally unrelated topic. They still need a sedative if you ask me, but I'll ask you, the intrepid reader, what you think instead. Am I the unhealthy one to be happy and content and well adjusted in my own little world living with a nicer guy than Monique has apparently ever met, which is an unfortunate thing for her but not for me, or is she the unhealthy one? It rather seems unhealthy to me to be so insecure that the private life and personal ideas of strangers terrify you into snarling like a rabid dog backed into a corner. I would say what I think, but my judgment is suspect. She would not listen to it.

I am just a "little girl" so I'll defer that judgment to you. What do you think? Monique would like to know, but please, no mention of kids. I do have an adult Web site and perhaps Monique isn't educated enough to be aware of the good laws of the United States of America, but there are some subjects you just don't mix with naked pictures.

"Delia I'm sure you remember me. I'm Monique, one of the moderators at the Headscene website. Cute orange dress and wig!

I wanted to delete what you wrote on Headscenes Delia, but I decided not to, even though I strongly disgreed with much of what you wrote. I hope you extend me the same courtesy, and have the courage to answer my questions and not delete this post that I am writing to you tonight.

Delia, I have been reading through your website and I notice you have made no mention of having children. Do you have any kids Delia? Don't you want children like other women have Delia? It is wonderful having kids. I know what a joy my daughter is in my life. Children are such a joy and they are the future. None of us live forever.

Delia you claim over and over that you are happy and have a healthy relationship with your owner. You also wrote on Headscenes that you are just a traditional pre-feminist woman like June Cleaver. But June Cleaver's man married her Delia and gave her children. Is your owner willing to marry you Delia and give you children?

You claim your relationship is healthy Delia, but you almost worship your owner. You wrote that everyone who meets him likes him and feels loyalthy and subservieance to him. Delia everyone who meets the President of the United States or the Pope doesn't feel loyalthy or subserviance to them. Everyone who met Jesus Christ didn't feel loyalthy or subserviance to him. Realistically Delia your owner is just a man, not a God. No one is as good a person as you describe your owner. You look at your owner as a small child looks at their parents, like an all-powerful, all-wise being, which is absurd. Is that a healthy relationship, to worship someone like a God?

You say your owner Delia, "lets" you do things, like "He let me go out today with him to the store". "he lets me do this, he lets me do that". Is that healthy Delia, a grown woman like you not making your own decisions about things? and if your owner wants you to get a certain tattoo, or wants you to eat out of a dog bowl like a dog with a chain on your neck, or wants to wrap your head in tight plastic, you just let him do it? He makes all the decisions for you?

You are like a little girl Delia who doesn't want to grow up; to have children, to make your own decisions like grown women do.

There is nothing sexy or cute about your lifestyle Delia, it is pathetic, it is immature! I don't care how many pathetic men visit here. In a world of 6 billion, there are plenty of pathetic men I'm sure.

You are a very bright woman Delia. You could easily have a career or a valuable job, you could get married and have kids. Don't you want to have those things , like other women have Delia?

You appear to be about my age (I just turned 30 a week ago) or maybe a little older than I am. You aren't getting any younger. What happens when you get more into middle age and your owner decides you are a bit too old for him and he would like a younger woman? Many me dump their mistresses when they get a little older. There you will be; middle aged, alone, childless, with no job skills other than being someone's slave girl, and running this silly website where people gawk at you like a sideshow freak.

You said my social conscience needs a sedative. LOL! Very cute Delia. But it is not a matter of what I think. Take a look at yourself in the mirror Delia. Are you a grown woman doing what grown women do, or are you just escaping adult responsibilities by avoiding having children, not making your own decisions and letting this owner take care of you and treat you NOT like a traditional housewife but rather like a dog or a small child.

Let's see if you have the guts Delia to answer my questions and not delete this post. Let's see what you are made of."

Orange is my favorite color

2003-10-11T18:30:48Z

I have an orange wig. I have an orange dress. I have an orange living room. I drink Orange Crush. I'm an orange lush. Now I have an orange journal, too. I think it's quite the improvement, and not just in color choice. I've spent the morning working on what I should have done a long time ago, diving into the customization options for Live Journal. The navigation and integration with My illustrated life as a sex slave is better with the new layout. I may still tweak it some more. I'm not sure the body text is dark enough to provide enough contrast for tired eyes to read, which is very important.

I usually spend Fridays and Saturdays working on content updates for my main site, but today I'm breaking that routine and working on structure instead. It is bad to put changes you know you need to make off too long, and that applies to everything in life, not just Web sites.

Procrastination and trepidation never make for progress.

Neck tattoo

2003-10-09T15:54:28Z

How does this look? There's a little more work to do on the design, but you get the idea. This is what I'll soon get to sport permanently. It's a bit bigger than I'd hoped, but I really like the way it's looking. I get my crucifix! (I had to grovel on my knees begging sillily for extra emphasis I really wanted a crucifix in it. I have a serious crucifix fetish.) Weekend after this, if all goes well, I'll be in the tattoo parlor having for all intents and purposes a permanent collar that clothes just won't hide put around my neck. Should I sell tickets to the event?

Pinch me

2003-10-09T01:10:07Z

RRJR47: u got me . u just sell stuff.
RRJR47: u r not 4 real
MarkedGirl: I could of sworn I wasn't imagining myself, but you never know.
RRJR47: take care

I wonder what I'm not supposed to be for real? But, as someone pointed out far more astutely in a comment in my journal, I am a masochist, and I do seek out this pain and suffering while searching for those elusive good conversations. You know, the ones where people speak in complete sentences with some semblance of proper punctuation. I keep hoping someone will strike one up that's good today while browsing through the flash at tattoodles.com.

My owner bought me a subscription to that site today, and told me to pick out some things I like to give him an idea for a neck tattoo for me, which is not one I could possibly do myself. He's got a room booked in the quarter weekend after this, conveniently close to my favorite tattoo shop.

An interesting opinion

2003-10-08T21:37:36Z

NathanLan9: so what's your evil fantasy?
MarkedGirl: Evil is a bit too abstract a concept for me.
NathanLan9: so was that answer...what are you into?
NathanLan9: just read through some of your journal...
NathanLan9: isn't everybody that gets involved in sex a slave to their partner in some way?
NathanLan9: just because you shave your head or get wrapped in tin foil & put it on the web doesn't make you any more a slave then myself or others
MarkedGirl: You've got an interesting opinion there.
NathanLan9: feel free to" throw it up" on your page with the rest of that vomit
MarkedGirl: Seems the vomit must have hit a nerve.

It was an interesting opinion. It was also rather out of left field. I was in the middle of filling out a form on-line and had been inattentive to the IM windows. It went from interesting to caustic between glances, so I just thought I'd add it to the rest of my vomit as he suggested. He didn't hang around long enough to find out I agreed with his interesting opinion more than I disagreed with it, which is the sort of shooting yourself in the foot that often happens when you're too busy jumping to conclusions.

I do wonder just what nerve it hit, though, and why it evoked such a defensive reaction from him. It's not a reaction I've ever heard before.

The pig speaks!

2003-10-07T19:28:36Z

The pig is cute. The pig is sarcastic. The pig is smart. The pig is a chauvinist pig. I like the pig. Read the pig. (But only after you read My illustrated life as a sex slave. One must keep their priorities straight.)

Today was grocery day. I got to go to town and tag along for the shopping. I've just been home long enough to tote the bags in from the car and put things up. Meat and milk and feta cheese since Greek food sounded like a good idea. All the Mexican I was cooking was starting to get old. Triple antibiotic ointment and a brand new electric razor for me from the pharmacy. It's a Norelco ReflexPlus 6. I haven't even opened the package. From the looks of the package that might take a crow bar. It's the usual not easy to open form molded plastic. I am hoping that it will leave my scalp bleeding less.

All week I've been diligently shaving my head every morning. I've been given a new morning ritual. One that was starting to redefine just what razor burn really meant. I've had my head buzzed continually for years at a time, but this is the longest time I've ever kept it continually clean shaven. That's just four days so far, but going on in perpetuity. My owner just spent $80 bucks on an electric razor, so it's no temporary thing.

Russian holiday dolls

2003-10-07T01:42:17Z

"Dear Delia,

I linked to your site a few days ago while surfing some strange home pages (it was a feeder transgendered male who linked to you, sorry, I can't remember the URL). In any event, I stayed up well past dawn reading your free section, after which, I joined you. I just wanted to let you know that your writing is outstanding, your kinks amazing, and your ability to put your life out here for all to see is, frankly, beyond belief (in a good way). I was especially struck by the fact that you have more spelling errors in the narratives that are still fresh... I wondered why someone who can obviously write so well would make simple mistakes like that, and then I realized that once you have written something, its done with, not to be edited again, just like the experience itself.

There's something monumental about your writings; a huge picture constructed of brief snippets of your life, sometimes connected, sometimes with great leaps in time to the next passage. Your look goes from Sharon Stone to alterna chyck to Auschwitz victim with such seeming ease. You are like one of those little Russian holiday dolls, with an endless sequence of smaller, different figures inside.

I would love to pepper you with questions about who, how and where, but I'm sure you get way too much of that. So, instead, I just want to give you a major "Bravo!", and let you know that I'm proud to be a member of your site."

This makes my day to hear, but also embarrasses me. Being embarrassed is nothing new, though. My less than perfect spelling is hardly the only flaw revealed when the whole picture of reality is shown in such graphic, unedited detail.

Another day in the life

2003-10-05T18:11:58Z

I've just spent the morning writing and databasing photos. One of the photos above. Amazing what you can do with a bit of plastic wrap. I couldn't make a sound. I could barely breath. There was a huge wad of it so large it felt like it was cutting my tonsils stuck in my mouth, and layers upon layers of it wrapped around my head and pulled taught around my neck. I stood at attention trying not to have a claustrophobic panic attack for what felt like hours. I don't really know how long it was. There is no sense of time when all yours senses are cut off and you're slowly suffering. That was day before yesterday. Just another 'average' day in the life.

Today I'm not sure what's up. Perhaps nothing, perhaps something. I never know before things happen, so until then I just go on about my business, like I am right now. The house could do with some cleaning now that I've got all my work done on the web site. I'll probably be cleaning for the rest of the day.

Sleep deprived silliness

2003-10-03T14:40:20Z

Ppbr876: hello and how r u today.40/m
MarkedGirl: I'm sleepy today. It's been a long day.
Ppbr876: do u have a scarf in your room
MarkedGirl: You're not about to go into one of those silly online role play scenarios on me are you?
Ppbr876: now just going to tie u up/gag u/punish
MarkedGirl: That would be a really neat trick considering I'm WAY over here and you're WAY over there.
MarkedGirl: Something tells me you aren't quite that talented.

There was no reply after that. I'm just not the cooperative little cyber subbie at all... I'm sure it's just looking back with the rose colored glasses of bygone days, but it seems like there used to be a lot more intelligent conversation on AOL when they charged by the minute.