Sinful Sunday



I have a problem with chocolate. Actually with sweet things generally. Oh, and with gin and tonic too.  One is never enough for any of them and whatever size the packet or glass is I want more and I won’t stop until it’s all gone or the glass is empty.

It’s an addiction. I am aware of it and I manage it by not buying chocolate other than the cooking variety or shop baked cake or biscuits. My rule is that if I make it I can have it and my natural laziness then helps to keep me in check.  I make cake if I have visitors and I try to get them to eat it all or take it with them.  If they don’t I eat the lot, until there is no more left.  I even eat the bits off the grease-proof paper on the bottom.  I don’t even feel bad about it.

This week I decided to try to play with control, and to do things differently. I bought the kind of chocolate that I would normally eat in one go and chopped it up into sections, put 5 in the freezer and left one out for later.  I chose dark 74% organic with cocoa nibs as I can’t eat a lot of that and I worked on the basis that even if I decided to break my one section a night rule I would have to wait until it thawed enough to eat it by which time the red mist of rapacious desire might have abated enough for me to exert control over my appetites, and to stay commited to my goals.  So far it has worked and I feel a sense of satisfaction about formulating the plan and sticking to it.

Knowing this about myself and formulating a plan to deal with it is part of the self knowledge I have gained through D/s.  In the past I have been ashamed of my inability to control my appetites in so many areas and as I look back at my life from my late fifties I see a kind of ebb and flow as I venture out try new things and then retreat to safety.  Perhaps that’s a natural rhythm but it looks more like an advance and retreat to me from this vantage point.

I see this particularly around my sexual behaviour.  My earliest sexual experiences were experimental, with older men I didn’t know who saw me and literally took me, in cars, to secluded places where we had sex.  I would walk along a road and meet the eyes of the men in cars.  Most went past without noticing, some noticed but didn’t respond, a few noticed, met my gaze and would stop a little ahead of me, offering me a lift and then asking if I would like to go for a drive.  We both knew what it meant and I would find myself in a field in the gorgeous Gloucestershire countryside with a strange man’s dick in my hand within 20 minutes, the feeling of surreality heightened by his arousal and my own slightly out-0f-body experience. I didn’t do it to get fucked.  I did it to be seen and desired. I did it instinctively with no internal dialogue about whether it was right or wrong.  I simply acted on the instruction of my internal slut who is connected to my deepest unconscious drives.

I didn’t experiment with boyfriends and had no real experience of relationships until my first serious boyfriend who I met at the church I had retreated to to manage this appetite before it got me into serious trouble.  I spent my life singing, talking and hanging out with people my own age and was very happy there.  I was never asked out. I saw others pairing up and wondered why it was never me but guessed it had something to do with my appetites which I was certain I needed saving from.  When  we were visited by boys from over the hill and one of them didn’t recognise me for the slut I was and asked me out I said yes and so began my first relationship. As Christians we agreed that we wouldn’t have sex if we weren’t married and that meant an early marriage as I was, whilst not acknowledging it to myself or to him, seriously testing both his and my resolve at any opportunity I could. I would put my hands down his trousers in church, wear revealing tops with no bra, encourage him to pinch my nipples in the back of his father’s car and grind myself against him at any opportunity. My behaviour was tolerated by the church once we were engaged.  Before that I was taken aside by kindly older women and told I shouldn’t be tempting him to sin, it was all my responsibility and truth be told I knew the power of my sexuality and the impact of my gaze.  I agreed with them.

Sadly though our wedding night was a disappointment. Now it was allowed I wasn’t hot. I couldn’t reclaim that glorious wet desire, it disappeared as soon as I had the ring on my finger.  The marriage ended in divorce and sex was never discussed but I still remember the hot sex we had once we knew we were parting forever.  This was a pattern I repeated several times.  My second marriage has recently ended but we were still having sex until 6 months before I left as the relationship foundered on the rocks.

Fast forward several decades and in my fifities I discovered the world of BDSM and began to wonder if control might hold the answer to my sexuality and to my general sense of not being connected to something that held so much power for me.

It has been my experience that it has.  Transgression is vital to me, the sense of pushing boundaries and moving into the space beyond the narrow places in myself is life changing. Control and the requirement that I do so gives me the safety to fly, the attention and focus of the person in control gives my slut the confidence to come out and shine.  And after I internalise that experience, growing into the widened internal spaces, the physicality of stretching, burning, dripping with desire, aching and submitting all transformed into metaphors that my mind acknowledges and works with to create a stronger more vibrant me.

It also allows me not to eat all the chocolate at once.

eye Easter 2016




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