Book Review Thursday - Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns

This classic by Philip Miller and Molly Devon is a truly "boots on the ground" look at what the subtitle refers to as "the romance and sexual sorcery of sadomasochism." I don't know about sorcery, really, but this book is required reading.

Screw the Roses is a masterful (no pun intended) description of how a BDSM lifestyle relationship can work. The touching tales of how love conquers pain are actually fantastic from the right point of view. An individual hoping to embark on a BDSM journey with a spouse or other loved one simply must read this book. It touches on so many important subjects that can make or break a traditional relationship, and for that it must be worshipped.

However, this is not to be confused with a professional BDSM relationship of any sort. Just as a professional (usually) will not have sex with you, they (usually) won't cuddle after a scene and tell you they love you. I know I won't. You may earn a loving sigh or even a few words of affection, but these things are not rights as they are in other types of relationships. Remember, just as you must do what it takes to earn an engagement ring, you must do what it takes to earn your collar. Don't expect that it will be freely given without something in exchange.

So- as much as I adore this book in a relationship context, please do not read it and expect that your life as a trainee will resemble this in any way. It will not. The dichotomy must stand. For it's intended purpose, though- this book is the best. ISBN-13: 9780964596009 amazon.com

The Look

Not every woman has it. This is sad, and this is avoidable. Even if you or your beloved do not possess the Look, I know you understand the Look I mean. That "do not fuck with me" look, perhaps with one eyebrow raised. It is the glare that stops unruly teenagers in their tracks. It is the steady gaze that tells a man that he will under no circumstances deviate from the woman's plan. When employed by the best, you need not even see it. You can feel it. It creeps up your spine and into your brain stem, squelching any desire for autonomy.

I was born with the Look. My mother had it in spades when she was my age, though her power has diminished over the decades. It is possible that my withering glance showed her defeat as soon as I hit puberty, but I prefer to think that she is just out of practice. The champion could come out of retirement at any time.

The Look is standard equipment for a dominatrix. The Look can lead a trainee to the right head space faster than my favorite flogger. It can do anything. It can mean anything. It can, and will, seduce you into submission. When we feel the Look upon us, we all revert to childhood. Some of us even aim to please. But the Look will never be satisfied. It will never concede an inch. And that is just how it should be.

Word to the Wise

BDSM scenes and activity are not "just foreplay." For many practitioners, they are the main course. The sooner a newcomer learns this, the better.
After my weekend, it seemed like something you should be made aware of.

Book Review Thursday - Female Ejaculation and the G Spot

Female Ejaculation and the G Spot, by Deborah Sundahl. Save yourself some heartache and add rubber sheets to your Amazon order when you buy this book. Part fantasy fodder and part what you really hoped to learn in Sex Ed, this book deserves a place in every woman's collection. Leave it out so your partner can find it "accidentally." ISBN-13: 9781904132387 amazon.com

Long Weekends Create Long Tuesdays

The smell of books is what keeps me going on long days like today. Not exactly musty and not exactly crisp, the paper of a book takes on some of the character from the place where it is stored. For instance, our periodicals reading room has changed over the years. At one point it smelled of cheap pulp and rubber bands. Now it houses computers for online exploration, so it smells like sweat and hot dust.

My favorite area of the library, as far as smells go, is the pseudo-corridor between the children's section and the sports section. The children smell sweet, of course, and the sports section smells rancid. The only people who frequent the 790s on most days are adolescent boys with overactive sweat glands and the local newspaper's sports writer. He wants so badly to be punished that he leers at me between the shelves. But the sweet and the rancid combine ( in a manner not unlike Chanel No.22) in that corridor. The space is truly just the empty shelves between sections where the breath of the building somehow ebbs and flows.

If you catch that certain square meter of space at just the right moment it smells fantastic. Like innocence in the process of becoming. Not being the patient sort, I find reasons to visit there much too often. Sometimes I catch that fleeting scent, but I usually just reminisce.