Found another one

Damn, there's some good stuff out there. I could spend my entire life on the net. Which would be an admission of sad bastardness. Nevertheless, I feel that it's incumbent of me to inform you, dear reader, of any juiciness I find.

So:
Chross has so many good things to explore on it that it's going to take me weeks to work through it all. Have a look.

Mocuar, gift-wrapped

In these cases, I enjoy doing the wrapping, and playing with the gift . . .

Shakespeare with Spanking

I normally detest reality TV and talent shows in all of their revolting manifestations. But I couldn't resist this.

Two of my passions in one go.



Here they are , you'll have to wait a bit for the fun to start, but never mind.

Interestingly, they chose to do the prologue from Henry V, not as good as Jacobi doing it but it has a certain something . . .

Inviting

What more can I say?

from Like A Bike Seat which tends to feature the rougher end of the BDSM experience. You have been warned.

The Sea

Music has always been important to me. I can chart my life through various songs. Every type of music. Now and again I come across a piece of music or a song which stops me dead in my tracks, and for a brief moment, connects me to something else, another place. Of course this is highly subjective - one person's transcendent music is another person's tedious, but hey, all I can do is offer my own experience.

One such piece is from the great and incredibly missed Sandy Denny


In 1970 she formed Fotheringay and I first heard the album when a friend of mine brought it round, sat me down, and just said "Listen to this" The first time I heard 'The Sea", the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Flawless. The lyrics, Sandy's voice, the playing, it all comes together to make something that is so much more than the sum of its parts.

It still has that effect on me 40 years later.

So here it is - this is the only video I could find. Nice pics but I advise you to ignore them and listen.

Just listen.

Fun

BDSM sex is,of course, dark, dramatic, kinky and very erotic.

Sometimes, though, it can be hysterically funny. Not that this in any way detracts from the experience, it can, in fact, enrich it, unless you fall into the dreadful crime of taking yourself too seriously. Which is always bad karma.

For example, last year our good friend Marianne paid us a visit. Now Marianne is a game girl and, like Mocuar, is a bisexual switch. Both of them have done a fair amount of yumming the yoni and giving and receiving whippings in the past, so when the three of us get together for a bit of a play, the potential variations are quite interesting.
On the night in question we’d got to the point when Marianne was knelt on the floor, presenting her arse for a good whipping and ready to rock. Mocuar was doing the honours with various toys and I was filming (occasionally we changed places).

Then it happened. Marianne got a fit of the giggles and couldn’t stop.

No matter how hard we tried with the tawse, a couple of floggers and a rubber paddle (which stings like hell) she just kept laughing. Soon Mocuar and I started and the three of us were in hysterics even though we kept on going. After a while we were whipping her as hard as we could just to see how long she could keep up the merriment.
For the record, it was about an hour or so, finally we used our rattan cane, which has a very sharp bite, and the giggles turned to yelps.
By the end of it, her arse was liberally decorated with welts and bruises and she found sitting down slightly uncomfortable for a day or so.

We still look back on that as being one of the best experiences we’ve had.

"I Don't Know Much About Art But I Know What I Like"

Ah, the joys of the internet.

Yesterday I had a few hours of link-clicking just to see what would appear. I started from one of my own links on the right and followed stuff at random. Eventually I encountered Spanking Art Blog, which contains a wide variety of interesting artwork.

Two examples:

I like this one because of the position she's tied up in (how inviting is that!), and the bag of goodies under the bench, suggesting some more creative developments . . .



This is lovely in it's simplicity. An object lesson in how to say a great deal without having to go into too much detail.



Have a wander around the site. It's good.

Handcuffs

This is only a short (7 mins) film. But it's very stylish . . .and very sensual.

Will Power

As you probably know, it's Shakespeare's birthday (and the day he died)

I consider myself fairly easy-going, everyone's tastes are different, whatever floats your boat etc. etc.

But I have to confess that I can't, for the life of me, understand how anyone doesn't 'get' Shakespeare'

As far as I'm concerned he's the Man. Possibly the greatest writer ever and maybe the greatest Englishman.

The problem, perhaps is that too many people read the plays, rather than seeing them. He didn't write them to be studied and analysed. He wrote them to be performed. His audience were people off the street who'd watch King Lear or Othello stood in the crowd with a bottle of booze in one hand and a whore in the other. It would have been vibrant, raucous and exciting. More like a rock gig than a theatre performance as we know it.

I've been fortunate enough, over the years to see some amazing Shakespeare on stage. When you hear an actor who really can do the text, it lifts you. The power of the language is literally magic.

Here's Jacobi doing the prologue from Henry V. It doesn't get much better than this.



I also like the sonnets. Here's a good take on sonnet 29:




Finally, some advice:



Go to it!

Clear

By Kelly Padrick.

The Horned God (and friend)

That's my kinda God!
(You could print this out and colour it in - what jolly smashing fun!)



from the formidable Arte BDSM Worth a visit.

Collars

As previously stated, Mocuar is a collared slave. She also likes likes variety in most things. So she has different collars for different moods and occasions.

This is her 'day collar', the one she wears most of the time:





This is useful for more robust activities:




A 'play' collar I made for her:



Something a little more decorative:



Simple and classic:



A couple of 'Spikeys'



A bit more heavy duty:



Such pleasure in such simple things . . .

Punishment

Mocuar committed a minor infraction yesterday. This, of course, meant some sort of corrective measure. On the spur of the moment, I decided to spank her arse.

Not something I've done much of previously, except with an ex from many years ago who was quite fond of it. Noblesse oblige and all that. But I must admit that the flesh-on-flesh nature of the experience was quite pleasant.

I normally favour the cane, it's more of a precision instrument, it's more aesthetically pleasing and I just love those marks (and the little yelps which accompany each one). And I don't suppose I'll be changing that preference in a hurry. But I may slip in an occasional spanking now and then.

Which leads me to the entire concept of punishment. When we first entered into the whole Sub/Dom thing, at that stage where stuff was being negotiated, I asked her if she wanted the concept of punishment brought in. After some thought, she decided that she did. "It wouldn't be complete, or fair without it" was her comment. Not that she enjoys pain for it's own sake. For us, it's not a part of S/M play, We use whipping for magickal purposes, and pleasure, with a number of different toys, but punishment is a deterrent. Ideally, it should never happen. OK, I enjoy it when it does, but I 'd be happy if Mocuar was so well behaved that it became unnecessary. Not that it happens much, she's a good girl, by and large.

I Want To See the Bright Lights Tonight

No video as such but a great song!

Mr Crowley

I was going to write something on Aleister Crowley, trying to summarise my views on him. then I realised that Paul Weston, on his brilliant blog Avalonian Aeon has already done it far better than I could.

His post on Crowley is here. Probably the most simple and accurate analysis of Crowley and his work I've ever seen.

The rest of his stuff is damned interesting reading, too.

Abrahadabra Thelema!

Layout

As you can see, I've been playing around with the layout. I wanted something more dark, sexy and dramatic (Mind you, that statement could be the Story Of My Life).

It's a wee bit frustrating to be a relative internet and computer novice.

I find that I have an pretty clear idea of what I want but I can never quite bring it into manifestation.
(Thinking about it, that also could be the Story Of My Life)

Well, stap me vitals, it just goes to show that doing even the most simple things can pitchfork us into a philosophical reverie.

'Every intentional act is a magical act' . . . Ain't it the truth.

Prufrock

One of T.S.Eliot's better moments. Probably his best moment. Beautiful and sad.In my mind it's a companion piece to Tennyson's Ulysses Both about growing old but from very different perspectives:

The Love Song Of J.Alfred Prufrock

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.



Superb.

Give Me Back Me Brain

Feeling a bit 'sludged' today.

This always cheers me up:



Liked the reference to Aleister Crowley.


Which leads, in my mind at least, to this:



Where would we be without Ozzy?

The very wonderful Ms Sprinkle

Annie Sprinkle is the business. One of the most sex-positive magickal people out there.

This article is particularly good.

Try it, ladies.

Tower Of Song

I utterly love this:



The Man is a fucking genius.

Faute de mieux

Couldn't think of anything to post today, so here's a nice pic:




From Lupus

Image

We've been talking about Mocuar's self-image a lot today.

She has the habit of always comparing herself negatively to other women. They are always younger, prettier, better tits, better arses, better legs, prettier cunts, more intelligent, wiser, have abilities that she doesn't . . . ad nauseum.

This drives me up the wall. Firstly, I think, she's fucking gorgeous, sex on legs, and a wonderful person as well. Secondly, I'm her Master so what right does she have to tell me I've got lousy taste?

None at all, that's what. Because any negative opinion of herself in that respect is, by extension, a negative opinion of me. And if that's true, why the hell is she with me in the first place?

It's not just her. I am fortunate in that I have female friends who are a) as hot as the interior of an active volcano and b) brilliant people. (To any woman who knows me and is reading this - I'M TALKING ABOUT YOU) They all appear to have similar beliefs about themselves. All unjustified. All I ask is this, ladies. Think about the amount of mental energy you put into negative self-image. Then take just 10% of that energy and put it into recognising the positive in yourself. It will transform you.

As for Mocuar, We will have to work on that. What I want is for her to see herself as I see her.

I daresay there are ways that can bring that about . . .

Who

OK, time (and space) for something really important.

What is the new Dr Who like?


I'm a long time Dr Who-watcher. I remember seeing the very first episode back in 1963, I loved it then, and have ever since.

So what's the verdict?

I like him. He has that anarchic, slightly deranged personality, rather like Tom Baker or Patrick Troughton's Doctors.
I'm looking forward to the rest of the series.

Oh, and the new companion has great legs.

The Inverted Pentacle

For many years I bought into the whole idea of the goal of spirituality and magic (without a ‘K’) being a way to transcend material life. Most religions, orthodox or ‘new age’ , are infused with the concept of some place or state of being which transcends matter. Heaven, Nirvana, being free from the wheel of incarnation, etc. The idea behind is that there’s something wrong with life, that spirituality is the process of freeing ourselves from the percieved limitations of physical existence. Sitting on a mountain somewhere and feeling At One With The Universe - ‘Wouldn’t it be luvverly”.

Fortunately I came to see this life-denying nonsense as the pile of crap it actually is.

We are physical beings, on a material world and it’s bloody amazing. We should celebrate it, in all it’s aspects, not (metaphorically speaking) hold our noses and turn away.

Two memories spring to mind: I once went to a heavy rock gig with a Pagan friend of mine, the band was great, we sank a few beers, banged our heads and generally had a Good Time. Afterwards he looked at me, smiled, and said “Wasn’t that one of the best invocations of the Horned God you’ve ever seen?” He was right.

The other is from a time in my late 20’s when I first became really involved in magic. I met a qabalistic magician of many years experience and in my naivety was plying him with all kinds of stupid questions. His wife was with us at the time and at one point he stopped me and asked me if I really wanted to know the secret of life.

Of course I did.

He looked at his wife and said “Show us your tits”
“No I won’t” she said
“There you go” he said to me “Ask the universe for what you want. If you get it, be grateful and make the most of it, if you don’t, accept it and hope for the best next time”

It took me the best part of 20 years to really understand the full magickal meaning contained within the truth of that statement.

(just as an aside, I’ve used that device myself a few times since then, and a surprising number of women have actually shown me their tits. Which is always nice when it happens)

Spirituality and magick should never be seen as something that exists apart from life. If your particular belief-system doesn’t work in a crowded town centre on a Saturday afternoon, it’s invalid.

Hence the inverted pentacle.


It is often seen as a bad thing, a sign of the Devil (shock, horror!). Bullshit. It actually represents bringing spirit into matter, the point where life becomes illuminated with magickal energy.
‘Every intentional act is a magickal act’, as Crowley once famously said.
(Speaking of which, Mocuar is sucking me as I write this. There may be a typo or two to correct later)

This is true of magic generally, it’s particularly true of sex magick. I once ploughed my way through a well-known book on the subject, and though there were some good ideas in there, at no point did the author mention that you should actually enjoy it.

It’s really simple: Sex-magick is about FUCKING. Right? Fucking in all of it’s glorious manifestations, getting down and dirty with lots of mess, sweat, and bodily fluids. You can theorise, meditate, connect with the core of your spiritual/sexual being on an ethereal level etc, but sooner or later, you have to fuck someone, even if it's just yourself (check out VIII degree O.T.O.). If you ain't coming, you ain't going . . . anywhere.
A very wise sex-priestess once said to me “It’s a lot easier to bring the magick to someone who’s sexually free than it is to bring the sex to someone who’s magically free”.
OK, if your particular thing is to have your tantric fucking while surrounded by candles, incense, floaty garments and some sickening new age music in the background, so be it. But, for Goddess' sake enjoy it. (I sometimes suspect that a lot of the the new age tantric stuff is trying to find a way to do it,but having as little actual fucking as possible)

The Gods gave us Cocks And Cunts. Use them.

Reflection 2

Mocuar sure does love the mirror . . . especially after a caning.

John Keats, Robert Graves, Nancy Sinatra and Cliff Richard

I first encountered Keat's La Belle dame Sans Merci when I was 15. It moved me in a way I couldn't have described at the time, almost like an echo of a lost dream that I was yet to experience.

Here it is:



Graves, in The White Goddess (a must-read if there ever was one) connects it to the myth of Merlin and Nimue, to the theme of seduction, betrayal and abandonment by the Muse. Now I yield to no one in my admiration for Graves (He was a hell of a poet), but I'm not sure I agree with this. To me it has a dreamy quality, the sorrow of the knight is understandable in the light of a magickal fuck being lost to him ( the reference to 'making sweet moan' is clear) but would he have preferred it not to have happened? I think not.

We now move on a hundred years or so to 1967 and the 'summer of love'. I was 16 at the time and, as the song says, 'Ah yes, I remember it well' There was something special about that year, a glimpse of light beyond the veil. Like the knight's experience, it was a brief glimpse, but it was good while it lasted. Interestingly enough, two singles were released that year which were more or less direct transpositions of La Belle dame Sans Merci.

First this from Nacy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood



I really don't have to explain what 'Summer Wine' represents, do I?

And then there was Cliff:


Even devout christians have their moments . . .

In later life I was to have a few encounters of this nature, for a moment life presents us with The Dream as a living reality. Then it passes. We are foolish if we try to hang on to it. Enjoy, learn and be grateful. There is always more to come.

Where to now?

We have a growing sense of something opening up.

recent events have triggered a cascade; the last few days have been marked by a growing connection with our power, accompanied by frustration at having to attend to the mundane realities of life. We never seem to have enough time.

So, at the moment, it's like a train in the distance. We're on the platform, we know it's coming, but we don't know exactly when it's going to arrive and where it's going to take us.

We're beginning to be aware of the full transformational nature of BDSM Magick. It's both exciting , slightly scary and comes with a big sense of responsibility. Which is good. In the past I've found that when that particular combination of feelings occurs in relation to some upcoming experience, it usually means I'm on to something.

So we're following our instinct and trusting that. It's a leap of faith, but what the hell, sometimes you just have to jump.