Lilac Wine :: a warzone towards haiku

November 5, 2010


Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 12:42 pm

Though I half-wish she wouldn’t, Lilac Wine gets tangled up with the continuum of everyday imperfections. I kept her strong, inhabited only with the best of myself, as long as I was able. This is when I failed: winding a 10′ length of bamboo silk rope.

You have never failed me, Hades always says, should I doubt myself as he peels the leather collar away. It was immensely comforting to know that if I failed at some task, it was enough to have given the extent of myself.

This time he shows me how to wind his rope and I attempt it, missing some element of the winding; he unravels the rope and throws it down to re-tie. Again, and again. Each time I still the shaking and keep stone in my countenance. I am here to learn, but I want affection so badly. But I don’t need affection and love; I am training. My ego is getting in the way. Just work. Even stripped of ego my last attempt is clumsy and crooked and I throw it on the ground, infuriated at my thick hands and poor memory.

With something like horror I pick up and offer the rope bundle. Hades unlocks and removes my collar. This time he says, simply, Thank you for trying.

I am disgusted at my disgust at failing at a submissive dynamic. How messy.

Next evening I wind his rope carefully and correctly. I try to earn redemption on a timescale longer than the scene; out of respect for the dynamic & the energy Hades put into teaching me; and in service to some higher purpose (leather with a capital L?)

October 15, 2010


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 1:25 pm

Little cat-licks at the lace of a lady’s stocking. She raises my head; I don’t recall how, she might have done it with a passing thought. It has to come from here, she tells me, touching her heart. Gem-eyes fix on my face; they seem cultivated like diamonds, clear with a drop of lime-green; she is wild, intent, perfectly composed. I nod, kneeling at her layers of skirts. She repeats for the benefit of the rapt: From here.
She has it here – she told my lover afterwards, touching her heart – but she has trouble getting it to here – now touching her tongue.

I am a novice. Once I stood before a wide window, night sparkling with city lights. As you prepare I’m left alone in your foyer; the song you play is
you just don’t know what to do…

Worship my cock, my lover says.
It takes a village to raise a submissive.
With your hands. And your tongue. And your thoughts.

October 13, 2010


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 1:19 am

Experimenting with D/s weight control was liberating.
I was standing in the candy aisle, relieved to not be grabbing at sweets, let go of what I just learned a term for – shenpa. Via Kate Bornstein’s blog I come to one Buddhist nun’s teaching on this. Shenpa, she says, is that sense of getting hooked, this urge to do the habitual thing, to strengthen the habituation, you can feel it, and it’s never new. It always has a familiar taste in the mouth. It has a familiar smell. I know the taste of craving junk food, and under orders, was able to experience the shenpa and then not act it out. This is renunciation, she says, or shenluk.

Submission is like taking yourself off all hooks. You relinquish the urge to move constantly towards comfort, and are no longer hooked into a series of impulses. You ride out pain and restriction, and follow orders you may not want to. This brings some clarity, like that of a set of yoga postures, and it’s wonderful.
Kink is training me to act more thoughtfully & calmly while under pressure.

August 8, 2010

Platonic Forms

Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 4:12 pm

Silly rabbit, submission’s merely the beginning. You thought it was the initial power struggle which had merit, and that giving yourself over heralded the end of the game? Oh rabbit.

Is it hate, or love, or art?
Art. A sacrament. The tao. A war. Haiku.   ..What do you call it?
This doesn’t need words. You take everything inside of me, very patiently, then cut it to the bones.

You guide me in the service of spare and exquisite ideals ( it’s also perverse and hot, and fun, but that’s another piece of the story.. ) This is why I submit to you so deeply; and what once troubled me because I did it for you, now troubles me because I do it imperfectly.

Black boots and serve tea with fierce concentration. Crawl. Stand. Come. 109. 107. 110. 109.

July 29, 2010


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 8:55 pm

Submission can resemble meditation: while down, I exist without1 judgment or decision and accept what comes: Everything is hella perfect. My face takes on a shiny & serene cast; it’s as if I lose a dimension; not 1 of 3, but 1 of the many which make an autonomous human. Submitting, I give up the axis of choice/rejection (or reduce it to a safeword).

Would you like to kiss me as a free woman? For the sake of that sensation alone, I could never be owned. (But it’d be a lie to say I’m not curious. Presumably I’d become dull and dumb, a toy like a set of blocks.)

1‘Without’ is an exaggeration, but I somewhat relinquish these

July 17, 2010

What you stole I would have given freely

Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 1:09 pm

Wedding ring handgun blood. I can still smell you all over my hands, between my fingers like salt popcorn. I hung my head, How can you kiss me after degrading me so thoroughly? :Because i’m free.

Spill a glass of sparkling flowered sake. I’m sorry.

Clean it up. As you wish. As you wish.

Twined ’round the pole, Cat Power sings horses, galloping… want to see my bones? Lost in inexpressible devotion – genuinely lost, without art or thought. I came without collar, given at each moment as a free woman; I had no symbol of possession to remove. It is different to survive an evening not of submission, but love; which is a surrender unbounded in time. A toast: to freedom.

A toast: to the tao and all things as they are. I guess I’m just young, and vulnerable to beauty; violin bow of your black cane, and precisely rolled-up shirtsleeves. Even your name is spare.

Dominoes is an aesthetic game. I am a curved line of polished black pieces; array exactingly how I sit, and move, and end my sentences; a lick of your whip crashes every domino in sequence. Games. The Emperor does not need to grow up, he is 12 years old and 1000; I am 24 and zero, 24 and zero; an asymptote, approaching zero as time tends towards infinity. Never obliterated but brought ever closer to nothing.

I like the aesthetic of being corrupted. The mirror frames your gun to my head. I love beautiful men, particularly when they have tears in their eyes.

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