12 February 2007
Cats, cuttings, and my Saturday ramblings

I am not a cat person. Ocassionally I serves as a petting bitch for the cats in the lives of my friends, but I am not a cat person. I like to feed them, pet them, then get out of the way of felines. But this weekend I think 10 people on my friends list posted pics of their cats or their friends cats- you will not convert me!

My mail server is down. No email. No idea if anyone’s writted since Saturday 2am. So if ya did, sorry. Means I’ll have to try to dig up my client’s phone number for tomorrow and call him to confirm instead of emailing, how annoying.

I am getting off my ass today and risking- been doing a lot of that as of late. Today’s risk- shooting a never met in person model. I have an odd track record, some great, some abysmal, on this subject… but we’ll see what happens.

This weekend was amazing, draining, amazing, horrid, painful, funny, and overall good. Saturday morning I picked up my medic bracelet from mi padre, then mi madre and I hit the pike place market for cheesecake. Off to the bus, more porn writing, more reading, grounding out into the road, and even a tiny nap. Rogue Spark, Coral’s boy, met me at the bus station which was lovely, and he and I headed off to Katrina’s to drop my bags and just chat- I love his brain, and the way he actually listens. I dug his drum stories. Then Coral showed up, and she beamed at having two boys to take care of her, and I melted. That woman has gifts I tell ya, even if she intimidates the hell out of me at times.

We headed off to Lulu’s, where I saw folks, people stumbled or didn’t over name stuff, and we set up to play- the plan had been a beating I needed, and then a cutting for some woo woo stuff that needed done, but thats not quite what happened at Lulu’s.

I play hard. Thats what I get told about my bottoming. But the reality is I’m a pussycat compared to how hard I feel I used to play as a bottom. The good ole’ days of the drop into shock and come back out all while still egtting fucked and cut and pierced (gosh I miss bottoming for mr. Throckmorton). But apparently I still play hard in the eyes of others. I got beaten. I needed to be beaten. I needed to be allowed to unabashadly scream and cry. We got an ok to do so… but apparently my screams of noooo while gurgling through my spit and asthma attack and tears carried too well through the concrete walls and insulation of the delicious dungeon space, and the party host asked if we could not scream- moaning, groaning and light screams ok, but what we were doing was not. Oh well. But yeah, that point on I ended up zoning instead, which was ok, but not what I needed- good thing I got in enough of what I needed before that point.

Coral says I am the only person she knows who falls up. She said she’d hit me til I fell. Well, I thought I’d fall, but nope, I’d go up instead of down, and then I’d go sideways into walls, but not a lot of down. Apparently i finally did, and Coral realized our nametags were on the bottom of her boot. Note to tops- If i scream out a body part, it means if you hit it again I think it will dislocate, or if I scream it out and hold it, I probably did dislocate it. I apparently forgot to mention it, sigh. But no major dislocations, so all good.

I was in a coma upstairs for a while and had to stop the urge to punch my other party hostess when she came up and squeezed my shoulder- fuck- did ya not pay attention to the last hour or two of me being beaten until I was turning shades of deep ocean? Thanks for the bruise squeezing, not (sorry, just saw borat).

But around the same time we were not asked to scream (gods Coral is pretty throwing punches and going deep sadist), Coral also got a hit of bad juju coming into the space, and I felt it go off too. If we were going to be doing a bloodletting for ritual work for a magical object that’s being forged for me, this was no longer the place to do it. She called RogueSpark and he came to pick us up, and I cried in the car while no one watched. Then off to his place where I told her about what needed done, and she started doodling in crayons on paper, and I fell over with laughter as she presented the amazing sketch and I pointed out the horns on the bottom, jutting up from the lava, and couldn’t help it.

She set down blankets, RogueSpark set down towels, we cleaned the area and cleansed our space and RS and I chose music- all stuff from when I was last in Hawai’i. Or within that year or so. Placebo. Red Hot Chili Peppers. The Cure. And the opening song- Milla Jovavich’s “The Centleman Who Fell.” It still reminds me of Ukpyr.

The cutting is on my mid-right thigh, of a volcano pouring water down into the ocean, running over objects in its way, but capturing pain and fear in its path and holding them for future generations to find, or not. The lava hits the waves and splashes back in the shape of horns. Above the lava flow at the top of the volcano is an eye looking down, crying lava tears, and to the other side from the tears, flying around the volcano, are 7 birds, 7 sisters, watching on… one far away.

I grunted and did not move. I had to set an example of what I needed from them. I did not move and grunted and felt her come to the surface, shake her mane and go back inside to watch the show as she felt the pain. I did not scream. I threw my head back. It has been so long since I got cut for more than an inch or so… I only do it for ritual work of some sort. Cutting is not play for me, never really has been, even when I was a cutter as a kid. My cuts on my upper inner left arm track the times I was raped. The cutting Greenman did twice on my upper outside left arm follow that last line out, tarnsform it into the lines of a 13 path labrynth, one cutting for emotional healing and one for physical healing after a car crash. My cuts under my breasts are for my blood dolls. My cuts on my inner upper right leg are about lonliness and a push to not be there any more, 12-13 years later. I want to have gills cut into my sides post chest surgery, and they will be about many other things as well. I do not grok cutting for pleasure as a bottom. I do not do it lightly. Even when I cut others, it is one of the most intensely personal and ritual things I can do in my bdsm arsenal. My battery should know.

Afterwards we did 3 blood prints- one for the fire, one for my alter, and one for Coral’s. Th efirst print, all of the bandages, the 2nd blade (the first got thrown in the sharps container before we considered it), and all of the bloody towels were packaged up so I could send it to Winter later this week. While Coral tried to ground back out from the electricity and fire in the air, Rogue bandaged up my leg and then he froze. Metal stuck between Water and Fire, he was alive with energy and was immobilized.

Its interesting, when in my 25% modality, where I have spent most of the past 10 years, I was proclaimed breath queen… air. Other side of the pendulum I feel fire in my fingertips, and too much work sends me frozen, inner fire spent. I ground out, neutral, underwater. I find peace in trash and concrete, city spirits who get it, and through whose arms i have understood nothingness and bliss. Hm.

I slept hard and short Saturday night at Katrina’s.