tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82846983088076093692024-02-07T02:40:20.706-06:00Chance ItThe Blogged Life of Galiana Chance, Erstwhile Phone Sex OperatorGaliana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.comBlogger475125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-68589109142302303502013-09-10T20:55:00.004-05:002013-09-10T20:55:23.018-05:00Erstwhileerst·while (adjective):<br />
former; one-time. "she looked forward to reconnecting with her erstwhile companions at the reunion"<br />
<br />
I changed my tagline today, from "the blogged life of Galiana Chance, phone sex operator" to "the blogged life of Galiana Chance, erstwhile phone sex operator"<br />
<br />
And then I cried a bit.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, a good friend was here, helping me do the tedious copy/paste part of updating all my listings. I wanted to state clearly that I'm no longer active. I wanted to include a link to some Flirt friends who can be trusted to take good care of callers. I can't update all my listings without confusing myself. Thankfully, in addition to being unafraid of HTML, he gives amazing hugs. I was well-held.<br />
<br />
It's been over a year since I was able to sustain the concentration to take phone sex calls, even from people I know, even from callers I connected with deeply and enjoyed tremendously. The realization of my inability to perform came quickly. The acceptance of it did not.<br />
<br />
So over the past week, I've directed my excellent friend to clean up my contact info, check my recommended Flirt friends to make sure they were still active, update my listings, fix broken links. Y'know, stuff that needs to happen when you go inactive.<br />
<br />
Erstwhile.<br />
<br />
I love the word, erstwhile. It's elegant, isn't it? A little dreamy, even. It seems so much softer than "former" or "one-time" or "ex". It's certainly better than "can no longer be a ___ no matter how hard she tries". No. That's a terrible tag line.<br />
<br />
It's bizarre. I thought I had come to terms with the loss. Well, probably I have, but it's one thing to admit it to yourself, another to admit it to people close to you, but it's another thing altogether to make it official.<br />
<br />
If it were someone else going through the same thing, I would almost certainly tell her, "Oh, darling, the day you change your subtitle to 'erstwhile', it's totally okay to cry."<br />
<br />
I will try to update again soon with a far cheerier post. But I needed to mark the occasion here.<br />
<br />
/mark<br />
<br />
Well then. Erstwhile it is. Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-24585608824158882742013-09-06T17:26:00.002-05:002013-09-06T17:26:29.140-05:00Just Keep Swimming I've been super busy, which is a good thing.<br />
<br />
I can't seem to figure out how to write - not blog posts, not summaries of really intense scenes, and not updates to rules to parties we throw in our home - not without spending massive amounts of time and energy to do so, which isn't such a good thing.<br />
<br />
I've been running a multi-factor experiment, though, so it's impossible to isolate the effect to a single cause. Here are the factors:<br />
<ul>
<li>Since January, I've tried three different protocols of <a href="http://brainpaint.com/" target="_blank">neurofeedback</a> in hopes that it may help my vertigo, and I think the latest one has ended up being the winner: it seems like my recovery times are a little better (yay!), although my concentration doesn't seem to have improved (boo!)</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Since February, I've been avoiding wheat, rye, barley, and gluten, in hopes of dropping my gluten antibody count down out of the celiac range, and my gluten antibody levels have indeed now returned to the normal range (yay!)</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Since March, I've been on thyroid medicine to correct recently discovered hypothyroidism, and my thyroid levels have now returned to the normal range (yay!)</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Since March, I've been seriously on the go - I have attended 5 kinky events (even taught two classes at one), gone home to Houston twice, went to my lover with sugar daddy tendencies twice, met a different lover on the west coast once, and spent a day or two in Chicago / St Louis with friends at least 8 times (yay!)</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Since June, when <a href="http://galianachance.com/blog/2013/06/25/barak-broke-my-brain-and-im-still-standing/" target="_blank" title="Barak Broke My Brain and I’m Still Standing">Barak Broke My Brain</a>, I have had less fear of vertigo crashes - after all, I gathered a ton of data about what it felt like to be close to my edges, and the resulting overall reduction of fear has, I think, helped my neurological balance, which allows me to do a bit more, because I'm not fighting that particular layer of anxiety (yay!)</li>
</ul>
So all in all, my sense is that I'm better at physical stuff like travel, motion, and activity, but worse at cognitive stuff like writing and concentrating on complex conversations.<br />
<br />
Thus, no phone sex. Phone sex is cognitive. It takes massive brainpower for me to match the energy, pitch, speed, interest of the person I'm talking with. I change a little when I'm on the phone with each caller, and those changes require subtle concentration that I wasn't aware of until I suddenly couldn't sustain them anymore.<br />
<br />
But I'm still having fun, still playing at kinky scenes at parties and privately, I just can only have fun as me (no role plays, no scenarios which are outside my primary interests), and not for long periods of time.<br />
<br />
Eventually, I'll write again, I'm sure - about some of the fun scenes I've done, about the things I've learned about being a host and munch leader in a kinky community, about my marriage drifting from non-monogamy to full-on polyamory for both of us. It's all good stuff. I'm having an amazing life.<br />
<br />
I just ... can't ... brain ... all that well most of the time. And when I can brain, I'm talking instead of writing.<br />
<br />
It'll come back, I'm sure. I'm too much of a writer for it not to come back. Some day.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I appreciate emails asking how I'm doing, catching me up on your life, asking for advice for your kinky situations. I'll do what I can to respond in a timely manner, and I always love hearing from you.Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-3210597739128492872013-06-25T17:11:00.005-05:002013-06-25T17:11:58.277-05:00Barak Broke My Brain and I'm Still StandingI went to 2013 <a href="https://www.twistedtryst.com/" target="_blank" title="Twisted Tryst">Twisted Tryst</a> South, also known as simply "camp", knowing I was going to scene with <a href="http://www.panpolybdsm.com/bios.html" target="_blank" title="Barak">Barak</a>, and terrified. The details of why are in my previous post "<a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/2013/06/21/tryst-terror/" target="_blank" title="Tryst Terror">Tryst Terror</a>".<br />
<br />
Barak and I had communicated boundaries, expectations, and my evolving understanding of why I said yes to the scene over the four months prior to Tryst, and he reviewed my boundary summarization right before our scene Friday evening.<br />
<br />
But before that, Thursday night when they arrived, Barak and his lovely wife <a href="http://www.panpolybdsm.com/bios.html" target="_blank" title="Brat Sheba">Brat_Sheba</a> and my husband and I had shared hugs and introductions and a lovely nerve-rattling moment of Sheba offering to give Barak ideas of how else to make me dizzy, to which I responded something like "you are not good people!" But then more honestly, I said with my voice starting to tremble "I don't know if it's possible for me to take this thing that has been so scary and devastating and find some way to let some aspect of it be sexy, but it's worth a shot" and Barak held me for a moment with his eyes and said "It is".<br />
<br />
I went to sleep Thursday night sick from the road motion, in mild shock and denial that I was actually camping, and pleasantly surprised that I had been able to help a bit with setup. But not less terrified.<br />
<br />
Friday afternoon, crossing camp between classes, Barak ... fucked with me. He hugged me, then started happily pushing and poking and holding me, his hands in my hair, on my shoulders, my hips, my neck. He held my head with his fist in my hair, and got close enough I could feel his breath and his desire to kiss me, but he didn't kiss me. He may have said something, too, I'm sure he did, but it was lost in my disorientation. I knew he was watching my responses, building a muscle vocabulary between us, seeing how much balance I had as a starting point. But also, just as importantly, he was ~deeply enjoying~ doing so. I could feel him leaning into me, pulling me to him, wrapping around me, and I could see his grin and feel his eyes appreciating me even as they were assessing me.<br />
<br />
Predator, meet your willing prey...<br />
<br />
I didn't know at the time how else to put it, those three minutes passing at camp, other than "he just ... kinda ... fucked with me" until I went to their class "<a href="http://www.panpolybdsm.com/Classes.html" target="_blank" title="Barak Sheba classes">The Art of Drive-By Domming</a>" about building and maintaining energy between negotiated partners by enjoying tiny brief mini-scenes on a rolling basis. There in class, I realized he had "drive-by dommed" me. Neat.<br />
<br />
I had scattered conversations with my friends from home and others who had read my terror note on Fet about the scene coming up. As I articulated different aspects with different people, I started pulling together understandings, flashes of insight.<br />
<br />
Much of my correspondence with Barak before camp had the feeling of "no, no, no, I don't think you understand, this isn't sexy at all. This is devastating and terrible and I will feel bad for days afterward, maybe incapacitatingly so" and he kept responding with grins and the word "lovely" and telling me it made him salivate and made his cock twitch.<br />
<br />
Which made me call him unkind names.<br />
<br />
Which seemed to amuse him.<br />
<br />
This pattern both did and did not help me.<br />
<br />
It often made it more difficult to breathe.<br />
<br />
Then at the drive-by domming class, I saw him make other people dizzy and disoriented, heard him say how much he enjoyed knowing he had made someone physically weak in the knees, and I was able to feel the connection with his demo partners in class. And I could see similarities to what he was going to do to me. And then finally, oh! I could feel the possibility that our scene could be a powerful exchange of control and trust to someone who loves the willing exchange of control and trust, and I was able to catch a glimpse as to why that might be sexy for him.<br />
<br />
Also, it helped that a few people new to the story said "yeah, that's kinda hot" or grinned when I said about Barak, "What kind of a monster jerk face are you for wanting to do this to someone?"<br />
<br />
At some point someone said "Nah, I'm a ~good~ person who enjoys doing ~bad~ things to people who ~like~ it".<br />
<br />
Oh. Well. Sure. When you put it like that. Now it's blindingly obvious.<br />
<br />
I had told Barak, repeatedly, in our emails, that I needed to believe that he wanted this, and it would help if he wanted me, as well, that it would calm me if he kissed me or let me feel that he was hard. And that sexual energy would help me stay up longer.<br />
<br />
So throughout Friday, my perspective shifted subtly from "my vertigo is a destructive force to be avoided when possible and I'm doing my best to live despite it" to "my vertigo is a part of me that maybe has the potential to be enjoyed, and although I'd certainly rather not have vertigo, as long as it's here, I might as well allow it to give sexy shivers to a very responsible sadist who enjoys disorienting people." It was a tentative shift, but it shifted.<br />
<br />
As starting time drew near, I purposefully isolated myself where I could see Barak approach.<br />
<br />
He walked up with a grin, holding my gaze as soon as he was in sight, with power and purpose and calm emanating off each step. It's hard to be too terribly anxious or distrustful with that much dead fucking sexy heading your way, y'know?<br />
<br />
He told me he had re-read my summarization; we discussed choking and tap-out signals, whether or not I needed my glasses, visual testing for nystagmus (an involuntary rapid eye movement that happens with drunk and dizzy people), and setup logistics. It was comforting to hear him toss out medical terms.<br />
<br />
I had said I wouldn't be able to start until I had seen in his eyes that he "got it" and I did see that he was taking it seriously, that his whole mind was engaged, and that he was focused on reading me. But I had big questions in my head I needed answered in person before we started: Do you understand why this is so real-world scary for me? What do you get out of this? Why do you want to do this to me?<br />
<br />
I was about to draw my "okay let's do this" breath to ask those final questions when he drew his "okay let's do this" breath and said to me, as near as I can remember, something like this:<br />
<br />
"I understand that you will be feeling the effects of this scene in your body for days, and feeling the effects emotionally even longer. I know this illness has been damaging to you. To do this, to play with your vertigo like we are about to do, this takes an extraordinary amount of trust, and I am honored that you feel enough trust with me to ask me to do this with you.<br />
<br />
I want you to know: I take that trust and responsibility seriously. This isn't something I have a chance to do often, if ever. This is a big deal. This is edge play for me."<br />
<br />
I felt it, the truth of it from him, the hunger for it from him. And I was floored. And humbled. And held. And honored. And seen.<br />
<br />
And then, before I could let him know that he had just fried my last resistors, he continued:<br />
<br />
"But even if we weren't going to play this way, I also need you to understand that I find you incredibly sexy. Your body has everything that turns me on. You have a beautiful face. And the way you move is amazingly attractive. Even if we weren't doing edge play, I would still want to make your legs weak by playing with you."<br />
<br />
My mouth dropped open and I laughed, too stunned to tell him he had answered my Big Questions perfectly, too happy to be the object of his desires like that, and too busy watching his eyes light up because he could see that I believed him.<br />
<br />
He reached for the back of my neck and pulled me to him for a truly wondrous first kiss, pulling me onto his lap to grind me onto his thigh while we made out. I was in heaven.<br />
<br />
Until we heard a crazy cracking noise, and I felt his gaze break off me, and I turned around, leaning against his chest, to see someone cracking a giant whip ... that was on fire. "Well, that's something you don't see every day" I said, hoping he would understand that I didn't all begrudge the focus shift. I mean, honestly. Bullwhip. On. Fire. "No, you don't" he laughed and we watched together for a few moments, lost in the beauty and brutality of it.<br />
<br />
When he pulled me back to him to kiss me again, it cracked crazy behind me again and he broke and said "oh wow" and I realized there was a brand new bonfire there next to him where there had not been a bonfire a moment ago. "He just lit that bonfire with the whip." Oh, Tryst, how we love you.<br />
<br />
Since we were well and truly distracted now, we moved ahead with next-step logistics: I'd choose a play space with a suspension point, he'd get his rope bag, I'd gather my husband and The Gang who wanted to watch, and we'd reconvene. About the time I realized I wanted to go to the bathroom beforehand, I also realized that Barak had joined the fire whip guys to take a turn or two, and we nodded our mutual "oh hey it's gonna take an extra minute"s to each other across the field.<br />
<br />
SB, one of the organizers, whose class on the energy and psychology of BDSM I had attended where she talked about kinksters with hunter instincts and shorter attention spans predisposed to seek adrenaline rushes (of which there are lots), wandered by and asked if I'd seen the bonfire get whip-lit, crackling with her own happiness as she asked. I explained the situation, and her closeness with Barak was obvious to me in her responses. We stood together watching him throw the fire whip with childlike wonder and glee, and I said "As distracting shiny squirrels go, a whip on fire is a big damn sexy shiny squirrel. Ya gotta admit that. Anybody who would keep him from going and throwing that..." and SB completed my thought with a sigh, "... is an asshole." And we nodded together, lost in the memories of lovers we had both had who had wandered off from us and followed their bliss, and how it was wonderful and heartbreaking and annoying and yet how much awesome fuel they provide when you finally occupy the totality of their gaze again.<br />
<br />
I think of it now as the calm before the storm, when Barak gathered his wind through the fire.<br />
<br />
And then we rolled. Chairs got in place, my husband's submissive agreed to keep track of my stuff, SB got us barrier gloves in the right size, Barak returned with his rope bag and started rigging the tie off and release hardware, The Gang assembled, I gave hugs, I finished my caffeinated vitamin water...<br />
<br />
And I took a "let's do this" breath and walked over to my husband.<br />
<br />
We had realized in the week leading up to Tryst that Barak wasn't just playing with me, but also with him. Throughout our ten years together, we've had a few moments where we have held each other with all our focus, and then walked through a doorway fully intending to change our lives, hopefully for the better. It only took the briefest of glances to know we were about to have another one of those moments.<br />
<br />
In that instant, Barak was merely one part of the ongoing answer to my husband's four years of heartfelt prayers of "make this better for her, somehow, please". I'm sure we said something, but I never remember what we say in those moments.<br />
<br />
Then I walked away from him, feeling carried by his love and support, the love and support of The Gang who had gathered there, and the love and support of my sister and The Gang back home and ex-callers and blog readers who couldn't be there but who were holding their breath wanting the best for me nonetheless.<br />
<br />
The play space we chose was a big square suspension brace that looked like it held lights for an outdoor music performance: a silver upside down U of industrial sturdiness set on a tarp which defined our play space on the ground. It looked like a stage atop a hill. Barak had rigged a tie point well above his head, out of my reach.<br />
<br />
I took a final "let's do this" breath as I watched him do the same. We both grinned. I stepped onto the tarp.<br />
<br />
He asked me if I wanted the chest harness comfortable or uncomfortable as he was peeling my clothing off me. "I ... uuuh ... I don't ... I dunno" He grinned. I had clearly just chosen uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
I asked about my shoes, on or off, and he answered "yes" which was totally fair since I hadn't chosen a harness. I peeled them off, and glasses too eventually, until I was completely naked except for a plastic version of my wedding ring that I didn't mind if I lost.<br />
<br />
He chose a slightly scratchy rope and bound my chest tight, with one line of rope above my breasts and one line of rope below them, and I couldn't watch him rigging to see what connected the lines, but I had scratches between my breasts afterward. Something on my back secured to the rigging overhead, as if I were on a short leash. We had discussed the setup, me having a safety rope so if my legs went out, my chest harness would catch me, but neither the harness nor the leash would restrict my basic movement. Clever.<br />
<br />
As I was getting tied and Barak's focus was on weight-bearing mechanics, The Gang made some joke resulting in one member moving her chair away in a mock pout. "Hey, no pouting during my scene!" I yelled at her, and she yelled back "you just pay attention to the bad man, there, missy!" and everybody laughed.<br />
<br />
I assured Barak that he would have my full attention once I was rigged and he chortled and said low under his breath, threateningly, "oh, I know". I blinked hard. And blushed.<br />
<br />
He finished rigging me, and asked me to lower my weight down until the chest harness took it all, and it did, and I was a ball hanging on a leash for a moment - an unpleasantly scratchy ball with rope biting into my ribs and armpit fat while Barak pushed my shoulders to test more force, but I was safe. I stood back up.<br />
<br />
He stood in front of me, and I started to mumble incoherently about how my husband starts scenes with a question and Barak grinned, pulling me toward him out toward the edge of my leash, until I managed to say "Barak" and he paused. "Angela" he replied. "Will you please do this thing with me, and incapacitate me for the next few days?" I saw his heart fill. He resumed tugging me to him while he stepped backward until I was stretched to the edge of my leash and the rope was biting into my chest and it was getting a little tough to breathe. "Yes, Angela, I will."<br />
<br />
And he let go with a push, and I sprung back, stumbling into my footing, yelping and grinning, and we were on.<br />
<br />
Between that and my third orgasm, it gets blurry.<br />
<br />
I have dozens of sensory memories, but the sequence is impossible to reconstruct. I think now that I was standing for about 20-30 minutes, but it felt like much much, much longer.<br />
<br />
He stretch-tugged me to the end of my leash again until I gasped for air, and he said "I'll start gentle" a few times as he hurt me until I finally said "you're lying to me, you jerk face" which made him laugh.<br />
<br />
He kissed me often, possessively sometimes, brutally others, reassuringly once or twice, holding me on tiptoes by a fist in my hair, or leaning me backward so far my leash was holding some of my weight, or pulling me close, or shoving me away.<br />
<br />
He spun me, pushed me, showed up where I didn't expect him to be, made my head go where I didn't expect it to be. It felt like he was tripping me, fucking with my feet, but I intellectually think he never did, that instead he "fucked with my feet" by moving my upper body in ways that made my feet feel confused.<br />
<br />
I would feel myself suddenly still, and open my eyes to the rig and the sky and the sensation of his thumb digging into some pressure point as I could barely see him in my peripheral vision. His eyes never left me.<br />
<br />
I grabbed for him sometimes, to pull him closer, holding myself up on his strength, wrapping my arms and a leg around him, begging him with my body to be inside me, impaling myself on what Sheba gave words to the next day as "just because I don't have a physical cock doesn't mean I can't fuck you with my energetic cock" and yes, that's exactly what I was fucking when I was crawling up him like that, his energetic cock.<br />
<br />
He hurt me, slapping my flesh, including a few open-hand-full-swing-back blows to my breasts that made them feel like tits, like flesh hanging off me, instead of personal symbols of feminine power and beauty. The slaps were shocking and stunning and almost always followed by a shove.<br />
<br />
His thumbs and knuckles and fingertips kept driving into my hips and breasts and ribs and thighs and shoulders, causing me to squeal and growl and flinch away and buck toward and curse. At one point, he was behind me, grabbing my hips but digging his fingertips in toward my groin, causing ongoing bursts of pain, and he growled into my ear, "press your ass back against my cock, dammit" and when I did, he shoved me over into my chest harness and slammed his body against me.<br />
<br />
"Can you feel how hard I am?" he asked over and over with my hand suddenly against his pants, a bulge so sturdy I could trace the lines of it, feel the underside of it at times, almost wrap my hand around it, so I did, stroking and tracing and encouraging and welcoming and wanting it. It calmed me. It gave me strength. Even though I haven't seen his cock undressed, I'm a big fan of it.<br />
<br />
He would go away, leaving me panting and catching some steadiness, followed by the sounds those black nitrile medical barrier gloves make: that squeaking stretch, that sudden snap, and then he would touch my soaking wet pussy, at first purposefully over-stimulating my clit to get me to back away from him into the leash so I was stretching and hurting myself to get away from him, then later pressing fingers inside me until I was pressing back against him, repositioning the angle for my pleasure, growing that wave.<br />
<br />
Before he made me climax the first time, he backed off me several times, feeling me rise then leaving me suddenly, with a squeaky snap to let me know the glove was off and he was done. The first time caused in me a laugh and a declaration "that's just rude". The second was more of a growl, with some cursing. The third was me lunging at him against my leash, desperate to get him back.<br />
<br />
I yelled at him a lot. I called him a fucker, a jerk face, a sonofabitch, an asshole. I shoved him away from me, kicked at him, hip-checked him, body slammed him, pressed my elbow into his gut.<br />
<br />
I bit at him, not to hurt him, but to warn him, I think sometimes, or to have yet another point to steady myself against the tipping onslaughts. I clenched his shirt between gritted teeth in pain or struggle or pleasure, or all three mixed.<br />
<br />
Or maybe I bit his shirt to taste his sweat, to have pride that I was making him fucking work for it dammit. I did, too. I made him work hard.<br />
<br />
I laughed a lot. So did he. He taunted me, poked at me, surprised me, and I let myself be amused, startled, annoyed, flattered, full of lust. I relaxed back against his chest and pulled him into me by his pants. I remember the texture of the fabric so clearly.<br />
<br />
I didn't want to see a crowd, didn't want to open my eyes if I was at an angle where I thought I might see them, because it wasn't about them or for them and I sure as hell didn't need to process anybody's emotions but mine. But sometimes sympathetic laughter or "ooooo"s would come from places where I didn't think people were, and it made me happy.<br />
<br />
I didn't need to look at The Gang who knew the story behind the scene. I could feel them just fine without sight, holding their breath, holding my husband.<br />
<br />
I tried not think of how hard it must be for him to be watching me. I told him he didn't have to, before camp, that he didn't have to watch. Maybe that's what I said in our moment, "I know this is hard for you, but I'm so grateful you chose to be here". If that isn't what I said, it's what I should have said.<br />
<br />
I saw my feet a lot. I would look at them to steady myself sometimes, I think. Or maybe then I just wouldn't see the crowd. But also I found myself suddenly facing my feet with the chest harness biting into my skin far more often than I expected to. I realized days later it could have been partially because Barak likes the way my ass looks when I'm bent over.<br />
<br />
I remember once when he was messing with my sense of location, poking and slapping and yanking me around, and I felt a sudden window to plant my feet, BOOM. Solid. In almost a squat, like a runner catching breath after a jog. And his next poke or prod or push just sank into me with no effect, and I thought "gotcha you fucker!" and I momentarily relished my victory. It's possible I gloated. I'm sure my expression gloated.<br />
<br />
I realized later that every time I got my solid like that for a moment, he would pause. And let me gather. One breath, probably, maybe two. And then get back to fucking with my feet.<br />
<br />
He made me come, standing on my feet, balancing against him at unstable angles, with my head snapped back, or suddenly slammed bent over my harness. I didn't know if he would let me finish or stop abruptly and spin me off. He would growl into me or pull me to him with a "yes" or suddenly smack my ass to hear me yelp.<br />
<br />
I said only two things of any significance, and those were the two moments I will remember most clearly.<br />
<br />
"I don't wanna crash yet." I was having. so. much. fucking. fun. I felt beautiful and sexy and amusing and captivating and wonderful and strong and delightful, and I felt it creeping up on me, the inevitable vertigo crash. I denied it first, then fought it, found my balance, gathered energy from The Gang, shoved Barak off me, but I wasn't winning. It was growing up my back like a heavy warm blanket, and I could feel my legs buckling, my knees weakening, my sense of things getting dimmer. I said it quietly at first, where probably even he couldn't hear. "No. Please. Don't. I don't wanna crash yet."<br />
<br />
Then it welled up inside me, the words, and I felt them, every time I've ever wanted to say those words, but I didn't because it is too fucking heartbreaking to hear someone you love say that to you when there is nothing you can do to help. Car rides. Plane rides. Parties. Movies. Crowds. Life.<br />
<br />
"I don't WANNA crash yet." I said it louder, spit it through my teeth, and he heard. I started crying, a sputtering, choking cry. He gave me a breath to pause, to feel it, to let it well up inside me stronger, then fucked with me to topple me back. I can't imagine the strength of will in that shove, because I know he heard me, I know he felt me, and I know he believed me.<br />
<br />
"No! NO! I don't wanna crash yet dammit! I don't!" I said it loud enough for others to hear now, as he kept coming into me, toppling me, and I heard the stifled sobs from The Gang.<br />
<br />
"NoooOOOOO!" I yelled at him, and I flung my body against the ropes and wailed at him with everything I had, "FUCK. YOU. I DON'T WANT THIS. I DON'T WANT TO CRASH YET. FUCK YOU!"<br />
<br />
And as the ball of fuckyou spilled out of me, he crashed into me and wrapped himself around me and growled at me, "More - give me more, dammit" and forced a kiss onto me and shoved his cock against my hand again and I could feel the pulsing through the thick canvas. I couldn't shove him away, so I found my feet and I pushed against him while sucking his tongue into my mouth and absorbed all the rock steady he was feeding me.<br />
<br />
I had my feet again. For now. I had them.<br />
<br />
And I had a new thought.<br />
<br />
"Fuck you, I'm still standing" I gasped as he broke from me, trembling, weak in the knees, struggling for air, feeling the blanket inside me weighing me down.<br />
<br />
"Fuck you! I'm still standing!" He came at me again and I slammed him away. "Fuck you. FUCK you! I'm still standing!" And just as surely as I had been yelling out my fears the moment before, I raised my volume, not caring who I interrupted, declaring my momentary victory. He spun me, stinging, hard, brutal.<br />
<br />
"FUCK! YOU! I'M! STILL! STANDING!!" And he crashed back into me suddenly gloved again, filling me with pleasure and lust and growling into me "Yes. More. Give me more." The orgasm was wrenched from my guts as I shoved against him, growling.<br />
<br />
After I came, he shook me with what felt like a slap and said "I need more! Focus! Breathe!" And smothered me facing him, repeating over and over "More. Focus. Breathe. C'mon, I need more. Focus. Breathe. Give me more. More. More. Breathe. Focus." And I let him hypnotize me into steadiness again, before he shoved me away with a lip-licking grin and a nonchalant "good".<br />
<br />
But after the third orgasm, my knees buckled. He steadied me for a few moments, then released me and backed away. I felt the muscles going weak, and I thought "I could call it. This could be it. I could go down now, safeword out, say I'm done, and I'll still spin for days. Nobody would blame me. Everyone would still be happy for me. I could just let go." My body was begging me, screaming at me, to stop.<br />
<br />
But I couldn't come this far for that. I paused against the aching harness, my legs locked apart, arms straining to hold my chest off my thighs, multiple muscles shaking.<br />
<br />
I pushed. To stand. I could neither think nor say the words "fuck you, I'm still standing" but at least I could do it. I reached above my head for my leash to support more weight with one arm and pulled up on Barak with the other. He released a breath he had been holding, proud of me, I could feel it. The Gang and the crowd released the same breath, and Barak pulled me toward him by my shoulders, slowly, steadily, back to the end of my leash again, just like when we started, holding me there, bruising against the rope, until I either grinned or cursed at him, and then he let me go, stumbling, into another round.<br />
<br />
It didn't last long. The outcome was clear and inevitable; I was going down. But not without another fight. He tussled me until I was almost spontaneously buckling, then he snapped on another glove, pressed his face against mine, looked into what I can only imagine were glassy, unfocused eyes, and said, "all that matters here is that your cunt is wet. And my cock is hard." He slid his fingers inside me easily, put my hand against his cock, and he wasn't lying on either account. "Your wet cunt. My hard cock. That's all that matters." I gasped against him, bracing my forehead on his chest, as he chanted to me "your wet cunt, my hard cock, your wet cunt, my hard cock ... wet cunt, hard cock, wet cunt, hard cock ... wet cunt, wet cunt, wet cunt" while shove-curling his fingers deep inside me, my clit resting the weight of my torso on the heel of his hand, and when it welled up inside me, I could feel the vertigo crash behind it, or in front of it, mixed into it, and I knew I was down.<br />
<br />
But wow. What a way to go.<br />
<br />
He got me off the rig safely, until I was lying on the ground. I opened my eyes and I could barely focus. "I can't see you" I said and he asked me to repeat that. "No, wait, I mean, I can't figure out how to look at you, because my eyes" He was so swirly and jumpy, kneeling over me, and I started mumbling "I don't have it anymore. I can't focus it away. I can't focus it away anymore. I'm sorry. I don't have enough" and he caressed my body tenderly, letting me mumble, letting me feel, and then reached for another glove, and said "you don't have to focus it away".<br />
<br />
I know I laughed weakly, my arms protesting like noodles "no no no I don't, I can't come again, I don't have it." But he grinned at me, kissed me, slid my legs apart, pressed his chest into mine, and toyed with my guts while I spun inside my head, murmuring to me to let it all go, dig deep, give him just one more, let it come.<br />
<br />
I remember my back arching when I climaxed that last time, as if it had a will of its own, my hands grabbing helplessly for something to hold onto, feeling him ripping it out of me, letting it rip through me, feeling my muscles shred and my will disintegrate.<br />
<br />
And then. I was done.<br />
<br />
He poked me, pushed me, kissed me, held my face to look at him, and no muscles responded. I tried, they just... Didn't. He said later my eyes were crossing. I tried to answer his questions when I could understand them, but moans were the best I could do.<br />
<br />
He kissed me, and I felt a mint slide into my mouth, and his hands turned into business, snapping off the last glove, which sprayed my own pussy juices into my face. I attempted to tell him he had just splashed me with my own cum, but I'm not sure I succeeded.<br />
<br />
"When... " I said, with all the force I could muster. "When..." He mirrored back, hearing that I was trying to say something important.<br />
<br />
"When we're done..." I said. "Yes we're done" he replied.<br />
<br />
"Could you call him over ... So I can say I'm ok?" He petted my hair, and I felt his gaze turn away for the first time since I stepped onto the tarp.<br />
<br />
I heard voices, which later my husband said was Barak offering him a mint, probably as a way to assess how steady he was, and a way to welcome him into our space, and maybe to help him ground. He declined the mint and knelt down beside me, holding my hand.<br />
<br />
"I'm okay" I said, in my strongest voice, which I'm quite certain sounded pitiful. "I know" he said, through tears. "You're so strong and you fought so hard and you're so much more than okay. You're my strong little mad thing on a leash." and we all laughed.<br />
<br />
Somehow, although I attempted to talk them out of it with "just let me sit here for hour and I'll be okay to ride a taxi (golf cart) back to the tent", they decided to strap me to a medical back board. Since I could barely even roll over onto the board, perhaps it was a wise choice.<br />
<br />
Regardless, the back board taxi ride was cool as hell - I got strapped in, lifted into the golf cart propped up like a dead pope on display, held in place by Barak behind me and my husband walking beside me on the side, and I rode that way at walking speed through the main drag of camp, with The Gang following behind like a devastatingly sexy Swiss Guard. I was told people stared in confusion, but since we were all joking and laughing, I don't think anyone was worried.<br />
<br />
Back at the tent, they stood me up, unwrapped me, and guided me wedged between two gorgeous strong men, who bore almost all my weight, to a reclining chair facing into the woods, where I could be alone in quiet.<br />
<br />
Well, except for everyone who loved me hovering around, worried. "I'm good. I'll be fine" I assured them once my water and applesauce were in place.<br />
<br />
I said goodbyes and thank yous to Barak, who later told me he went and slept for an hour and a half. I declared that since I had done a scene so intense that I needed to be carried away from it strapped to a stretcher, I was "totally fucking metal" and threw ridiculously weak horns. I asked if anybody needed to process with me, and they all laughed and said together "tomorrow" as they trickled away, so I assume it was a feeble-sounding offer.<br />
<br />
My husband came back a few times to check on me, telling me he was proud of my bravery and strength. I reached for him, serious, nodding, and said "I learned it from watching you" which made him laugh from the bottom of his belly, pat me on the head, tell me g'night, and walk away, shaking his head in faux exasperation that I had mocked him, but reassured.<br />
<br />
I dozed in and out, with crazy vivid vertigo-coma dreams, until it got darker and colder and I had to pee. I knew someone would check on me soon, but I thought I'd try, so I leaned forward to un-recline my chair, grabbed my walking stick, and pulled up. I was wobbly, but I was up.<br />
<br />
I stepped onto the tarp no later than 8:10. I was passed out in my chair by 9:30. And at 11:20, I was standing, dammit.<br />
<br />
The bathroom was halfway to the dungeon, so I went there after I peed out of sheer orneriness. My husband's submissive was at the dungeon, freshly finished from giggle-wrestling the third sexiest man at camp (behind my husband and Barak), and she was covered in bruises and red spots, and astonished to see me up.<br />
<br />
"Whaaaaatcha doin?" She asked with no small amount of alarm. "Standing, gawddammit" I answered belligerently. We bantered until I realized her play date had no context for my loopiness, so I drunkenly told him the story, including excessively pointing at him for emphasis. When I said "so Barak broke my brain for a few days" he responded "that's kinda hot" and I shot back "what the fuck is wrong with you people?" I also flipped him off, although now I'm not sure why. I also head-butted her on her freshly bruised nipples like an old goat annoyed by something but too tired to properly slam into it. I was amused by myself.<br />
<br />
But I needed to lie back down. I had witnesses at least. I hadn't seen Barak, but he would hear about it.<br />
<br />
Saturday, I needed to be talked down from feeling like my confusion and incoherence would ruin camp for everyone else. I had been expecting to be down for the count, but I could still stand, so therefore my body wanted to be around people, build new memories, not miss out. Barak and Sheba and Sheba's energy circle and my husband and my husband's submissive all finally helped me piece it together that although Barak broke my brain, I would not break camp by wandering around in a haze. I was not that damn important.<br />
<br />
After the bonfire, I did a solo scene I called "I'm Still Standing Dammit", in which I literally wandered through camp, chatting with folks, then drifting off when the words got confusing, absorbing what I could, but the whole time thinking "I'm still standing, dammit. So there". I was up until almost 1 am.<br />
<br />
In my tent, I tried to zip my sleeping bag for 20 minutes before I gave up and creatively arranged a blanket. In the morning, I realized I hadn't pulled down the sliding part of the zipper: I had literally forgotten how zippers worked. That made me feel better that even though I was standing, my claim of being incapacitated was valid after all.<br />
<br />
Although Barak and I after-care touched-base a few times Saturday and Sunday, the one I needed the most was when I asked for reassurances: Are you happy we played? Yes. Is there any part of you that wants to fuck me? It's all I can do not to bend you over this picnic table and fuck you senseless right now. Awwwww. Thanks.<br />
<br />
But the aftercare drive-by which meant the most ended with me thanking him for changing my life for the better. "We do that every time we touch, don't we?" he asked. "Yes, but, I'll remember this one." It caused a good grin on him.<br />
<br />
After camp was over and we were back home in our favorite celebratory restaurant at dinner, it took three people to formulate the thought "Fry .... from .... Futurama" (I got the "from"), and I let myself believe that maybe my crash wasn't all that much worse than other people's event drop after all. I figured I would probably know how zippers and math and decisions worked again around Wednesday or Thursday. That's probably not all that bad.<br />
<br />
And I thought of the third sexiest man at camp, and wondered idly maybe whether he would want to giggle-wrestle me into a broken brain if we are both at camp again next year.<br />
<br />
And there. There it was. The change we hoped would happen, although we didn't know exactly what it would look like: me accepting my vertigo into my sexy.<br />
<br />
I smiled to myself, too incoherent to explain why. But I knew. I understood. I believed: we did it. It worked. We did it.<br />
<br />
I said a thank you prayer for husband and Barak and Sheba and The Whole Gang and for my strength, which, as Barak said after the fact, but my husband had understood as it was occurring: my strength was the part of me Barak was playing with all along.<br />
<br />
Bless you Barak, you unimaginably competent and sexy beast of a sadist. Thank you for helping me see myself.<br />
<br />
As it turns out, I'm standing.Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-3960019220437160562013-06-21T10:41:00.002-05:002013-06-21T10:41:14.516-05:00Tryst Terror<br />
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(Note: I published this on FetLife on my PlaySmart profile at the end of May. The camp being discussed was in early June. I'll publish how it turned out, too) </div>
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I'm terrified of going to Twisted Tryst South - leaving a week from tomorrow! Holy crap! But I'm an emotional exhibitionist, so I'm hoping that by sharing my terror, I'll get a better handle on it. Or at least be able to ask for help. Or maybe just not feel the need to hide it. </div>
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My husband went to Tryst last summer, and had an amazing time. I did not go. Because... </div>
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I came down with my mysterious neurological vertigo suddenly after a weekend of camping in March 2009. We spent the weekend lodge-and-tent camping in the Texas hill country, complete with tiny birds pooping on our tents, me falling out of my hammock, and us swimming in a river that was too murky to see the bottom with who knows what kinds if bacteria getting in my ears. Sunday evening after we got home and rinsed everything, as I laid down to sleep, I got suddenly ferociously dizzy, and I have literally never stopped feeling dizzy since. </div>
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My vertigo cost me my job, my career as an IT Manager, our house in Austin, and countless movies and TV shows and live music shows and orgasms and... and... and... There is no part of my life which hasn't been affected. </div>
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Since then, I have said many times "even though I'm 99% sure my vertigo wasn't caused by camping, I will never go camping again."</div>
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Then after my husband had such a great time at Tryst last year, I heard myself still saying "never", and I don't like saying "never", and I don't want to be someone who chooses my actions out of fear. So it quietly bugged me, and I quietly wondered if I would, in fact, choose instead to go, just to face my fear. </div>
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Then in February, I exchanged a few flirty emails with someone who I have good reason to trust isn't a destructive sociopath, and found out he was going to Tryst South. I told him my story, explained my vertigo (bottoming in play makes me dizzy) and my camping fear, and expected him to respond with something along the lines of "that sounds hard, good luck with that", and to himself to roll his eyes and think "whatever, ya whiny hypochondriac!"</div>
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Instead, his response was astonishing: his reply was along the lines of "I love psychological and physiological play, and pushing people to the edge of their bodies where they are no longer consciously in control of their responses. That sounds sexy to me, and if you'll let me, I'd love to play with you in that space." </div>
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/blink /blink /blink </div>
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<br /></div>
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What? </div>
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<br /></div>
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It was a total mind-fuck for me, for someone to find this thing that I hated and feared about myself, and have someone say he found it sexy. And not some crazy psycho, but someone responsible and sexy as fucking hell, who genuinely enjoys pushing physiological boundaries like that. It was ... Astonishing.</div>
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My husband could never play with my vertigo like that. Of course not. Everything it has cost me, it has cost him too. It is way too loaded for him to find anything sexy about it. </div>
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But I read him the response, and we both cried at how redemptive it seemed, and I asked him if I went to Tryst, could I be uncharacteristically clingy and needy and possessive of his prioritization at camp? (Usually at events, we do our own things in an egalitarian way, and neither of us is higher priority)</div>
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He said yes, he would be there for me to lean on anytime I wish.</div>
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So I wrote the sexy sadist back back and said essentially "this is the least sexy, most actually scary thing I can imagine, but I believe it will be okay doing it with you, so yeah, I'll come to Tryst and we'll play with my vertigo."</div>
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And then I almost threw up. Isn't what always happens when you make the right choice? /grin</div>
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A few weeks later, someone asked what I was most looking forward to about camp. I told her the story, and said "the thing I'm most looking forward to about tryst is arriving, knowing that I'm doing a thing that is so brave that I can't believe it's me doing it, being proud of myself for just getting there. Everything else is gravy."</div>
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I assume that what will most likely happen is that I'll freak out on the way there, then again for an hour after I arrive, then I'll have it all out of my system, and tell the hubby to quit hovering over me like a creeper and go have fun.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Then I'll almost certainly do what I do best at kinky events: run around brain-drunk and loopy without inhibitions and try to smooch all the presenters and everyone else I find attractive. Bottom with the sexy sadist, followed by a long damn recovery nap. Co-top a few sexy masochistic women with their Doms guiding me in the scenes. Offer to let a lot of people grab my boobs. Try to get men with non-American accents to whisper filthy ideas in my ear. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Y'know, me stuff. Like I do. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But if you're there at camp, and I seem withdrawn, or confused, or generally look like I'm in deep sub space constantly, this is why. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Please feel free to tell me you think I'm brave (but only if it's true!), and offer me a hug. That would be great. </div>
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(I got lots of hugs on FetLife for this writing. Everyone was very sweet. And several people sought me out at camp for a hug, too) </div>
Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-83869313978653877282013-05-17T20:25:00.000-05:002013-05-17T20:25:15.647-05:00NiteFlirt AwardsNiteFlirt started doing awards recently for top earners. Gold = above 99th percentile, Silver = 96th-99th percentile, Bronze = 91st - 95th percentile.<br />
<br />
I was full-time on NiteFlirt for about 19.5 months, from July 15, 2010 through about the end of February 2012, and I earned all my awards during that time. Awards are based on semi-monthly periods, so two awards equals one month.<br />
<br />
Here are my awards.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZh1NNgJBDWWo_Ui0xGjxSh6qaU5n3D1m0YmRW6ddoqvDcL2ue3is3VKjkkqunpM6YBrxJfORUdKR9AEud-92oP9IinRV8DkSxaLPECyfrYqIzZ3cnm5zB-ZOFsLl9Yam0Zo2dywYZt8/s1600/NFAwards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZh1NNgJBDWWo_Ui0xGjxSh6qaU5n3D1m0YmRW6ddoqvDcL2ue3is3VKjkkqunpM6YBrxJfORUdKR9AEud-92oP9IinRV8DkSxaLPECyfrYqIzZ3cnm5zB-ZOFsLl9Yam0Zo2dywYZt8/s320/NFAwards.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
That means:<br />
<ul>
<li>I was in the top 9% for 15.5 months (79% of the time, during which I moved twice)</li>
<li>I was in the top 4% for 11.5 months (58% of the time)</li>
<li>I was in the top 1% for 4.5 months (23% of the time)</li>
</ul>
The "Rising Star" award means that I was one of the top 40 newcomers for all but one period in my first 3 months.<br />
<br />
I had NO idea.<br />
<br />
I mean, I knew that people said that I rose in rankings more quickly than most people did. But that's subjective, anecdotal perception. It is incredibly easy to dismiss perceptions emotionally and intellectually.<br />
<br />
It is another thing altogether to know that I was in the top 1% of earners on NiteFlirt within 6 weeks of joining the site.<br />
<br />
Top one percent. Six weeks after joining.<br />
<br />
Holy crap.<br />
<br />
I'm blown away.<br />
<br />
And then, I was consistently within in the top 4% on the site until my husband got the job here, and I wasn't our sole source of income anymore.<br />
<br />
I'll tell other Flirts my income numbers if you write me privately. But I don't want to blow the fantasy lid off anyone's Financial Domination fantasies by publishing my numbers. Sorry, callers, you just have to wonder.<br />
<br />
(Why Ms Chance, is that grin a sign of emotional sadism? Mayyyyyyyybe)<br />
<br />
Ohhhhhh data. You give me such delicious feelings of certainty. And you throw such wrenches into my musings about what I want to do next with my professional life. Just like a good lover should, you encourage and challenge me.<br />
<br />
I love you, data. I've missed you, man.<br />
<br />
Also: Holy crap, I'm blown away.Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-64054471740990061972013-05-01T09:38:00.000-05:002013-05-01T09:38:29.150-05:00Note To An ExI wrote this in January or February to an ex-lover, for his birthday. It went unanswered, as I suspected it would. <br />
<br />
-----<br />
<br />
I hope this email finds you well. <br />
<br />
I hope your New Birthday Year yields pleasant memories, challenges met, puzzles solved, and a sense of growth. <br />
<br />
My 2012 was intense, and ended with a series of difficult question marks. <br />
<br />
My January has, unbelievably, resolved into a series of affirmations in a way that makes me suspect, yet again, that my life has been edited for continuity and thematic consistency. <br />
<br />
I continue to fantasize, as I have since I met you, that you'll show up at my door one day, unannounced. There aren't a lot of happy reasons on your side to cause that to happen, so I don't wish it to happen, but I wonder about it all the same. <br />
<br />
The 2013 version has you arriving with all your intensity intact, determined to do something dramatic, with an attaché case full of cash, uncertain which offer you'll make... To my husband? To me? To neither? <br />
<br />
What you wouldn't expect, I don't think, is to be greeted warmly, offered horrifically American tea, and offered sincere condolences on whichever Big D caused you to arrive to us: Divorce or Death. We listen and mourn with you as naturally as if we had last been together yesterday. <br />
<br />
Of course I won't leave him. Of course he wouldn't take money to "tell me I could go." You knew that, but it seemed like a good gesture at some point in your sleep-deprived scheming. At least you didn't bring the gun. <br />
<br />
My bed is upstairs, my husband's is downstairs, so I invite you to lie down with me, to let yourself sleep, with me beside you. It will all make more sense after some rest, some food, some hydration, a shower, and playing with our dogs for a bit. Feeling me hug you, kiss you, hold you close, fuck you if you wish, initiating nothing but nurture, giving you nothing but warmth, in our home, which feels cozy and full and oddly relaxing. <br />
<br />
My life is fuller now, more open. We could have now what we should have been able to have back then, from my perspective. Nowadays, we can't have that from your perspective. But that doesn't make me sad anymore. <br />
<br />
It does, however, make me miss you. <br />
<br />
I hope this email finds you well. Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-25846018492929943762013-04-30T17:29:00.000-05:002013-04-30T17:29:09.667-05:00Becoming a Kinky PresenterDid I happen to mention that I was a presenter at Beat Me in St Louis in March? The class was "Phone Sex and Distance BDSM".<br />
<br />
The way I got the gig was to write the organizers and say approximately "I'm willing to present free if you need an awkward slot filled." Saturday morning 9 am after a late dungeon party? You betcha! <br />
<br />
So I put together a list of classes I'm willing to teach. I'm sure I'll be updating it, but I wanted to remember how it started.<br />
<br />
* Distance BDSM and Phone Sex<br />
* Kinky Ice Breaker Game: "Choose An Offer"<br />
* Hosting Play Parties<br />
* Basic BDSM Safety & Negotiations<br />
<br />
1. Distance BDSM and Phone Sex - sharing my experiences, ideas, mistakes, and advice on distance relationships and phone sex, from long-term distance to a week apart. As a phone sex operator, a switch, and someone who has participated in long-distance relationships with lovers, Doms, and subs, I understand that ache when you want to be together but can't... And how to turn that desire into intimate shared memories.<br />
<br />
2. Kinky Ice Breaker Game: "Choose An Offer" - a fun, flirty, easy, low-pressure way to allow guests to get to know each others, and find out who might be interested in you! The game consists of people making offers of varying levels of naughtiness (spank me, I'll paddle you, grope me, I'll rub your shoulders), people choosing offers which interest them, and 60-second rapidly-negotiated warm-up-level scenes. Class time includes a few rounds of game play for all participants!<br />
<br />
3. Hosting Play Parties - discussion of some legal, logistical, and community issues to be aware of when you're considering hosting play parties in your home. How do you structure invites? Space? Toys? Snacks? Costs? Nudity? Sex? Rules? Enforcement of rules? Neighbors? Dungeon Masters / Monitors? Group dynamics? Privacy? Sound? How do you use FetLife? And does hosting make you a community leader, a controlling narcissist, or both? (Hint: it's totally both)<br />
<br />
4. Basic BDSM Safety & Negotiations - An interactive discussion about the basics of safety and negotiations. Where should I avoid making impact? What helps keeps rope bondage safer? How do I talk with a potential play partner before we play? What are expectations at most events and parties? Strongly recommended for newcomers to the scene, but welcome for anyone who wants a refresher.<br />
<br />
Bio:<br />
Known personally as "Angela", on FetLife as "PlaySmart", and as "Galiana Chance" in her career as a phone sex operator, Galiana and her husband are exhaustingly active members of the Central IL BDSM community. They host educational events, a monthly Meet n Greet, and a usually-monthly play party.<br />
<br />
Galiana learned phone sex because Angela is a non-monogamous bisexual switch with long-distance lovers.<br />
<br />
Galiana Chance has been a successful phone sex operator on NiteFlirt (the most popular phone sex web site in the US per Alexa rankings). For about six months when she was full-time, she was regularly in the top 10 most popular providers, and very early one Tuesday morning, she was number 1.<br />
<br />
In her spare time, Angela makes up more names for herself while caring for her rescue mutts, PlaySmart uses too many words on FetLife, and Galiana sometimes writes about phone sex and other kinky life issues at her Jane's Guide recommended blog: http://galianachance.net/blog/about/<br />
<br />
Presentation Experience:<br />
I presented at Beat Me in St Louis 2013 (it went well for Saturday at 9 am). I have led kinky classes in central IL, a monthly kinky munch in central IL, and 20 years of professional non-kinky classes and workshops on technical topics. References are available upon request for my presentation / group dynamics skills. <br />
<br />
Feedback: <br />
-from Beat Me in St Louis 2013-<br />
<br />
Funny, engaging, informative and fun<br />
<br />
I am so glad I rolled out of bed for her! Excellent and gave me fantastic ideas<br />
<br />
Love, love the ideas. You were descriptively awesome. <br />
<br />
Funny, informative and the presenter was super hot! (Ed note: I think this was my husband's feedback)<br />
<br />
Love the examples you gave of various scenarios. <br />
<br />
Wonderful examples, tips, tricks that can be implemented in every day relationships.<br />
<br />
Loved it! So engaging, funny, warm. Thank you!<br />
<br />
Exact description of class. Funny and enjoyable presentation. Love the part about role play. Could have sat through an entire class on that.<br />
Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-28828630228941800032013-04-11T12:29:00.001-05:002013-04-11T12:29:39.570-05:00Coercion PlayMy Coercion Role Play at Kinky Kollege Spring Break 2013<br />
<br />
The names have been changed so I can blog anonymously, but if you wish to identify yourself, please do! <br />
<br />
To fully understand what transpired, and still remain anonymous, I'm going to alter some historical details of my life: I'm going to pretend that I used to be involved in the data mining industry before I got debilitating vertigo (I wasn't, but it was a similar technical industry), and I'm going to pretend that I did a data mining presentation at a conference which was heard by Christian Rudder of OKCupid's awesome data-mining blog (I didn't, but someone at least that influential in my actual industry did hear me speak), and that Christian not only said nice things about my presentation but then invited me to work more closely with him on a prestigious data-mining publication with awesome smart people (he didn't, but something equivalent to that happened), and that working with Christian on his data-mining project is the thing I miss most about my technical career (it's not, but the equivalent thing absolutely is). <br />
<br />
The primary reason I went to Kinky Kollege was to take some friends of mine, a guy/girl couple, to their first big kink event in a big city, because she is a self-identified dominant at a young age, which is rare enough in urban settings, but so rare as to almost be unique in our geographically scattered semi-rural community. I knew she could get the sense of support and community and training she needs at a big event WAY easier than in our "maybe one educational event per month" community where everybody willing to teach and mentor is already giving 100%, so nobody is gearing education specifically toward new young Dommes, because let's face it, she's the only one. <br />
<br />
So in planning the event, I reached out to the only person on my Fet friends list who was signed up for Kollege: we'll call him Paul. He went to the camping thing last year which my husband attended but I didn't, and then came down to our house for a party and played with a good friend: we'll call her Pixie. He negotiated really intelligently with Pixie before they played, and their scene was super fun: giggly and bratty and wrestle-ey and delightful. She felt fantastic about it afterward. <br />
<br />
So I contacted Paul, explained the newbie mentoring situation, asked if he could introduce us around, and said I looked forward to hugging him. He replied that absolutely he'd introduce us around, and he'd love a hug... especially as after care. <br />
<br />
~ahem~ My stars. /FanMyself <br />
<br />
In case you don't know, "after care" is what happens after a kinky scene. So he cleverly asked me to scene with him. Shock! Squee! Happy! I had all the yeses to that, especially since, at the time, I didn't think my husband could come along with us. <br />
<br />
Paul has a teacher / professor kind of a vibe, so we arrived at the idea of negotiating and playing in front of the newcomers, as a fun education moment, and to help them with their "what do I do at an event" jitters. Yay. We have a plan. <br />
<br />
So it's Friday night of Kinky Kollege, we all manage to dine together (my husband, his awesome submissive, Paul and his adorable girlfriend, my mentee couple, and me), except during dinner, I go to Dungeon Monitor orientation for 30 minutes. Afterward, it's just the four of us: two to negotiate and play, and two to watch. <br />
<br />
We meet up in a lounging area with tables and chairs outside the dungeon, and we negotiate - we had talked about my vertigo ahead of time, and I had read that he likes coercive role play in his profile, which I rather enjoy as well, but we had not yet negotiated pain or sex boundaries, leaving that to do in front of the mentees. <br />
<br />
Paul, as expected, does a great job negotiating with me, including emotional boundaries -- what I crave from a scene even more than pain is to have an experience that is SO different from my everyday life that it's like a mental vacation for my state of mind, regardless of the activity at hand. <br />
<br />
Then he cleverly asks the observing couple for feedback, assumptions, what we missed, and has them ask each of us questions separately to make sure we are on the same page. It took an hour, and it was great. Mostly I think it helped the couple realize they do pretty well already negotiating. <br />
<br />
So we start playing. He puts a rope harness on me, but leaves my hands free. He starts dropping odd references about coincidences, what he's heard of me, how he knows me, stuff that makes no sense. I let it go for a bit, settling in to the mood, letting my curiosity build, and I start assuming he is going to say he had been a phone sex client of mine, which would have been quite a shock. Finally, I ask him about it, and he shows me the logo printed on his toy bag: Acme Data Mining (not really the name, but the effect was the same). <br />
<br />
WHAT. THE. FUCK. <br />
<br />
That was a competitor of ours, of the company I used to work for before I got vertigo. I mean, I knew Paul was a computer guy, but why would he have an Acme bag? He clips my chest harness to the heavy furniture so I can lunge but not escape, and starts revealing things about the data mining industry that suggest he was in it. <br />
<br />
Then he says that he has a name, someone I know, a name that would prove that it wasn't a coincidence that he met my husband, that he played with Pixie, that he flirted with me... A name of someone who would be very interested to know that I liked getting tied up and beaten in hotel basements... <br />
<br />
I knew that part was bullshit, that he'd been stalking me patiently for almost a year. Nobody is that patient. He'd been a kinkster longer than that, so Paul had obviously talked to my husband, gotten some piece of information, the clever bastard. <br />
<br />
Right? <br />
<br />
But....<br />
<br />
I was laughing and cursing him and squirming away from him and melting under his hands when he would grope me or hold me close, and yelping at his sudden strikes, and suddenly very very uncertain what exactly was happening. <br />
<br />
My mind was reeling. I thought of a dozen names. My old CEO, my old Director, project managers... And I honestly didn't give a shit about any of them knowing anything. The company was sold, so even if my vertigo disappeared, I wouldn't go back that path to an IT career again anyway...<br />
<br />
But... <br />
<br />
But the guy who invited me to work on the highly respected data-mining panel, an honor my bosses had not been able to achieve for anyone else in the company in ten years of trying... Him. Christian Rudder. One of the smartest, kindest, most all-around awesome people I've ever brushed up against. He once told a room full of my peers that I was a "mythical creature - a technologist who can also speak English". He is literally the only person from that industry that I would give a rat's ass about his opinion of me. <br />
<br />
"Do you want to know the name?" No! No, oddly enough, I didn't. And yes, I did. But the anticipation was incredibly mind-fucking, and what I really wanted was to have an experience that was different than my everyday routine, and holy shit, this counted already just from the sheer "what the fuck" ness of it. <br />
<br />
Eventually I said yes, I wanted the name, thinking in my head, "Don't say Christian Rudder, don't say Christian Rudder..." And out of his mouth comes... <br />
<br />
Christian. Rudder. <br />
<br />
After that, it got blurry. He was smacking me, struggling against me, while I tried to buck free so I could think straight. I was so pissed. I was so amused. I was so confused. I was so flipped around mentally. I was so sure it was my husband who had told him... Wasn't I? Paul wasn't really there when Christian heard me speak, was he? He hadn't heard the mythical creature comment, had he? What the fuck?!? <br />
<br />
In the following 20-30 minutes of struggle, I said "Fuck you" a lot. Sometimes, very loudly.<br />
<br />
He threatened to tell all kinds of things about me unless I agreed to fuck him, to let him abuse me, to keep going after the event. He told me what he'd do to me, how much fun he'd have, knowing I was no longer doing it for my pleasure, but because I wanted to protect my reputation. And I kept pushing him off, sometimes shoving him or beating against him, wavering between doubt and belief. <br />
<br />
But every question I asked him, he answered, down to shit my husband could never have remembered - the names of my subcommittee, the name of Christian's conference overseas. The publication where things had been published. <br />
<br />
Sonofabitch! No. Fucking. Way. <br />
<br />
He had my arms pinned down, my ankles tied together, and a vibrator wedged against my clit with his thigh while I was telling him to go fuck himself, while he told me what a kinky dirty slut I was and watched me struggle not to be turned on, not to come, but... nooooo, that was a losing battle. I came, hard and loud and struggling against his arms. <br />
<br />
And then I paused. And then I called it. Red. We're done.<br />
<br />
And I reached for his heart while he reached for mine, and I burst into tears while he held me close and told me it was all a game and no, he would never tell Christian anything. My response was a relieved, "Ohmygod thank you... and seriously, fuck you."<br />
<br />
Turns out, at dinner, when I had gone to DM training, my husband asked Paul what he did professionally, and he is in my old industry. My husband mentioned I used to be on the conference with this semi-famous guy.... and Paul said "Christian Rudder, I've published papers with him - he's why I'm in this industry now! I'm gonna use that on her!!" He had always wanted to do a coercion scene with a touch of reality in it, but how often do you have something like that on someone? <br />
<br />
It was awesome. And hilarious. And random as hell. But mostly, awesome. <br />
<br />
So the newcomers said later they enjoyed watching us, plus it gave them an excuse to watch the other scenes in the dungeon, without feeling awkward about lingering for so long. My husband and his submissive had also played in the main dungeon (we were in a smaller one), so a good night was had by all. <br />
<br />
Intense and HOLY SHIT FUCKING INSANE, but great. <br />
<br />
And, Paul, if you're reading this: seriously, dude, fuck you. <br />
<br /><br /><a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/20130411-122400.jpg"><img src="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/20130411-122400.jpg" alt="20130411-122400.jpg" class="alignnone size-full" /></a>Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-13631972949635134592013-03-31T18:33:00.004-05:002013-03-31T18:33:43.094-05:00Kinky Christian SlutHi. My name is Angela, or Galiana, or PlaySmart, depending on the context, and I'm a Kinky Christian Slut. <br />
<br />
I think it's time to admit it. Out loud. Here on my blog, which purports to be about my life, and yet, has remained heretofore silent on the topic of my religious beliefs. <br />
<br />
My Christianity is clearly non-traditional, utterly different than the Christianity portrayed in most 21st century American mass media, very complicated to explain, and deeply personal to me. <br />
<br />
It's Easter today, a big deal in my Christianity. So to help me contemplate, I looked up the words that moved me to first truly commit myself to following Christ. <br />
<br />
It was Winter Quarter 1989. I was in a comparative religion class. Our textbook was then called "The Religions of Man" but has since been retitled to "The World's Religions" by Huston Smith, and since it has sold over 2.5 million copies, I assume everyone else's comparative region class used it, too. <br />
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Six pages in the Christianity chapter changed my world completely. I excerpted them here: <a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/the-good-news/">The Good News</a>. <br />
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When I re-read those words today, I was also inspired to finally get around to reading a Biblical interpretation of the issue of homosexuality, which I was delighted to find I agree with 100%, which concludes that the Bible does not indeed condemn loving, committed, consensual homosexual romantic partnerships. The video & transcript are here: <a href="http://www.matthewvines.com/transcript">http://www.matthewvines.com/transcript</a><br />
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Together, those two pieces of writing pretty accurately sum up the emotional and intellectual cores of my faith, with one addition: I believe the conclusions reached by Matthew Vines about homosexuality extend to loving, consensual sex of all types, even outside the confines of a lifetime monogamous commitment, because I don't fundamentally believe that the cultures represented by the Bible had the context for non-exploitive, consensual, respectful sexual engagement in the way we do in the US in the 21st century. <br />
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I don't want to preach to anybody. What you believe is between you and you, and your higher power if you have one. <br />
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But I don't want to hide my beliefs anymore, either. <br />
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If my vertigo clears up enough, or even if my Summer-2012-to-Spring-2013 anti-concentration fog clears up enough, I may launch a podcast, or an advice column blog, or something like that. <br />
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I see non-monogamous advice on the web and podcasts, polyamorous advice, swinger advice, BDSM advice, kink advice... But never from a Christian. <br />
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I see Christian advice on the web, progressive Christian apologetics, Christian relationship advice... But never from a kinkster. <br />
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I don't see my own voice out here. Not yet. <br />
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So if I do manage to crawl out of the hole which has been waylaying me, I have slowly become convinced that I need to include both my non-monogamous kinkster truth and my Christian beliefs, and let my really freaky flag fly. <br />
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I plan on incorporating my beliefs as part of my opinions, for context, to explain why I would approach a situation in a certain manner. I hope I won't get obnoxious or pushy about. Y'all will help keep me in line, keep me honest, keep me respectful, right? Thanks. I knew I could count on you. <br />
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So you know how 12-step programs start with you saying your name, and then admitting your addiction, like, "Hi, I'm Angela and I'm an Adult Child of an Alcoholic", and when you do that, the others in the room with the same reason to be there answer back, "Hi, (your name)!" and when it happens, you realize that at the very least, for this one moment, you're not alone?<br />
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Well, this is my first step: <br />
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Hi. I'm Angela, or Galiana, or PlaySmart, depending on the context, and I'm a Kinky Christian Slut. <br />
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<em>... deep breath in ... deep breath out ... </em><br />
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I wonder how long it will take for someone to answer me back. <br />
Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-39199317774033722622013-03-30T18:18:00.000-05:002013-03-30T18:18:11.163-05:00The Awesome Island of Misfit Toys<br />
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Written for friends on FetLife, where it made it to "Kinky & Popluar", which meant a lot of people read it and commented and clicked "love" for it. It started some cool conversations. It was fun. </div>
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At a public kinkster event yesterday, I had a thoughtful conversation with a couple of people about their social anxieties, and found out later that two people had chosen to leave the event due to anxieties. Each person's circumstances and triggers and other contributing factors were different, of course, but I've been mulling, so I thought I'd write.</div>
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Indulge me for a moment, and mentally roll the issue of kinkster gatherings and social anxieties WAY back in time to the moment when any of these people admitted to themselves they may be interested in attending a kinkster event in the first place. Who admits to themselves they have kinky desires, much less that they want to talk about them with others? People who consider themselves "normal" and strive for "normalcy" as if it were a good thing? Probably not.</div>
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(Side rant: in my fanatical-and-not-at-all-humble opinion on this matter, "normal" is a terrible thing to want to be... It represents the mathematically most commonly occurring state. Would you strive to be "average"? No? Then don't hope to be "normal" either, because they represent the same thing. I hope for "healthy", which isn't normal. Be healthy. Don't be normal. Normal isn't healthy, it's just common. End of rant. Maybe.)</div>
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So if your perspective on your life is already outside of the box marked "normal", because you've always been OCD or ADD or on the autism spectrum, or anxious, or unusually fascinated by leather, or overweight, or underweight, or a closet anorexic or bulimic or compulsive eater, or an abuse survivor, or attracted to people of your gender, or prone to acting like a kid even though you're an adult, or ... Or... Or... (Fill in anything not considered normal here), well, then you're potentially more open to follow your own "abnormal" desires and wonder if others have them too.</div>
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Summary so far: if you'll never be normal anyway, then the entire world of abnormal behavior kind of opens up as a possibility for you. Why not, right?</div>
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Result: Kinksters are likely to be people who had other reasons to consider themselves abnormal before they were kinksters.</div>
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Therefore, kinkster communities can sometimes feel like an Island of Misfit Toys.</div>
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And that's kinda awesome, in my opinion. I'll explain.</div>
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So yeah, maybe there's a higher-than-average occurrence of social anxieties even without play going on. Then when you add in play -- which we do because we really really crave something about it from a primal part of ourselves which isn't particularly rational to begin with -- the odds of people bumping into quirky, darker, rougher parts of each other go up even further.</div>
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So someone gets overloaded and has to walk out without saying goodbye. Good for them for taking responsibility for their struggles, and not barfing their challenges all over a group of people gathered for a different purpose. I vote we applaud that choice as a mark of maturity and respect for consensual interactions.</div>
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So someone negotiates a scene, but freezes up before/during/after, or has a flash of strong emotions (this is assuming everything stayed within negotiated boundaries, and the emotion is expressed in a way that's not blaming or malicious). Good for them for getting far enough to hit a wall, and good for them for learning something new about themselves. It probably took a metric ton of courage to even try whatever it was in the first place.</div>
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But these quirks, these bumps, these flashes of fear or anxiety with all these people already starting outside the normal box, you know what it gives us? The real possibility of connecting with each other in ways which are emotionally honest, deeply encouraging, and affirming down to the core of our self-images.</div>
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I think when people talk about the sex / play / kink they like, they can often end up sharing views on spirituality, family histories, emotional struggles... The stuff you talk about with your very best friends, the stuff that matters most.</div>
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And when people actually share the experiences of kink / play / sex together, it can invite others into places in ourselves that feel really honest and pure and true, and knowing that someone saw that inside of me and still likes me, and even thanked me afterward... It can be healing on a visceral level that's hard to replicate other ways. At least for me.</div>
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So then, all of a sudden, less than a year after moving somewhere where you didn't know anybody at all and you feared you'd never make friends here, you find yourself on an island so full of other awesome misfit toys who are really amazing friends that you wonder why anyone ever wants to find friends from anywhere else. Because the toys here may be missing parts, but they are unbelievably awesome to play with.</div>
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Y'know?</div>
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I love you guys.</div>
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Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-84867258088363910052013-03-29T10:01:00.000-05:002013-03-29T10:01:08.218-05:0050, 30, and The Identity Exercises<br />
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Here's another one I wrote for some friends on Fet</div>
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I have a good friend turning 30 soon, a good friend turning 30 soon-ish, and a good friend turning 50 soon. Got me to thinking.</div>
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When I was in college, I was in therapy for family reasons, a theater major "because I learn more about what it is to be a human through stories than I do psychology or hard sciences" (that was my standard answer, and yes, I know it was pretentious), and heavily involved in a close-knit religious community which encouraged emotional honesty. So I basically thought about myself and my emotions ALL THE TIME. It sounds exhausting now, but obviously, it was what I needed then. Don't judge.</div>
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My religious wrestlings, therapeutic processes, and artistic growth often fed each other, but never as much as the week of The Identity Exercises.</div>
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In acting class, we had to make a list of our identities: daughter, niece, sister, student, actor, lighting designer, girlfriend, friend, dancer, mathematician, tutor, teacher, comedienne... Then my acting professor had a guy named Joe read his list. It included "boyfriend". She asked whose lists included "girlfriend", and I was picked to go up to demo.</div>
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I stood on stage with Joe, and the professor asked us to talk with each other as if we were interested in dating each other. She told him to start with the question, "How was class today?" and so we chatted, flirting. Within minutes, we were well on our way to our first kiss if nobody stopped us.</div>
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Then my professor said "And now, you're father / daughter." (which, first of all, was a brutally emotionally sadistic move, because I had only recently begun talking with my father again, but hadn't seen him in two years, and she knew that... but her irresponsible bitchery is not the point of this story) It was suddenly VERY AWKWARD as we both adjusted and he asked me again, "How was class today?"</div>
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The class told us afterward what they observed - when we were boyfriend/girlfriend, we stood closer, we touched more, we met each others' eyes, we laughed more easily... when we were father/daughter, we stood further apart, stood up straighter, both our hands went in pockets, our eyes narrowed... We both looked and acted completely differently.</div>
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I took the list to my therapist. After she helped me through wanting to strangle my professor, my therapist asked me to fill out the list more - recognize positive attributes of each role, identify roles where I could borrow confidence (student had confidence to spare for daughter...), and generally ponder the complexity of human interactions by mapping how I wanted to behave in each role.</div>
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(Hooray for competent cognitive/behavioral therapy: that therapist was an amazing gift)</div>
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Then the topic for the Fall Retreat was announced, with the kickoff talk, "What Would Change If You Really Believe God Loved You?" and there were all those identity roles and behavioral choices rolling around in my head, so I spent a week in a daze, imagining God pouring love over me in each of those roles, and soaking in the understanding that I could simply... choose to believe it. Or at least, to do my best to fake it until I believed it.</div>
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My next time in therapy, I was barfing all my thoughts to my therapist, and she asked, "So, with all this information, how do you see yourself in the future?" And I closed my eyes, and I imagined.</div>
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I was 50. I knew I was 50. I was wearing a sun hat, kneeling in earth, planting things, or maybe tending things that grow. I knew I was on my own land, and I knew that I enjoyed the gardening, and I looked up at something in the sky and wiped the sweat from my brow, and grinned, and I was... So. Amazingly. Peaceful.</div>
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I wasn't a peaceful kid. I wasn't a peaceful college student. I wasn't at peace with my family, my body, my career choices, my intellect, my talents... None of it. I saw myself as a constant barrage of insecurities and facades. Sure, I was honest, but almost I was almost unbearably messy. Spastic. Chaotic.</div>
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But she... This 50-year-old. She was... well... You've met peaceful, happy 50-year women, right? They're strong and solid and trustworthy and comforting and huggable and funny and amusing and wise, and ... y'know... awesome. I grew up in a big multi-generational church with many confident, awesome women in their 50s. And in that moment of imagining, I could see myself as one of them.</div>
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And I wanted it. I wanted to be her. I wanted to be guided by her. I wanted to know what she knew. I wanted to skip 30 years ahead and go to be her, immediately. Of course, I couldn't skip my 20s and 30s and 40s. Darn it.</div>
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But that vision of my 50-year-old self has continued to be my North Star. Literally everything else I thought I wanted for my life has changed completely since then, but in every season - reconciling with Dad, losing Dad when he died, my first marriage, my unexpected technical career, my divorce, my discovery of kink, my relationship now with my husband, my vertigo, losing the house, becoming a phone sex operator, and this past crazy year of explosive polyamory - in all these wildly disparate seasons, my 50-year-old self has always looked back at me with kind eyes and a peaceful-but-mischievous grin, and encouraged me to be like her.</div>
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So I guess I've lived my life as "What Would I Do If I Were 50 And Awesome?" And then I try to live up to that, as best I can.</div>
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When I turned 30, I was "happily" married, living in a house that we were "going to be in forever", and we were going to start having kids soon. I felt good about the external circumstances of my life, but I was growing increasingly uncomfortable with my emotional realities, how I felt about myself and my increasingly angry husband.</div>
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My 30-year-old reflections on my 50-year-old self led me to leave it all, so by the time I turned 32, I was divorced, redefining my faith and romantic relationships and sexual desires, and rebuilding my sense of self-worth from the ground up.</div>
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It felt, at the time, like I had wasted a huge chunk of time, that I would never "make it up", that I would always feel stunted by the choices and mistakes of my 20s. But now it's laughably easy to see that I had so much time ahead of me to make whatever I wanted. Several times over, in fact. For that matter, I couldn't have predicted my current life 15 months ago, much less 20 whole years!</div>
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So getting older doesn't bother me. I'm excited every year. I get to be closer to her, that vision of myself. Someday, I will meet her in myself, I think, although it may not be exactly at 50. Most importantly, every year, I can see ways that I become more like her.</div>
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So, to my good friend turning 50 soon, congratulations on getting to experience the awesomeness. I'm a little jealous. You may not always be peaceful, but neither will I. But you know stuff. You make good choices often. You're full of awesome. I hope you can appreciate it.</div>
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And to my good friends turning 30, I urge you to imagine a version of yourself at 50, full of every drop of awesome that you want to become, and to think about becoming her, more than you think about what you've already done or not done, and even more than you think about who you are today. Let her love you, nurture you, and assure you that you'll make it. Because you will.</div>
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I know what she'll say: you'll be amazing then, even more amazing than you are now. But let's face it, you're pretty damn amazing now.</div>
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Happy Birthdays, friends. I'm glad you were born. I'm glad I get to journey with you now. I'm looking forward to our journeys from here.</div>
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And hey, wait a minute: why don't I own a sun hat?</div>
Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-85876763606897097112013-02-02T21:36:00.003-06:002013-02-02T21:36:59.039-06:00Becoming Lady Angela / Staying PlaySmartI wrote this for friends on FetLife. It contains information bombs for blog readers:<br />
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1. My first name is Angela.<br />
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2. My username for my personal profile on FetLife is PlaySmart.<br />
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When I was first starting phone sex, around my 40th birthday, I wrote about <a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/2010/09/18/happy-birthday-galiana/" target="_blank" title="Happy Birthday, Galiana">choosing the name Galiana</a>, and whether or not <a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/2010/09/21/my-real-name/" target="_blank" title="My Real Name">Galiana is my real name</a> in some sense.<br />
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Along the way, I told a few callers my legal name, for various reasons. The <a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/2011/06/26/new-lover-warning-labels/" target="_blank" title="New Lover Warning Labels">guy I met real-time</a> with sugar daddy tendencies. The first caller I told that <a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/2010/08/31/love-the-english-language-and-not-completely-pretending/" target="_blank" title="Love, The English Language, And Not Completely Pretending">I loved him, and from the same blog entry, the man who fell asleep to my voice for a while</a>. The one who helped me start accepting <a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/2010/09/10/accepting-my-inner-whore/" target="_blank" title="Accepting My Inner Whore">my Inner Whore</a>. The <a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/2011/02/03/heartbreak-and-phone-sex-part-v/" target="_blank" title="Heartbreak and Phone Sex, Part V">guy in a wheelchair</a> who has become a great friend. The one who <a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/2011/01/22/heartbreak-and-phone-sex-part-iv/" target="_blank" title="Heartbreak and Phone Sex, Part IV">fleshed out the non-flesh part of me</a>.<br />
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But ironically, I had not yet told the man who is secretly the real reason I'm still writing blog entries - according to him, anyway - the one who helped me know I could do the job of phone sex. He would have gotten my name from me sooner or later. He has his ways.<br />
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Now I'm wondering who's gonna get pissed that I never told them, or that I told them and then left them off the list. In my defense, my memory has been well-documented as terrible. But no, I'll leave the list there, with all its almost-certain-to-result-in-a-complaint awkwardness, because it's interesting to me to get lost a little in those memories.<br />
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When I told someone the name Angela, it was always a matter of trust, that they didn't wish me harm. It was always a matter of respect, especially respect for my marriage and my life situation. It was always a moment of intimacy, when I believed that they would feel something in their gut in a deeper way if I told them.<br />
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But these days, it's only complicating to have such bold lines drawn between Angela and Galiana. The truth is, I would welcome any of my old callers as FetLife friends, and I am secure enough in my guard dogs, my marriage, my kinky community which includes a policeman, and my crazy home where people irregularly come and go (anybody trying to case our house would be quite frustrated) to trust that I am at least as safe as other public-facing kinksters who give away equal amounts of information. Plus, I don't have kids to protect, so my stakes are lower. Much lower.<br />
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Besides, I'm not producing things as Galiana anymore. I never log in to FetLife as Galiana, and the thought of keeping both FetLife profiles maintained is overwhelming right now. So this blog, and my FetLife handle of PlaySmart are the best ways to keep in touch with me. I've been wanting to open that up for months. I haven't talked myself out of it. This blog post is a good excuse to open that up.<br />
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So, anyway, I wrote this for some friends on FetLife. I thought a few of you might enjoy it.<br />
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It started as a joke of sorts. Our domo house servant for the Formal Dinner asked what I wanted as my place setting name (calligraphy done by hand, of course), and since I was playing the role of "Lady of the House" for the evening, being served by literally a dozen willing servants, I answered "Lady Angela". We giggled a lot about the name. So everyone called me Lady Angela for the evening, even though I left a trail of accidental sequins from my clearly-not-well-made dress wherever I went.<br />
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At Spanksgiving the weekend before, someone had called me elegant. I believe my response was to guffaw. Maybe I snorted. Me? What? No.<br />
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I see myself as dorky, goofy, geeky, and klutzy. Oh sure, I can be fun and smart and sexy, too, but in a cute dorky way. At best, I'm the eccentric, nutty professor; at worst, one of those coltish young women in the Girls Gone Wild video commercials falling over and crashing into things (and why is there always at least one of those?!? what is the appeal?).<br />
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But the name stuck, even after the party. I assumed it was kind of a loving teasing thing, like my childhood experience of being a tomboy who fell out of trees a lot - new bruises and scrapes were usually greeted with a grinning, "Way to go, Grace" from my dad. The phrase "Way to go, Grace" still makes me roll my eyes.<br />
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Shortly after the Formal Dinner, I had a couple of new offers to provide service to me. Like fetish service. To me. I mean, yes, sure, I already have a cross-dressing fetish servant, but I consider him an anomalous reminder of my abnormal life, and a practical bit of help, not a sign that I am overall deserving of Service in some way. Because I honestly don't think I am. I mean, I'm able to receive Service and understand why it feeds someone and appreciate it as a gift, but I don't deserve it.<br />
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So then people who know me and love me started seriously suggesting I change my Fet name. Really know me. Really love me. And... they weren't making fun of me. They were honestly seeing some good fit between me - bumbling clumsy me - and the term "Lady".<br />
<br />
Lady? Really? A college roommate had a publicly stated goal to "turn me into a lady" our senior year, because I was such a goofy tomboy. She has since often declared me one of her greatest failures, because I still curse, and knock things over, and cross my legs wrong, and prefer to wear comfy pants, and turn and start walking and run into walls (even before the vertigo!). I literally publicly failed at being ladylike in any way in my formative years. That's how much not "Lady Angela" I am.<br />
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So I started asking my loved ones why they liked the name for me. They pointed out ways I graciously allowed others to assist me (which caused me to ask for more assistance, which further reinforced the idea). They pointed out ways other people irrationally went along with my narcissistic suggestions (like me hijacking someone else's New Year's Eve party so I could get smooches an hour early). They pointed out strengths I took for granted ("you always seem to have a plan, even if you're making it up" and "you almost always stay calm even when others are freaking out" and "you don't get flustered when people say no, so it makes people want to say yes to you" and "you're good at being grateful and saying thanks, so people want to help you" and "you give a lot, so people want to give back to you").<br />
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I would never go so far as to call myself elegant, because that implies I wouldn't burp out loud (I totally do), or get my hands dirty when there's work to be done (I totally do), or enjoy lowbrow things like velveeta-based queso (I totally do) or eating spoonfuls of peanut butter straight out of the jar (I totally do, all the time).<br />
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But I guess I can see that I'm gracious sometimes, that I tend to expect the best from the people around me, and that expectation of goodness frequently ends up bringing out the best in people. It's amazing to me how that works.<br />
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So although I have been uncomfortable with being called Lady Angela because it feels pretentious or demanding, I hate rejecting an idea purely out of insecurity. I try to treat insecurity was a sign, pointing to something I probably need to ponder.<br />
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I think maybe the name "Lady Angela" reflects parts of me that I love, that I strive to be, but that I often dismiss or undervalue. And yet, the reality is, in this kinkster world, I've tried to give people spaces to get questions answered, to encourage people to explore their desires, to give gentle nudges and mischievous grins to bolster courage, to set an example of seeing myself as sexy eye candy (even with a heavier-than-average body shape), and to encourage others to embrace their sexy, too.<br />
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It started as kind of "well, since I can't play very often because of my physical limitations, at least I can help others have fun." And that focus has reinforced my compersion, my ability to enjoy the joy radiating off others. And the more transitive joy I develop, the more I want to encourage others' joy... I can see how my compersion is a little Lady-Angela-ish.<br />
<br />
I have opened my home, and I have opened my heart, as wide as I can without overextending myself (well, okay, sometimes I overextend, but I try not to). I can see how that's a little Lady-Angela-ish.<br />
<br />
And before my December party, I found myself saying things like, "I told guests that if they arrive early for the party they'd be put to work, so don't worry about the disassembled Christmas tree in the living room - the minions will take care of it" ... and realizing that I honestly do have willing minions to help me set up my home. I mean, not full-time, but certainly for community events I'm organizing. So yeah, okay, that's definitely Lady-Angela-ish.<br />
<br />
But then there are utterly practical considerations: I intend to re-activate my professional life as Galiana Chance when I can. One profile will stay my personal one, and Galiana will be my professional one, but I have decided to link the two, and explain the differences on each profile. My professional foray will be a podcast, I think, and right now, I want to call it "Play Smart with Galiana".<br />
<br />
I love the idea of having my personal, community, real-life profile named PlaySmart, and my professional, link-to-all-my-podcasts-and-blog-posts profile named Galiana, because then in order to get the full picture of everything I'm doing, you'd have to have PlaySmart with Galiana. Get it?<br />
<br />
See? Dorky. I told you.<br />
<br />
But then there are introductions. How do I introduce myself if I'm a sex podcaster with two Fet names, neither or which are Angela? PlaySmart? Galiana? Angela? Lady Angela? The Girl With Too Many Frikkin Names? Thankfully, I think the scene is used to people having multiple personalities, so I think everyone will figure it out eventually.<br />
<br />
Ultimately, at a gut level, I love it when people <i>choose</i> to call me Lady Angela. But I don't think I'll ever <i>ask</i> anyone to call me that. I love it as a pet name, a term of endearment, or even friendly kidding when I do something supremely unladylike.<br />
<br />
But for those of you who have thought of me that way, thank you. You've held up an interesting mirror for me to look into, and I have enjoyed the view. And I look forward to continuing to discover parts of myself there. And I very much look forward to doing what I can to help my minions be the best they can be as well.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/IMG_1582.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Galiana as Lady Angela" class="size-medium wp-image-3017" height="300" src="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/IMG_1582-200x300.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Galiana as Lady Angela</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
-----<br />
<br />
Then about a week after I wrote all that on FetLife, a local friend gave me this:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/IMG_1675.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Lady Angela's peanut butter" class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-3018" height="300" src="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/IMG_1675-224x300.jpg" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lady Angela's peanut butter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's a jar of my favorite brand of peanut butter, labeled "Lady Angela", with a spoon taped to it. I'm saving it forever. I mean, not the peanut butter - I'm eating that! But the labeled jar with the spoon.<br />
<br />
I have the bestest life ever.Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-89138908849416613022013-01-31T13:13:00.004-06:002013-01-31T13:13:57.772-06:00Woman of LeisureIt's been about seven months now since I felt like I was physically capable of sustaining a phone sex call in a manner worthy of charging for it. My current neurological makeup seems to favor activities which provide a lot of joy, but require very little concentration, and if either of those aren't true, I run out of steam quickly.<br />
<br />
Writing for this blog has been oddly difficult as well. There are stories I want to tell, but I haven't been able to figure out how to tell them here. I write things on FetLife, for my in-flesh kinkster friends who have become my community and local family of choice. Some day I'll figure out how to translate them here as well.<br />
<br />
I was talking last night with someone who has also had an online "persona" which dropped off his radar when he got busy or overwhelmed. I don't think Galiana is a "persona" in the traditional sense, because Galiana is all honestly me (except the name), but Galiana is ... filtered me, focused me, a version of me that has been seen through a filter of "ready for the world and ready to please", and maybe that's the filter that I haven't been able to sustain lately.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, though, in the midst of this season of not being able to focus on someone else's energy and match it consistently or for any predictable length of time, we settled my disability claim, which has provided significant financial breathing room for now. It would make me nuts not to do anything financially productive forever, unless I really couldn't come up with anything I can consistently commit to.<br />
<br />
Also thankfully, I have ample opportunities to do activities which provide a lot of joy, but require very little concentration.<br />
<br />
Indulge me, if you will, fine ladies and sirs, as I describe to you the life of Galiana Chance, Woman of Leisure.<br />
<br />
<b>Throwing Parties</b><br />
There's an odd phenomenon with hosting a party. On one hand, yes, having a party requires a lot of concentration, especially with as picky as we are about the physical setup and the cheese selection. It's important. Don't judge.<br />
<br />
But my home has the giant advantage of an easy escape to a comfy bed. It's unrealistic to expect other people to set up a separate vertigo station for me. The ability to take a break for an hour or two makes it much much easier to throw a party.<br />
<br />
Also, our guests are good about helping clean up, bless their sweet hearts. I think it's a pity thing. And I'm okay with that.<br />
<br />
So, every month, we've been throwing a shindig for 15-30 of my closest friends. And I've been attending a few shindigs that others throw, although I wish I could attend all of them.<br />
<br />
<b>Hosting a Meet n Greet</b><br />
I felt like the local kinkster scene was missing a monthly event specifically geared for (a) people who get vertigo in crowds to have an escape hatch, and (b) to help newcomers feel welcomed and give them a way to meet other local kinksters. So I started one. It's a munch / meet n greet / open public meeting, whatever you want to call it.<br />
<br />
It's extremely simple, and the layout is such that I can sit outside the room where the crowd is gathered, and I can talk with the few people at a time who are hanging out by the bar, under the auspices of "I'm watching for people entering so they can get a name tag". But really, it's way easier on my vertigo to be out by the bar. Shhhh. Don't tell anyone. We're averaging 30-40 people per month, which wildly exceeds my expectations.<br />
<br />
When the Meet n Greet is on the same weekend as the parties we host at our house, I spend the whole week reserving energy for them. By the end of the night, I'm either sacked out upstairs with a cuddle buddy, or I'm endlessly grazing in the snack room, glassy-eyed, giving hugs and encouraging people to make fun of me. I'm useless for two days afterward, but it's fun, and it's worth it.<br />
<br />
<b>Halloween Season</b><br />
We attended one kinkster costume-encouraged Halloween party, and we threw one. I went the lazy route with store-bought costumes from a local lingerie boutique / sex toy shop.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/IMG_1435.jpg"><img alt="Referee Galiana" class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-3006" height="300" src="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/IMG_1435-224x300.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
At home, I was the referee, where people kept offering to blow my whistle, and then offering to play me some horrible song about whistle blowing which I am clearly too old and grumpy to properly appreciate.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/IMG_1462.jpg"><img alt="Major Tease Galiana" class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-3008" height="300" src="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/IMG_1462-125x300.jpg" width="125" /></a></div>
<br />
The one someone else hosted, I was "Major Tease" as it said on my name thing on my costume, but it was hotly debated whether I was a "tease" or a "slut" if I let multiple people grab my boobs. There was empirical testing done.<br />
<br />
It was during this season of spirits that I decided my primary role at most parties is to be the best eye candy I can be, plus encourage my friends to grope me, and each other. Also, I engineer hookups for other people: play partners, smooching buddies, and cold girls with my eternally-warm-handed lover. I like the kinds of trouble I cause.<br />
<br />
<b>Spanksgiving</b><br />
<br />
I know at least two people in St Louis who are going to be super mad to discover this information this way, but ... The week before Thanksgiving, I went to the StL3 Spanksgiving conference, where I changed outfits far more often than was necessary.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/Spanksgiving.jpg"><img alt="Galiana at Spanksgiving" class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-3009" height="147" src="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/Spanksgiving-300x147.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
I forgot to take pictures of at least two outfits at the conference. The costume changes were seriously out of hand. But super ridiculous fun. Cameras aren't allowed in the main area, so the pics were in side areas or bathrooms, but that was the best I had. I felt like a stripper about to go onstage all weekend, but people kept telling me they loved my outfits, so what was I gonna do, disappoint them by staying in one outfit? Pffff. Clearly not.<br />
<br />
I spent a wonderful, affirming weekend learning, smooching, getting groped, getting spanked, and distracting the off-duty cops working security. It's not my fault one of them is 6'8" and gorgeous and has a British accent! What was I supposed to do, let him feel neglected? When he works so hard to protect and serve? Noooooo, clearly the right thing to do was to bring him women and let him whisper naughty things in their ear so he could watch them melt. And maybe offer to let all the cops grope me, including the woman cop. It's not my fault I was raised to be friendly and inclusive.<br />
<br />
But seriously, the presentations were amazing, the company was spectacular (Devant also had an amazing weekend - she got her name cut into her shoulder with a scalpel! Yeouch! She loved it), and the energy was fantastic. By the end of Saturday, I was a loopy weirdo space cadet, but I was getting so much happy energy that I just kept wandering around soaking it up. Thankfully, nobody expected me to be coherent. Whew.<br />
<br />
<b>Thanksgiving & The Formal Dinner</b><br />
<br />
We had Thanksgiving dinner with several friends who did not have family-of-birth plans, and it ended up being a delightful family-of-choice time, with mind-blowingly delicious food and lovely conversation. I realized I was still recovering from Spanksgiving, which had ended four days earlier, when the spirited multi-way conversation going on around me no longer made sense, as if everyone was speaking gibberish.<br />
<br />
That was when I understood for the first time that my vertigo crashes had adapted to stimulus of pleasant social overload by blocking my cognitive processes instead of giving me overwhelmingly unpleasant whirling sensations. Oh, silly Brain. Thanks for the adaptation. How about you work on adapting to not be dizzy at all? No? Okay, well then, I'll take "pleasantly confused" as a consolation prize.<br />
<br />
A mere two days later, we had a Formal Dinner at our home, where people who wanted to be in service/submission for the evening literally served the rest of us, as if the ones being served were Victorian lords and ladies. I was asked? forced? encouraged? to step out of the limelight and let other submissives in the community organize and arrange everything. It was harrrrrrd! I kept wanting to help with stuff! But they were all mean to me and made me sit back and relax and be served! Crazy!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/IMG_1524.jpg"><img alt="Formal Dinner Table" class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-3010" height="300" src="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/IMG_1524-224x300.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
<br />
Our home looked amazing, with table linens and individual menus made especially for the event, and I honestly had to do very little in support. It was easily the most delicious dinner I have ever had outside of a fancy restaurant. And honestly, more delicious than some Zagat-rated meals I've had. Each of the four courses caused at least one foodgasm. And how do you top the memory of having flaming bananas foster in your house?!? It was so amazing that it felt like a dream. Was I really served ... in my home ... by a bunch of willing submissives ... exquisite pork loin and perfect mushroom risotto and creme brulee that brought tears to my eyes? In my home? I'll never forget it.<br />
<br />
Then we went to someone else's home for a lovely play party afterward, where I got spanked a bit. It was a mild scene in terms of BDSM culture, but it was enough to melt me into a pile of useless vapid staring and giggles, so I became the after-care zombie cuddle buddy, which suited me quite well.<br />
<br />
<b>And More</b><br />
<br />
That was just October and November. In December, I went to three kinkster holiday parties, one of which we hosted, and traveled back to Texas to see my awesome family. There were a lot of outfit changes. And I smooched a lot of girls. And I made my teddy bear servant cum without touching him (heh, that was fun). And my husband and I rekindled some mischievous energy. It was a fantastic month.<br />
<br />
I got to confirm my growing understanding of my limits without the pressure of wanting to save energy for work, and the truth is that I can go a long long way socially, as long as nobody asks me to calculate a tip, remember the name of anything or anyone, or solve a puzzle involving rearranging objects in a limited amount of space. I would be utterly useless without my phone chirping reminders and storing lists for me, but I've figured out how to use it to manage around the lapses in my unfortunately spotty memory.<br />
<br />
<b>What I Can't Do These Days</b><br />
<br />
Thank you for all the emails and twitters of concern over the past few months. The truth is, my vertigo isn't doing particularly well. I'm often confused. I often feel unable to drive safely, even short trips in town. I spend a lot of days on my own, snuggling with my dogs and limiting my sensory stimulation.<br />
<br />
I thought maybe I'd be able to start up a podcast. I'm sure I would have a modest, loyal audience if I launched it. So for most of January, I slowed down my social calendar and tried to build enough juice to make it happen.<br />
<br />
It turns out, I can't. It's not that I don't want to, I just can't. I can't sustain the concentration I need to do even short bursts of podcasting, because there are so many other technical pieces which go along with the podcast, other than just the recording, and I can't get myself from here to there. Not yet. I hope someday, but not yet. That's been understandably disappointing.<br />
<br />
And clearly, I can't write blogs very often. This one took me two weeks. I'll keep doing it, as I can, because I like keeping in touch with the few readers who continue to pop in. And I like having it to return to when I get better again. Hi! Thank you for still checking here! Mmmmmmmwuh!<br />
<br />
<b>What I Can Do These Days</b><br />
<br />
I am obviously finding ways to enjoy myself in this season. Clearly, I'm not suffering. I'm attempting to let go of the shame and sorrow of not feeling productive. I'm over-compensating by telling my friends on FetLife my opinions of their personal issues way more often than I probably should.<br />
<br />
And sometimes, I have given people a different perspective on their situations in ways they have found helpful. Or at least they've told me it was helpful, which was nice. So I'm doing best to be an encouragement to my in-person friends and family here.<br />
<br />
Since I can't figure out how to do financially productive work anymore, I have gone back to trying new anti-vertigo medicines. The first one was hopeful at first, but after 4 days, I had horrible rebound, so that was an unfortunate no. It made me go back and try a few fast-acting ones that had worked in the past, but they all had the same effects as before.<br />
<br />
Today is Day 4 of a new medicine that needs to build up slowly in my bloodstream. I can't tell what it's doing exactly, but I did have the urge yesterday to talk like a hick all day. Really. This big, fat Texan twang kept coming out of my mouth. It was deeply amusing. It seems to be gone today, but it certainly counts as the most bizarre and hilarious possible side effect yet.<br />
<br />
So I'm doing the best I can do with what I have in this season. It is good enough. I am extraordinarily grateful that if I have to be in a season where I can't be financially productive, at least I don't have to worry about bills being paid. It's a good life, and I'm glad I get to live it.<br />
<br />
As always, feel free to drop me an email (see the <a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/contact-and-links/" target="_blank" title="Contact and Links">Contact and Links</a> page) any time to check up on me, tell me your good news, tell me your sad news, whatever. I'll write back when I can, but it often won't be right away.Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-11045661645669970072013-01-31T10:14:00.003-06:002013-01-31T10:14:57.602-06:00First Stand UpI happened to be at an open mic for stand-up, so I decided to try my hand. I've suspected I wouldn't be horrible at it, and sure enough, it wasn't horrible (except for about 45 seconds near the beginning, which I edited out).<br />
<br />
Enjoy :)<br />
<br />
<iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/7Gz5S3bymIE" height="315" width="560" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0"></iframe><br />
<br />
And if anybody feels like transcribing it so I can have the whole text of it at the end of this blog post, please feel free to do so and send it to me.<br />
<br />
Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-62358329505222700062012-12-02T11:28:00.003-06:002012-12-02T11:28:33.272-06:00Becoming The AnswerI turned 42 this year, which means I am now <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phrases_from_The_Hitchhiker%27s_Guide_to_the_Galaxy" target="_blank" title="The Answer">The Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything</a> (follow the link for the geeky reference).<br />
<br />
So for my birthday party, I gathered a few local kinkster friends with a very specific set of criteria:<br />
<ul>
<li>I had to believe they wanted good things for me</li>
<li>I had to believe they would not be offended or bothered by sexual play (many kinksters, especially BDSM players, only play with pain outside their primary relationship, but they don't include overtly sexual acts)</li>
<li>I had to believe they would say "no" to my request if they were uncomfortable in any way (not everyone will)</li>
<li>I had to believe they would enjoy running their hands over my body (not everyone would)</li>
<li>I had to believe they would not be traumatized if I cried in front of them</li>
</ul>
The first unbelievably wonderful thing about my birthday is that I had to pare down my list: there were enough people fitting those criteria in our kinkster community that I couldn't invite everyone who I wished could have been there, because the sheer volume of people in our home would have been counterproductively overwhelming.<br />
<br />
So. Yeah. This is the part where my brain goes -splork- from disbelief with how crazy wonderful my life sometimes is.<br />
<br />
-splork-<br />
<br />
Here is what I said to kick off the party after everyone had gathered, also known as Easily The Most Insane Speech Ever:<br />
<blockquote>
Thank you all so much for coming here tonight.<br />
<br />
I'm almost sure you all know this, but just in case: in addition to this being a birthday party, it is also 2 days before my disability insurance settlement hearing. We've waited three years for this hearing, and it's been a crazy hard road.<br />
<br />
[start to cry, spend the rest of the speech powering through tears as best I can]<br />
<br />
So this week, to prepare for the hearing, I am doing lots of things which normally wipe me out - but nothing that would have made me dizzy in 2008 before I got vertigo - and I'm pretending like it's 2008 and I don't need to recuperate between activities. I'm pretending that there is no vertigo wall for me to crash into.<br />
<br />
However, what only three of you know, and this is hard to say out loud, but... something shifted in my neurological balance over the summer, in June some time, I think, and some things have been wiping me out even more than usual since then. And unfortunately, one of those activities has been having orgasms, especially with a partner. So, I just haven't been. Having orgasms. With other people. Not really at all for a few months now. Poor guys. [gesture to my husband and my local lover]<br />
<br />
<i>My local lover: No, poor you </i>[I nod, catch my breath again, take in the empathy I feel in the room]<br />
<br />
So, hmmm, let me see, if I'm trying to do things I enjoy this week without worrying about getting wiped out... what could I possibly come up with that I might enjoy? [everyone laughs]<br />
<br />
So I figure that if I'm going to have a non-solo orgasm, I might as well go big and... y'know... throw a party and invite everyone in the party to help bring me to orgasm. Cuz... y'know... go big or go home, right? [gentle cheering]<br />
<br />
So that's the goal. Now for logistics. I'm going to explain an insane amount of information and caveats, after which you can make an informed decision whether or not you want to participate.<br />
<br />
First of all, I was tested for Sexually Transmitted Infections earlier this week, and they all came out negative, and the copy of my STI report is right here if you want to see it [wave a paper].<br />
<br />
Next, before we start, I'm going to be a crazy controlling control freak and ask everyone to wash your hands so I don't get the flu on Monday [everybody laughs at me].<br />
<br />
Also, I bought a bunch of those single-use toothbrushes Colgate Wisps, so if you want to kiss me or lick me, feel free to brush your teeth first if you'd feel more relaxed about it, or use the mouthwash in the bathroom.<br />
<br />
Also, if you want gloves, we have some non-latex gloves, and feel free to wear them.<br />
<br />
Also, in what is perhaps the most embarrassing and awkward thing to admit to a sex party ever, I ... ummmm... deep breath... I started my period yesterday [groans of "oh fuck I'm sorry" from the women], so I just douched and I have in a menstrual cup, so there shouldn't be any blood, but if that freaks you out, feel free to avoid touching my cooch.<br />
<br />
Okay. Now I'm gonna die a little. [crazy face while waves of "I can't believe I'm doing this, I can't believe I just said that" wash over me]<br />
<br />
Okay, I'm back. So. What's gonna happen is, I want you to help me undress, then guide me to that table, and then you're gonna gather around me, and you're gonna touch me, kiss me, lick me anywhere on my body until I have as many orgasms as I can stand.<br />
<br />
Well, except, don't touch me anally, because if anybody did that, it would probably be over too soon, and it would be a harder intensity orgasm than I want. The same for pain - no pain, because it would escalate me too fast, and I want this to last as long as possible.<br />
<br />
So you'll use your hands and/or mouth. I got some flavored body butter that smells and tastes like cake [side note: it totally does], so if you want to rub it into me or lick it off me, feel free.<br />
<br />
Think gentle in terms of touch. Whole fingers, palms... stroking, not tickling. If you're touching my pussy, think petting, not rubbing. [demonstrate on my arm] If your fingers are inside me, think pressing, not pumping [demonstrate on my fist wrapped around fingers]. I promise it will be enough to make me come, because this is all already very intense for me.<br />
<br />
Afterward, after I have an orgasm, I'll probably ask you to just stay with me for a moment while I come down a bit. And, I might crash... I mean, I might have an unpleasant vertigo reaction, and I might cry. It might look like it's hard for me to go through.<br />
<br />
But here's the important thing for you to remember: I chose this. I chose you. You are not doing something bad to me. I designed this moment to be exactly what I wanted it to be, and you are here because I trust you and I want to share this moment with you. I believe this will be exactly what I want and need it to be. I'm asking you to do this, even knowing what's going to happen. I am choosing this.<br />
<br />
So now... go wash up, and anybody who is willing to participate, gather back here when you're done.</blockquote>
Of course, in reality, all of that came out less well-organized, with clarifying questions, and stuff I forgot the first time, but that was approximately what was conveyed by the time the group re-gathered.<br />
<br />
We gathered. I said thank you. I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath and said, "Okay". And I felt my roommate peel my clothes off me, my lover guide me onto the table, my husband's hand over my heart.<br />
<br />
And then...<br />
<br />
It felt like a sea of hands. Little waves of fingers crested and broke on my skin, replaced by new waves of gentle, rolling touch. It was amazing.<br />
<br />
I heard whispering and jostling as the group trial-and-error figured out how to fit everyone into the space - I heard later they were rotating slowly around me so everyone could have a turn, because not everyone fit all at once, with my husband and lover approximately opposite me, with a few people watching from the other room at any given time.<br />
<br />
I realized after about three minutes, just as the rhythm was starting to settle in, that I had, spectacularly, remembered to shave my pubic hair, but neglected to shave my legs, which I said out loud in abject shame, and everyone laughed at me and my easy-to-forget peach-fuzz leg hair.<br />
<br />
I was rubbed, stroked, pressed, caressed, kissed, licked, suckled, petted.<br />
<br />
I heard later that a couple of people got a little overwhelmed and stepped back just to watch, crying quietly, while others continued to rotate slowly around me.<br />
<br />
It felt like the same person was gently touching my face the whole time, but I found out later that almost everyone had touched my face. I don't know how that's possible, but it was wonderful.<br />
<br />
I felt loved. Cherished. Adored. Supported. It felt like the hands of everyone who ever cared for me were wishing their prayers into me for my good, for my healing, to give me love.<br />
<br />
Although it may sound hokey to say, I thought of you some of you: readers, callers, friends I've never met in person, people I would have loved to have be there with us, people who felt like they were there with us.<br />
<br />
I could feel the love of everyone who ever loved me.<br />
<br />
And I came, twice, I think, although it was more like one that kept rolling into another. As the orgasms washed over me, I was grabbing on to wrists I couldn't identify, pressing against fingers I couldn't distinguish, arching under hands I couldn't place.<br />
<br />
It broke over me, and I felt the vertigo washing in behind it, and I tapped something twice and said, "Okay" and then hands all went away, as if they were all one person. "No, no, stay touching, just stay" and they all came back, together, pressing into me, as if they were all from one heart, centered by the hand which was suddenly obviously my husband's over my heart, the hand that was suddenly obviously my lover's pressing into my belly, to ground me.<br />
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I cried into all of them, letting that first ugly wave of chaotic backlash hit me. I breathed through it as best I could, tensing up, and releasing, releasing, releasing, as best I could.<br />
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Then my breath returned, a bit at a time. I'm sure it was just five minutes maybe ten, but it felt like an eternity. Nobody moved. Everybody just ... stayed.<br />
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"Okay" I said again, nodding slowly. "Okay".<br />
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Nobody moved.<br />
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I smiled a little, snuggled into someone's arm, said, "Okay, I can do this," then let my eyes blink open.<br />
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If you've never been lying on a table, surrounded by people pouring intense amounts of love into you, and looked up at all of them all at once, let me assure you: it's incredibly intense.<br />
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I believe my response was to curl into a ball, put my hands over my eyes, and say something brilliant like, "aaaaaaaa! too much! too many eyeballs! go away, ya creepers!" At which point, everyone laughed at me, hugged me, reached out for one last touch, and left me with my husband and my roommate and my lover, where they wrapped me in a blanket and cuddled me until I could crawl up one stair at a time to my bed with my husband's help. <br />
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A few people came upstairs and cuddled me, thanked me, told me what they had felt, what they had seen, then quietly disappeared again. It was lovely.<br />
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After about 2 hours, I think, and some bizarre-but-peaceful vertigo dreams (which feel more like vivid hallucinations than sleeping dreams), I had settled enough to venture back downstairs, one stair at a time, with help again, but this time, dressed in my favorite sleep t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. The group dynamics had livened up considerably, more like one of our normal parties. People were rassling and beating and doing all manners of naughtiness to each other. I floated from person to person when people weren't actively in play scenes with each other, thanking them, hugging them, trying to let the snacks and hugs bring me back to earth. I felt and sounded wasted, forgetting words and being ridiculously confused, but everyone was gentle and kind and amused with me.<br />
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We opened presents, one of which was decorated in colorful pipe cleaners, which I drunkenly wove into my hair. There were presents for both me and my roommate, and at one point, I stared at the card with my FetLife handle written on it, which is the name I introduce myself as at munches, a personal nickname of sorts, which I hear and use often among my friends, and I genuinely wondered who to give the present to because my brain could not figure out it was for me, for waaaaaay too long. The laughter when I said, "Oh! That's me!" intensified when it turned out the card was a 'getting older' card about how your memory stops working ... priceless.<br />
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In case you're curious, here's how I look when I'm brain-drunk beyond belief, with pipe cleaners in my hair, two or three hours after a vertigo crash.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJs30nysbwNjSpV3HNWdQXbwIWH8Ba-0ZOboWlKE_DDcrwJTJjjI_zbBvVt0rkGf5sCyNTQ1q12QH2E9yNVnEWxqPbZeteHF0ssSsY2MPJjZrgh3UzxrgxxLh-vkF9x2qrCWyOP6OGTIg/s1600/IMG_1365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJs30nysbwNjSpV3HNWdQXbwIWH8Ba-0ZOboWlKE_DDcrwJTJjjI_zbBvVt0rkGf5sCyNTQ1q12QH2E9yNVnEWxqPbZeteHF0ssSsY2MPJjZrgh3UzxrgxxLh-vkF9x2qrCWyOP6OGTIg/s320/IMG_1365.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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It was perfect. Everyone was amazing. It was exactly what I needed it to be, and more.<br />
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And that, ladies and gentlemen, in case you were wondering, is how you become The Answer to Everything. I would have suspected that it required a giant helping of love, which it did, but who could have guessed it also needed pipe cleaners? Well, now we know.Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-16544945880076193982012-11-10T21:57:00.000-06:002012-11-10T22:59:32.492-06:00ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My mom in Houston got 60 days' notice that her apartment building was being torn down. My sister helped her through a whirlwind decision-making cycle, resulting in a move just one week later on Nov 8. I felt helpless to assist from Illinois, until I checked air fares, which weren't too bad, so I flew down Nov 6 for a crazy week. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Even though Mom doesn't have a ton of stuff in her clutter-free, well-organized one bedroom apartment, and she is blessed with enough savings and early-move cash incentives to afford to pay for packers, movers, and unpackers (holy cow, that was nice), still, moving is a pain, and I was very glad to be able to help. I owe her karmically for my two moves in 2011, to put it mildly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">To amuse myself, I started compiling a list of things I almost said to my mother, but managed to not say. In some cases, barely. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"That furniture wrap works just like bondage tape" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"With this yoga outfit, it's a shame the gang isn't here to ogle me for all the bending over" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"I don't think they could see cooch through the window, just boobs" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"That's a book light? It looks so much like the WeVibe my lover gave me" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"No, save that duster, it would make a good sensation play toy" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"That's a book light? It looks so much like the WeVibe my lover gave me" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"This shower curtain liner smells just like my big black dildo" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mom: Nicely hung! Perfect in one hole! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Me (#ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom): "That's what she said!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mom: you've done enough, you're off. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: after I hang that last bedroom picture. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mom: you're failing at "off". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Me (#ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom) "Oh no, no, you're wrong: I totally rock at getting off."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's been wonderful to be here. As always, we have laughed a lot at ridiculous things I have said, in addition to the ones I managed to keep to myself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Postscript: I know I haven't written in a while. I'm alive. I haven't been taking appointments for a few months now, because unfortunately, my vertigo seems to have taken a turn for the unpredictable. Activities with unknown outcomes include writing, talking on the phone, and having orgasms. In good news, I had a great birthday, a fun Halloween, and I have plans for a November packes to the gills with friends and family. I hope to write about all of it eventually, but don't hold your breath. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the meantime, I'm slowly moving closer to recording podcasts to see how I like it, if I think it's sustainable. I have a microphone, I understand noise filtering, and I know where to host shows. It seems possible to me that when I do have bursts of productivity, I could potentially do that. Fingers crossed anyway, right? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I hope all is well with you & yours.</span></div>
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Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-25403469601001323132012-09-25T06:32:00.004-05:002012-09-25T06:32:52.481-05:00Tired, Happy, Done<br />
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We settled. I'm legally bound to disclose no details, but it was very close to the smallest number I needed to walk away in peace. Most importantly, it's done, and I never have to look at the nasty papers again. Not today, not next month, not next year. Never. </div>
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Explanation for those just joining in: I sued my long-term disability insurance for benefits they have refused to pay me for the last 3.5 years, regarding my neurological vertigo severe enough to keep me from working full-time. </div>
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It was a brutal week leading up to the hearing. The hearing itself was mind-crushingly four hours long, and every aspect of the case was reviewed from every angle. I feel like all the truth was told. That part of it felt good. </div>
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What also felt good was the support from family and friends and friends of friends. I felt like I was being carried on a cloud of love and good wishes. Thank you for your part in that.</div>
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So. It's a new dawn, a new day, a new life for me. And I'm feelin good. </div>
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In case you don't know that song... <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sJCoocxBE">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sJCoocxBE</a></div>
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Thank you. </div>
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Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-62019653461779228102012-09-11T22:19:00.002-05:002012-09-11T22:19:54.600-05:00This Crazy Birthday<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;"><div>
I wrote this for a few friends, but thought I'd share it with you too. </div>
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I'm turning 42 on September 18. It's going to be awesome because that means I'll be The Answer for a year (geek reference here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phrases_from_The_Hitchhiker%27s_Guide_to_the_Galaxy#Answer_to_the_Ultimate_Question_of_Life.2C_the_Universe.2C_and_Everything_.2842.29 ). And any year that you're The Answer to the Ultimate Question has to be a great year. So, that'll rock. </div>
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But ...</div>
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I was born on my father's 28th birthday, so he would have been turning 70, if he were still alive. I grew up thinking of it as "our birthday", but this will my 20th birthday I've celebrated without him since the heart attack that took him at age 50. So. That'll suck. </div>
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And on Sept 24, I have a settlement hearing for the lawsuit against my long-term disability insurance provider. That battle has been raging for 3 years now, and it packs quite an emotional punch for me. I've been a bundle of nerves since I found out the hearing date. It will be the first time I've been face-to-face with a company representative. </div>
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My lawyer recommended that I arrive at the hearing genuinely showing signs of vertigo. No faking, no exaggerating, but let them see what my neuropsychological testing revealed: severe cognitive impairment after periods of concentration (or motion).</div>
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For me, that means I will spend the week before Sept 24, which happens to contain my birthday, doing things that would NOT have made me dizzy in 2008, but which DO make me dizzy now. Action films, crowds, grocery stores, car trips, complicated math, strong emotions, dancing, rapid temperature changes... The list is very very long. There's lots to choose from. </div>
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Usually, I space out my vertigo-inducing activities to give periods of brain rest, and I usually avoid some activities altogether unless I have a free day afterward to recover. But that week, I'll do a bunch of stuff I love, not rest my brain unless I can't keep going, and do my best to remember, "If I'm going to be miserable, at least I should have fun doing it."</div>
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The first movie I missed on the big screen was the 2009 Star Trek. I'll be watching that. </div>
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I used to play a lot of Rock Band, so I'll be all \m/</div>
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On the 22nd, I'll be having a birthday party, and while the guest list will be limited to a "light crowd" so I have a better shot at participating for more of the evening (if the house were packed, I'd not last long), I intend to participate in as many conversations involving 3+ people simultaneously as I can without hurling on my guests. </div>
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(PS, I don't actually puke very often - I just feel pukey inside my head, but I will move away from you if I get to tummy-levels of nausea). </div>
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On the 23rd, we're attending a big cookout party, where I will do my best to remain upright, and not make everyone else uncomfortable. These seem lofty goals to me. </div>
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Then we're driving to Chicago for the hearing, which is at 9 am the next morning. </div>
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It'll be a weird week. I'll be around a lot of people, feeling bad physically and emotionally, but working hard to focus on fun happy things. </div>
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So, if I'm not going to see you, you can help by praying for me to be as vertiginous as possible at the hearing with as little misery as possible leading up to it.</div>
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And, you can send me happy words (stories, encouragement, funny blog posts, whatever), because reading in volume works, too, and I love words a lot. And if you grew up with me or my parents, send a story about my family history I may have forgotten! </div>
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If you are going to see me, please don't ask how I feel, or how I'm holding up. I'm gonna feel gruesome, but I'll be attempting to hide it, and I hate lying, so I'll tell you now: I'm gonna tell you I feel fantastic just to keep up the facade, but I'll treat it as a pre-agreed-upon mutually acceptable pretending, not a lie. Thanks for participating in my self-deception. </div>
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Also, here's what you can do to help if you see me in person: tell me an awesome story about your life, then quiz me afterward on the details. I love hearing stories. And memory puzzles wreck me. And I'll concentrate harder if i know you'll be quizzing me, so it'll be a fun way to degrade my cognitive abilities together! (what a weird sentence)</div>
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Also, thanks for your understanding in advance if I burst into tears and excuse myself for seemingly no reason. Hopefully now, you understand why. </div>
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</span>Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-60778988536292645112012-07-30T00:08:00.001-05:002012-07-30T00:08:39.624-05:00The Beauty of Submissive MenFirst, Ferns asked for a very special birthday present in a blog post, "<a href="http://www.domme-chronicles.com/2012/07/the-beauty-of-submissive-men.html" target="_blank">The beauty of submissive men</a>" - she wanted photos of submissive men. She asked for diversity and truth. She got both.<br />
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Because the resulting video can't be played on my iPhone or iPad, I didn't see it until after I read this blog post by the ever-articulate submissive Tomio Black, "<a href="http://masculinesubmission.wordpress.com/2012/07/28/unexpected-beauty/" target="_blank">Unexpected beauty</a>", which made me cry and cry.<br />
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Then I finally saw the resulting video, hours later, here: "<a href="http://www.domme-chronicles.com/2012/07/submissive-men-a-celebration-of-beauty.html" target="_blank">Submissive men: A celebration of beauty</a>". I love it with all my heart.<br />
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Bravo Ferns. And happy birthday, Mistress.<br />
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If you're as happily moved as I am, please pass this on as many times as you can (this blog posts, or just direct links to them, I don't care).Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-706015621361639562012-07-25T15:56:00.002-05:002012-07-25T15:56:23.115-05:00That Went WellI've built successful communities before: at church, at work, in online gaming, and socially. And I've organized group meetings and get-togethers all those places, too. So I had a high level of confidence that hosting my first kinkster community event would be a success...<br />
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Until about 2 hours beforehand, at which time waves of doubt crashed over me. What if the discussion format bombed? What if nobody shows? What if the food is terrible?<br />
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When I first organized the event, I was expecting 15 but secretly hoping for 20 just to feel badass.<br />
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I got 38. That's right, <i>thirty-eight</i> people showed up to mingle, listen to me give announcements about upcoming community events, and participate in the discussion groups (which were widely referred to as "semi-structured", an accurate description I love a lot).<br />
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And we had newcomers! One couple hadn't been to a community event in two years. Two people were complete newbies. I had non-newcomers on the lookout for newbies, and they were warmly greeted and welcomed by the community leaders who we want to be when we grow up (/sniffle they came to my thing! /sniffle)<br />
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But... back to that number. Thirty-eight is like a turnout you could expect in Austin. Or Houston. Or some other giant metropolis. You don't expect that for a non-mainstream fetish event in a town where corn fields are always no more than 10 minutes away. I mean, yes, within an hour's drive, there are probably about a million people, but still. I was pleasantly shocked.<br />
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So the food worked pretty well, but needs some tweaking, the drinks worked well, the traffic flow around the room worked well, and the venue loved us and can't wait for us to return. The manager even congratulated me on having such a good turnout. Awww. (I totally wanna smooch him, by the way)<br />
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Anyway, enough bragging about my thing. After it was over, my husband and his live-in girlfriend Devant kicked off a party at our house while I recovered upstairs for a few hours, playing a silly flirty party mixer game we made up, and helping the crowd feel welcome.<br />
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The only picture I took of myself was at the end of the evening, when I felt drunk as a skunk from my vertigo dizzies (I consumed zero alcohol), and I look like a wino. Guests said I looked "happy cute drunk" but clearly from the picture I refuse to share, they were merely being polite.<br />
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However, I did manage to get this picture of Devant, which should give you an idea of how the party went:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQiRDU7KaULH35lpEtinP6OcLSIsy1o4GykxLJGXBHycaJ3LiWWHitPBc1tMWNzwCrfPjGiG4IOU75gVcHtMQKns8TXPskZJssH3B94Vzi-d9JKB4kQGIEmFTbozXBiLWzvQ97J1a-P78/s1600/IMG_1217.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQiRDU7KaULH35lpEtinP6OcLSIsy1o4GykxLJGXBHycaJ3LiWWHitPBc1tMWNzwCrfPjGiG4IOU75gVcHtMQKns8TXPskZJssH3B94Vzi-d9JKB4kQGIEmFTbozXBiLWzvQ97J1a-P78/s320/IMG_1217.JPG" width="158" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Devant in her natural habitat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
She was being put into a straightjacket before getting beaten on the bed. A moment before this picture, Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" came up on the rotation, and she made her eyes all googly and sang along, "I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind!" which cracked everyone up. A pink-haired 21-year-old in a straightjacket got beaten on my bed while playing brat and giggling hysterically. How great is my life?<br />
<br />
Also, someone who was present for my <a href="http://galianachance.blogspot.com/2012/01/hand-orgy.html" target="_blank">Hand Orgy</a> has been thinking she also wanted one, so she got one, and it was magical and wonderful and awesome. She also cried a lot, which made me feel less silly about crying at mine.<br />
<br />
Then there was a guy there with the most awesome afro-like-but-surprisingly-not-on-a-black-guy hair (maybe he's Jewish? Middle Eastern? I'm not sure), and word spread to texture-lovers that he'd let us run our fingers through it. Oh, and maybe he likes being scratched. So maybe his shirt needed to come off while one... okay, two... no wait, four... I think it was five women eventually were surrounding him, playing with his hair and scratching his back and chest, and sometimes biting him. It was his first party ever, his first scene ever, and he was hiiiiiiiiiigh as a kite from happiness.<br />
<br />
In case you're jealous. to. death. of that guy (as well you should be), here's how he got that scene: he went to three public meet-and-greets (aka munches) before anyone invited him to a party. He was polite and respectful at the public events. He never asked to be invited to the play parties. At the play party, he sat back and watched, declining to join in to the hand orgy or anything else other than watching because he was, as he said, "watching to see what the rules are so I don't mess up". He was approached by someone who asked what he liked. He negotiated with her about the hair playing and the scratching and the biting. He knew his safewords. He kept his hands at his sides because nobody had invited him to touch them. He moaned appreciatively when surrounded by women pawing at him, which made it more fun to continue to do so.<br />
<br />
In short, he was polite and respectful and patient and open to new experiences.<br />
<br />
Also, he had yummy lips, which I brain-drunkenly said aloud, so one of my friends dragged me over to him and told him I wanted to kiss him. Could not be more junior high. Ridiculous. He was gracious enough to oblige me, so we made out for like 2 minutes, only interrupted because I realized it was making my vertigo worse, and if I didn't stop kissing him, the party would be over for me. It was almost worth it to keep going, but not quite.<br />
<br />
For those of you keeping track of my <a href="http://galianachance.blogspot.com/2012/06/smooch-slut.html" target="_blank" title="Smooch Slut">smooch slut</a> record, I also made out with another friend who is quitting smoking. Y'know, as encouragement! I do what I can to help my friends be healthy, right? They were kissing partners #91 and #92.<br />
<br />
It was a fantastic weekend, an amazing event, a great party, and I made it through more of it than I expected to, because I fortuitously got happy-vertigo-drunk instead of miserable-vertigo-drunk. The evening ended tucked in bed with my lover, extremely satisfied.Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-43607493733744367282012-07-20T15:56:00.001-05:002012-07-30T02:23:08.913-05:00Big Weekend AheadIn my typical way of doing more things at once than I can reasonably keep up with, this weekend, I am:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>hosting a community event designed to help newcomers to the kinkster lifestyle get their questions answered</li>
<li>attending an after party in my home, organized by my husband and Devant (my husband's live-in girlfriend), which I will attend after my vertigo zombie-brain calms down</li>
<li>spending the night with my lover after the play party, probably just for cuddles, due to aforementioned vertigo zombie-brain issues</li>
<li>having a friend switch my hosting providers on my domains, which will probably generate a lot of questions which need rapid resolution</li>
<li>mentally gearing up for a second photo shoot with Devant, tentatively scheduled for Monday</li>
</ul>
<br />
I think that's it....<br />
<br />
The after party is really the awesome part. I said that I wanted to give something back to the kinkster community which has not only given us Devant, but also a gaggle of other friends here who I am growing increasingly close to.<br />
<br />
I had the idea of hosting my own event, optimized to be as non-dizzying as possible, so I wouldn't feel as guilty about not being able to keep up with Everything Everyone Else Is Doing (which I totally am not managing to do - I'm a very sporadic attender to the extraordinary volume of other people's things I'm invited to attend, no matter what it sounds like here on the blog)<br />
<br />
But in general, kinkster community events are far more populated if there is at least one play party afterward. Sure, the public event is public and the play parties are private, but still, more people show up for the public non-play thing if there's a play destination afterward.<br />
<br />
But I knew I couldn't do both, host an event and host a play party afterward. It's too much to do.<br />
<br />
Hubby and Devant came to my rescue, agreeing to host an after party when they can. Yay!<br />
<br />
So here's what this looks like: I do nothing to prepare for the party. I host the event, which requires very little setup from me. I come home, go upstairs, and fall into a deep coma-like sleep for a few hours. I wake up and come downstairs, making a grand entrance to a play party in full swing. I gather attention, adoration, hugs, kisses, and gropes for an hour or two. Maybe I help someone beat or tie someone else. I float back upstairs with my lover and fall asleep cuddling, knowing that my vertigo is not causing anyone else to forego fun for the evening, and, instead, I have helped facilitate fun.<br />
<br />
Seriously. Who the fuck has a life this ridiculous and awesome. I'm not used to it yet. I hope I never get used to it.<br />
<br />
I'll try to remember to take pictures, but I might be too busy smooching women and grabbing boobs. I trust you to forgive me.Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-36973743386833894162012-07-15T21:56:00.001-05:002012-07-15T21:56:12.966-05:002 Years, 450 Posts, 1 Blogged LifeTwo years ago, I took my first phone sex call. I've never told you about it, have I?<br />
<br />
My first phone sex call lasted 1 minute. My listing had been approved and active for a week, and I'd been dying from the suspense of wondering who would call. He said he was curious because my listing was so different, I said "Thanks, I think!" in a tone that I meant to sound playful, and he hung up and never called back. Not. Exactly. Encouraging.<br />
<br />
The next day, I got an email asking if I would exchange for-pay emails about desires for extreme humiliation, sissification, and being pimped out as a cocksucking whore. Sssssure, cuz I'm such an expert on all that (<i>look up "sissification" on urban dictionary...</i>). Then he called me, and we talked about those desires for 11 minutes. He didn't climax that I could tell.<br />
<br />
I was confused. I had hoped... y'know... for the phone sex business to... y'know... contain actual phone sex. No?<br />
<br />
My third call, on the day after that, lasted 30 minutes. I was a virgin, his babysitter, and he walked in on me masturbating. He taught me how to suck cock (thank goodness!), and how to come under his tongue (yummy), holding me down when I was oversensitive so he could enjoy my overstimulated thrashing (mmmmnnnnrrrrgggg).<br />
<br />
Much better. Whew. That was the call which let me know I could do this. Plus, it was fucking hot.<br />
<br />
Since then, I've had over 2,500 phone calls, about half of which were during my first six months, when I was available full-time. Then my husband found work and I went part-time and sporadic as a phone sex worker. I've spoken to at least 700 men and 2 women...<br />
<br />
Okay, fine, I was trying to make this blog post exciting or titillating or informative, but it's totally not working for me. Because what I feel like saying is this:<br />
<br />
<b><i>I kinda feel like a fake.</i> </b><br />
<br />
I mean, yes, I still do phone sex for money. But they're all appointments these days. And most of my appointments come from 10 regulars who I know like the back of my hand. I'm a little afraid to start writing about them because then it would be obvious that I have a tiny little constituency these days, and what if that makes me horrifically boring?<br />
<br />
This blog feels like it so rarely even talks about phone sex. It feels like it fits my original tagline "The Blogged Life of Galiana Chance, Phone Sex Operator" much more accurately than my current tagline of "The Phone Sex Blog of Galiana Chance". But I'm reluctant to change it back because my Google rank has risen to page 6 of results for "phone sex blog" since I changed it (from page 54), but I kinda feel like I'm false advertising. Ugh.<br />
<br />
Dear All My Insecurities: go fuck yourselves.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/2012/07/15/2-years-450-posts-1-blogged-life/dsc_5589/" rel="attachment wp-att-2967" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Galiana and Devant flipping you off" class="size-medium wp-image-2967" height="225" src="http://galianachance.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/DSC_5589-300x225.jpg" title="Galiana and Devant flipping you off" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Galiana and Devant flipping you off</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i>FYI: The picture is from the photo shoot my roommate & I did four days ago for one of my regular callers - he paid us a looooooot of money. Enough to pay the photographer and my roommate and myself quite well. Oh, plus Devant got her first mani/pedi with me on Wednesday, which of course, she loved a lot. The caller loves girls flipping him off. We were happy to oblige. Isn't her expression to die for? Since she's normally pretty bubbly, this picture is hilarious to me.</i><br />
<br />
I understand that all I have to do to "not be a fake" is to take phone sex calls. And I do. I really do. I left my play party early Saturday night to take a call to replay a scene from the caller's sexually formative memories. Before the photo shoot with Devant Thursday morning, I took a deliciously playful call to be a British secret agent testing new field gadgets in ways that were perhaps not entirely consistent with lab protocols.<br />
<br />
A dozen calls of 30+ minutes each plus some sugar-daddy tips is about what I need to make in a week, and that's about what I do. I'm still a phone sex worker. Intellectually, I understand that I am not a fake, whatever the hell that means.<br />
<br />
But back in my early days, in that giant rush of energy when I first started, I dove all the way in. I was available 12-14 hours per day for weeks on end. I was ecstatic to have found work I could do. I was ecstatic to have an income. I was ecstatic at the wall of lust I found myself able to navigate successfully. I gained confidence, skills, knowledge, and a sense of purpose.<br />
<br />
But since my husband found a job as well, and a damn fine one at that, and especially since I moved up here to be with him, I haven't made phone sex as much of a priority. Now I'm available for a few hours per day at most, almost always by appointments. Where's the risk? Where's the rush? Where's the push to new frontiers? Where's the stuff that makes for interesting blogging?<br />
<br />
I think the thoughts that are turning over in my brain, wanting to be written, are in the rest of my life, more than in the phone sex. And maybe that's what's been making it difficult to write this blog post.<br />
<br />
In the past year, I've had three new lovers. My husband has blossomed as a BDSM top and gained one live-in girlfriend and one submissive and one "student" and at least four other casual play partners. We've hosted half a dozen play parties. I've consensually groped dozens of women. I've taken on a real-time domestic service submissive. I'm considering topping another submissive in exchange for helping me with my web tasks. I've started organizing local events for new kinksters to safely get questions answered.<br />
<br />
Plus, my husband's current job has a ton of overlap with jobs I used to do, so half the time at dinner when it's just the two of us, we're thinking through complex business politics and change management strategies. The other half, we talk about all the other crazy stuff we're doing: the parties, the partners, the million things we're learning about ourselves by interacting so intimately and intensely with others.<br />
<br />
And I do more now. God, now I'm gonna start crying, and this unstructured rant no longer even pretends to be anything other than a diary. The anti-vertigo medicine I started a year ago continues to enable to do a little more all the time. So I can go to the chiropractor and then to the grocery store and then to dinner with my husband and our roommate, and still keep an hour-long appointment to do a robot roleplay where I have a fantastic orgasm in the middle of a very complicated malfunction.<br />
<br />
So because I can do more now, I do more. I do so much more.<br />
<br />
I don't know if you realize this or not, but two years ago, the grocery store alone would have done me in for the day.<br />
<br />
Yep. Crying.<br />
<br />
So sometimes I do too much, and then I hit walls of dizzy exhaustion, and then I can't take appointments for a day or sometimes two, and then I get frustrated with myself and angry that my priorities aren't in order and I worry that one day, the handful of callers I have left will get sick of me abandoning them and all fire me all at once.<br />
<br />
Being a phone sex operator isn't what defines me anymore. Well, that's not fair - it never fully defined me, but for a while, it took up most of my energy.<br />
<br />
Oh. Finally. There it is.<br />
<br />
Now I know what I want to say.<br />
<br />
I'm a person with a rich life who happens to be a phone sex worker, not a phone sex worker who happens to have a life.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, I need to write things to figure them out. Now I know exactly what this blog is for again. Thanks for sticking with me through that process. Fuck the Google rank; it's time to change my tagline back. This blog is about the life of Galiana Chance, a woman who happens to be a phone sex operator, not just about my job.<br />
<br />
Well. There now. I feel so much better.<br />
<br />
So. Now that we've figured that out, happy 450th blog post. And happy two years of phone sex, in all its sporadic awesomeness.<br />
<br />
If you feel like giving me a gift in celebration, please leave a comment or write me an email (galiana.chance@yahoo.com) to tell me why you read my blog. I want to know, even if your answer goes against what I just wrote (crackin' myself up - I totally want someone to write "I want to hear stories of phone sex, dammit, and you're totally failing me!"). Your engagement would be an honor.<br />
<br />
Now I need to end this blog post because my lover just came over. Pardon me, I need to go live my life.Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-5511284318747955212012-07-11T22:57:00.001-05:002012-07-11T22:57:38.531-05:00Appointment WidgetMy <a href="http://galianachance.net/blog/calendar/" target="_blank" title="Calendar">calendar page</a> is useful again! There's a new widget there showing you times in the future which I would love to fill with an appointment with you.<br />
<br />
You can request an appointment, cancel an appointment, or reschedule an appointment through the calendar, in 30-minute blocks. If you have questions, please write me.<br />
<br />
You have to give an email address when you request an appointment, and it has to be a real one that you check to see if I confirm the appointment (it's not for sure til I confirm it).<br />
<br />
I will be able to see your email address, but I'll never sell it, and I'll be far too lazy to use to market to you. I'm already not using NiteFlirt mail to market directly to people who have called me, so why would I use something possibly even more invasive?<br />
<br />
This is so fun! It's like I'm a real live person on the internet now!<br />
<br />
Oh, hey, speaking of fun... Right now, I have times available on the appointment widget for this Saturday afternoon and evening (July 14). But I have the opportunity to go to a kinkster social on Saturday. But it's out of town, and I'm not sure I want to make the drive.<br />
<br />
So, we'll see what happens Friday, and if I don't have any appointments set for Saturday, I'll cancel the availability and go to the social. But if I have even one appointment, I'll stay home and turn on the phones and see who calls!<br />
<br />
I guess I'm having kinky social time either way, aren't I? Lucky me!Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-82452485974380281712012-07-11T10:30:00.002-05:002012-07-11T10:30:30.899-05:00Play Party Eye CandyAgainst all odds, and perhaps also against all better judgment, I went to a play party this weekend. I wasn't in great shape after the traveling, but I made it.<br />
<br />
The host lives in a collegiate part of town where noise ordinances are unlikely to be enforced, and neighbors are more likely to peep than report if there are nekkid people in an inflatable "hot tub" in the back yard.<br />
<br />
So I wander in the back yard, and there are five topless women and three appreciative men in the inflatable "hot tub" (water heated by the scorching outdooor temps and refilled by garden hose), and I was easily coerced to join. The woman next to me, who I've groped and smacked and licked several times now, groped my boobs, because for some reason, although I'd done all manner of terrible things to her breasts, she'd never seen mine naked, and declared, "Your boobs are so dense!"<br />
<br />
This led to all six topless women circling up to feel one another's boobs for squishiness and density. My boobs were declared to "feel young", in case you were wondering what they feel like.<br />
<br />
It sounds like fiction. I understand that. And yet, I believe it is a memory, accurately portrayed. But then, I take barbiturates every day, so how reliable am I?<br />
<br />
So then the host, who is a mischievous genius, pinned his delectably squirmy girlfriend's hands behind her back, told her to close her eyes, and told her to guess whose breast was in her mouth with no sight and no hands.<br />
<br />
It was implicit that anyone who didn't want their boobs in her mouth could opt out, but since we had all been fondling each other moments before, and we all burst into laughter at the host's clever party game, it was also pretty likely that we were gonna go along. Oh, hey, whaddya know? There's Galiana, scooching up to the host's girlfriend aiming a nipple at a lovely mouth!<br />
<br />
She guessed me correctly, which was awesome, then missed 2, got another one right, then there was only one woman left, so we silently volunteered one of the men... and the guesser made a HILARIOUS face and did a spit-take and squealed, "There's hair on this chest! What the hell!"<br />
<br />
I laughed so hard my sides hurt.<br />
<br />
Then we repeated the game with the host's lovely young submissive, who is also the wife of the guy with the hairy chest. Relationships get complicated to explain when everybody has multiple play partners. I think only one person in the pool is monogamous, and she still lets my husband beat her, so it's very complicated...<br />
<br />
Anyway, back to the game. The lovely young thing in the second game had to guess who was kissing her with her eyes closed and her hands behind her back. She guessed correctly on everyone she'd kissed before (4 people), and the only smoker (one of the guys), but guessed wrong for me, so I had to go back and kiss her again. I *haaaaad* to. Poor me, right? She was a fantastic kisser.<br />
<br />
(side note: She is my #90 kissed, but I'm not sure how to count someone who has sucked on my nipple but not kissed... I have very unusual problems)<br />
<br />
After we got out of the water due to extreme prune-iness in our extremities,I changed clothes, which resulted in this:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://galianachance.com/blog/2012/07/11/play-party-eye-candy/img_1193/" rel="attachment wp-att-2968" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Galiana's corset eye candy" class="size-medium wp-image-2968" height="300" src="http://galianachance.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/IMG_1193-225x300.jpg" title="Galiana's corset eye candy" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best outfit ever</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So that is: black patent leather 4.5" heels I hadn't ever worn, a poofy see-through skirt I got at a conference, a black lacy thong, my wedding ring, a bracelet my husband's live-in girlfriend made for me, a bracelet my husband's other girlfriend (new) made for me, a corset my husband's same other girlfriend sold to me, a Secrets in Lace bra bought for me by a money slave last year, a black bead necklace I got at the same conference as the skirt, glasses, and a hair-up-do thing.<br />
<br />
I don't consider myself a fashionista by nature, but I figured I might as well dress up, since I didn't have the energy to play. But I know enough to know that this outfit is probably the best thing I will ever put together.<br />
<br />
My husband came upstairs and took another few pictures on the bed, then did his instagram magic and came up with this:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://galianachance.com/blog/2012/07/11/play-party-eye-candy/2012-07-07-20-26-39-hubbed/" rel="attachment wp-att-2969" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Galiana drama" class="size-medium wp-image-2969" height="300" src="http://galianachance.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/2012-07-07-20.26.39-hubbed-187x300.jpg" title="Galiana drama" width="187" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Drama"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I presented myself to the partygoers upstairs and downstairs, to much praise and adoration. The cross-dresser in a denim skirt swore he'd up his game at the next party, and kept saying he couldn't decide between being distracted by my boobs or my shoes. The host asked me to walk up and down the stairs a few times... and then thanked me for gracing his home with my loveliness. Awwww.<br />
<br />
So I got groped, smooched, and praised as eye candy. Other people got tied up, beaten, I suspect there was sucking and fucking behind closed doors, and a few bruises and welts were shown off. It was lovely, lovely evening.Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8284698308807609369.post-21743497812190528972012-07-08T19:10:00.001-05:002012-07-08T19:10:32.096-05:00Hotel LayoverA weather situation in Chicago caused me to miss the last flight of the day home, so although my dear husband offered to make the drive to pick me up, we agreed it would be easier on everyone if I just did the "distressed traveler rate" at the hotel for the evening.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://galianachance.com/blog/2012/07/08/hotel-layover/img_1191/" rel="attachment wp-att-2962" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Hyatt Regency O'Hare" class="size-medium wp-image-2962 " height="300" src="http://galianachance.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/IMG_1191-224x300.jpg" title="Hyatt Regency O'Hare" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">view from the glass elevator</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The Hyatt Regency O'Hare felt posh to me, although I couldn't tell if the decor was retro-chic or actually 1970s, because I suck at decorating, but I immediately thought, "I have to do a robot shoot here some day." The combination of ultra-modern silver and chrome with wood-like wall paneling and dark patterned carpet made me want to squeeze into a silver bodysuit with big marked squares on my tummy and stand in the lobby and see who would push my buttons /grin<br />
<br />
Since I had taken a couple of late-night appointment calls while I was away (after my sister and niece left, so there were no kids in the house), I had a bit of spending money in my "fun money to blow on impulse purchases" category, so I blew it on room service and hotel porn.<br />
<br />
Back in my tech days, I traveled for conferences and meetings. It became a tradition to buy porn in the hotel room, so much so that most of my porn-for-pay experience has been in hotels. The last time I traveled on business was 2009.<br />
<br />
My. Things have changed. Woooooow.<br />
<br />
What I remember of hotel porn, it was kinda softcore. No direct penetration shots, no cumshots, no anal, very little gay porn. None of those descriptors were true at all anymore. There was a softcore section like I remember, but there was also a section with probably a dozen choices for anal, several for mature, lots of lesbian, lots of gay male, and a generous helping with the word "rough" in the descriptor.<br />
<br />
I got the all access package. I figured I'd blog about it. It's a business expense, right? Besides, I was splurging, dammit.<br />
<br />
First, I watched my first Asa Akira scene. I've been following her on Twitter because she's funny as hell (her Twitter self-description is "I have an award-winning asshole"), and I knew she won a ton of 2012 AVN awards, but I'd never seen her. The movie was called "Best Sex 2012" with scenes from a few different 2012 award winners, and her scene was first.<br />
<br />
DAYUM. She was sitting on the floor, he was standing over her, fucking her face, trapping her, and within a few minutes, he had slapped the shit out of her. By the end of it, she had cum multiple times, he had fucked her twisted up and trapped in more positions than I knew a human body could make, he had smacked her skin red, and she was begging for more with a big, utterly believable grin on her face.<br />
<br />
I love Nina Hartley, and her guides to various sex acts, mostly because she's so damn enthusiastic. Have you seen her in an orgy scene when she sees a cock not currently in use? She jumps on it like she's claiming a prize. It's more of a pounce, really. I thought for sure I'd go my whole life and never see anyone on film who could convince me as thoroughly that she genuinely enjoys getting fucked.<br />
<br />
Uhhhhh. Sorry Nina. Asa really really really really really likes getting fucked. There goes my porn budget for, like, forever.<br />
<br />
So after that scene, which made me appreciate the AVN's taste in porn stars, and honestly entranced me too much to masturbate (although I was very turned on), I browsed through some barely-legal, mature, lesbian, all-anal, and gang bang, skimming through scenes, but didn't see anything that grabbed me. It mostly felt hard and fast to me, with lovely bodies doing interesting things, but without any particular spark.<br />
<br />
I saved my favorite category for last, on purpose, figuring gay male porn could push me over the edge and let me sleep. I decided on "tosh.hOle", advertised as "gay parody" (of tosh.0) had an amusing premise, but when Dustin Fitch started sucking Mick Gibson, looking up at him with his pretty, clear blue eyes, my brain scrambled and I found myself hitting the 30-second rewind. Again. And again. And again. Fuuuuuuck. Before I came, I was talking out loud, something I don't usually do when I masturbate, saying something insane like "That's it, pretty baby, suck Mama's big dick just like that." I was seriously completely out of my mind. He just looked so sweet...<br />
<br />
When I'm prepared for a hotel stay on my own, I pack a vibrator, or a fat-handled kitchen spoon if I only have a carryon and don't have want a vibrator-related delay going through security, but since I wasn't expecting a hotel stay, I had to improvise:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://galianachance.com/blog/2012/07/08/hotel-layover/img_1189/" rel="attachment wp-att-2963" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Galiana goo on a knife" class="size-medium wp-image-2963" height="300" src="http://galianachance.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/IMG_1189-224x300.jpg" title="Galiana goo on a knife" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">now *that's* a knife</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
That's the handle of the butter knife from my room service meal, covered in Galiana goo. I know it's stupid to fuck yourself with a knife of any kind, but I held on to it and I was really careful. Also, there were these boys kissing each other and Asa gets all rigid and silent when she cums and that big black cock looked super yummy and it's totally not my fault!<br />
<br />
Who wants to get me my next hotel room?Galiana Chancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14604486336027929608noreply@blogger.com0