CARNAL NATION

It was 2 a.m., and I sat propped up in my high-tech, white hospital bed surrounded by skinny metal poles festooned with colorfully lit monitors and oblong bags of fluids dripping into my body.

The poles reminded me of the one standing unattended in my bedroom, its large red rubber enema bag awaiting my use when I don my red silk corset and fondly ready my pink suede flogger, black leather cuffs, prison paddle, and smile of sadistic pleasure as I command my sub to bend over.

It’s been almost three months since I’ve written this column—almost as if my recalcitrant kidney and associated ailments had robbed me of the desire to write (or was it that viral strain of procrastination that has plagued me most of my life?) It’s been a month since I had my last visit by a dear friend (my aeronautic Brit) who helped me recover my arm strength after my initial surgery and hospitalization for removal of a kidney. Like a nervous S&M newbie, I let the flow of doubts temporarily impede my imagination and erode my newly-renewed conviction that even at 64 and with a 22-inch scar indelibly etched across my midsection, I can still participate in the thrill of domination.

The ground rules may have to change slightly and my subs may have to fear my lashes and crave my caresses in different ways, but I will still be a domme.The ground rules may have to change slightly and my subs may have to fear my lashes and crave my caresses in different ways, but I will still be a domme. While I was in the hospital, one of my dearest subs, a gentlemen about my age, wrote that he was recovering from a knee replacement and would no longer be able to kneel at my feet but still wanted to receive the pain and pleasure of my caresses.

The visit of my faithful British subject was an uncharted part of my hospital recovery plan, but immensely therapeutic. His pending arrival prompted my renewed interest in the muscle strengthening routines I had been prescribed in the hospital by a therapist who barely masked her surprise at my request for some arm exercises as well as the requisite leg strengthening routines. As she was taking very precise measurements for a cane she wanted me to use the first few weeks after hospitalization, I she seemed a little puzzled at the way I assessed the well polished wood implement. Thankfully, I hadn’t tried swinging it. I was tempted to tell her some of the activities she might additionally help me prepare for, but feared that the medical system wasn’t ready for assisting in BDSM conditioning for recuperating dommes.

But back to Ian and ways to accommodate my temporary physical limitations. With some constructive feedback from him, I had scouted around for a spanking bench that might make the height of his ever alluring buttocks an easier reach with paddle and canes. The prices I encountered gave me a pain in the pocketbook. (I hope to buy a massage table soon, but it wasn’t in the post-hospitalization budget). I was leaving my favorite BDSM toy and clothing store, Passional, when I glanced across the street and spotted a restaurant/cooking supply store, and thought a whisk or some other implement might be a fun, inexpensive addition to my arsenal. Inside the cluttered and dusty shop was a wooden child’s high chair, the kind high enough that it doesn’t require a booster seat, had tie down straps and was a mere $20. It was light enough for me to drag out to the street and stuff in a hailed cab, was the right height for bending him over with rungs to secure hands and legs, and perfectly deniable as an implement of torture, since who knows when stray toddlers might drop by for dinner. It was the perfect height for my comfort and his discomfort.

After his visit, I realized I had let fear of the future, my pending lifestyle changes and the subsequent adjustments necessary, allow me to drew a shell around myself that neither ardent sub, patient but weary editors, nor fellow friends in this glorious lifestyle could break through.

I now realize, instead, that it’s just a new chapter and I welcome you to enjoy it with me.