Listen to the Silence

A few days ago I posted a few things on my twitter, and on my blog, and again on Facebook and Fetlife.   What did I post about?   Domestic Violence.   DV’s always a crowd pleaser (of sorts), right?   It generates dozens of reads, lots of caring, maybe even helping with donations to local charities…right? Only one little issue.   Teensy, tinsy, wheensy little issue. I posted about male victims of Domestic Violence.   About the men who get put into the hospital at every increasing rates.   I posted about the men who are more ashamed of admitting their crushed psyches (and sometimes bones) than they are of the scars themselves.   Men who have managed to accept their abuse as “just what happens to guys”. One recent study highlighted by the Mayo Clinic shows that a man is abused every 37.8 seconds.   In 2000, the National Violence Against Women survey determined that over 830,000 men reported being battered.  in a 2010 survey.    DOJ estimates are that a man will report battery less

The election is over.     Get that?     Whichever side you were on – the results are done.     The whole “petitioning the electoral college” thing was childish enough.     Unless you intend to make good the threat to leave the country – can we please get back to life?    Mocking Trump’s grandkids on a plane won’t change a damned thing, and going after Hillary for jail time won’t stop any future security leaks.   We’re letting cuntish pettiness over politics (victory OR loss) break us apart.    We’re even doing it (to a nastier extent, I think) within our own supposedly “inclusive” community.  Perfect non-kink example.   One of my cousins threatened to disown any of our blood who voted for the “<censored> orange haired <censored>…”.    Personally, I shrugged my shoulders when she sent us all her “warning”.   Mehh.   Grow up, Nat.  Only now she’s actually done it.   She cut off contact and refuses to answer calls, emails – even a letter from her grandmother.   (N

So, here's the spirit of the season in Philadelphia.    It's a wonderful one, really - from a city that threw snow and ice balls as Santa during a home game and a city where the violent crime rate rises every year as we get closer to Christmas.  (Good news...the theft and property crime rates goes up so much it makes the violent crime rate look like it's going down!  Yay!  Thefts and retail thefts stirring all through the night!) Everywhere I look for the last few days, there's nothing but petty, bigoted, spiteful ignorance from the people I work around - in a season that's supposed to be about caring and giving. Examples. I'm trying to help someone online who has been having some problems, by suggesting that they talk with a company that can help them get some new gigs.    This isn't someone I know that well - but I respect her opinion, and offered the random advice (with a "feel free to tell me to shut up" disclaimer) given that I know som

It’s been a while since I’ve written on this, but it’s becoming a real issue again. For those of you who haven’t read it before, I once did this entire schtick about the “cause-ist labeling bat”.   The “Cause-ist Labeling Bat" meaning that big, thick metal studded baseball bat that we use to marginalize and silence people we don’t want to hear.   It’s like a rubber stamp – but it beats the ink into you permanently.   And generally leaves you broken, unemployed, and permanently damaged goods.  Don’t want to hear someone disagree about Black Lives Matter rhetoric?          *WHACK*   They’re a racist. Don’t like someone’s preference for cis-gender?         *WHACK*  They’re homo and trans-phobic. Irritated that someone voted Trump?         *WHACK*   They’re alt-right white supremacists.  Pissed off that guy is dating a white chick instead of you?         *WHACK*  He’s a race traitor and a sellout. Disagree with the protest against the Dakota Access Pipel

You don't have to love me. You don't have to like me. You don't have to listen to me. You don't even have to respect me. But you do have to respect my rights as a person. That's one of those "it's the law" things.   Except in certain circumstances - shutting down what I have to say by calling it "illegal" is censorship - not "safe space"-ing your personal space. Ever hear "your rights end at the tip of my nose"? That applies to your safe space, fingers in your ears, "la-la-la-la-la-ing" nonsense. If you don't like hearing what I have to say?  (Especially when you're not even in the conversation I'm having?) Then don't listen. You're a grown up (at least I think so - the skinny leg jeans made it hard to tell if your balls had dropped yet) - so act like it. Ignore the conversation, or raise your own volume so you don't have to hear things you don't like.   Or wear p

I know, I know, I haven’t written in a while.   Things have been busy, what do you expect?    I have a ten year old starting puberty, a two year old starting talking, and a 30 year old starting Domm-ing.   I’m running a house hold o’bleedin nutters. Today’s rant is brought to you by the letters E, and R.   No, seriously.   E, and R.   Like, the place your partner goes if you have nothing but band aids and booboo cream rattling around in your toy bag. Between the job (law enforcement and proud) and teaching (unarmed defensive tactics, offensive blade combatives, bdsm knife play & rough body play) and playtime in our lifestyle, I keep seeing the oddest combinations of medical kits.    See, this just hit me, while I was vending not long ago.   I watched a young-ish man with whip and claw marks up and down his back (hot, even to my semi-kinda-slightly-maybe-hetero normative self) walking around with three band aids on his back and nothing else. Seriously.   Three band aids.  He w

So, I had the experience of taking my daughter shopping for panties today. Understand - I was her single father Dad for the first three or four years of her life, until my girl (the collared, marriage-ish one) came into our lives. I should be able to handle this.   Right?   Good. I'm a cop.   I have a gun.   I've been shot at.    I've been stabbed.  I can handle a little underwear shopping. Yeah. Not so much. Fucking panties.   Underwear shopping should be grabbing a bag of something vaguely the right size and burying it under other things until checkout time comes. That's how we do it in America.   (That's how we men do it, anyway). So. As I'm crouching down in the women's underwear section, feeling like a pedophile, I'm trying to keep my patrol cap down so I don't feel the thousands of eyes watching.  (They're there.   I'm sure of it.)   And then I realize...there's more than one kind of panty. I realize this as I&