Two Of A Kind

Last week, I did some shopping to satisfy my need for women’s panties. For some months now, I only have been wearing them and have not touched any of my normal boxers at all. That’s just how much I love them 🙂 They make me feel good, they are ways more beautiful and fancy and they always remind me of that fact that Ginny’s become a big part of my life.

When I searched through the aisles, there was another guy. We exchanged quick looks, but decided to ignore each other. You know,i t’s always a bit odd to be there, among all these bras and panties and stuff, as a guy. Usually I try to look like I’d search something for my not-existent girlfriend, because I’m a coward LOL But I guess most times I’m looked through anyway 🙂 Guys who really want to buy something for their wifes behave in another way. They seem undecided and helpless and surely not as knowing like guys who wear those panties themselves 🙂

Anyway, after I was finished in the undies-department, I moved on to the dresses (it was a sale and I was out of control UGH). They had a beautiful light dress in black and white and just when I searched for my size, there was this guy again, over at the long dresses. Again we exchanged quick glances, then moved on. I made my way through the aisles and just when I was in a section with almost no one alse attending, there was this guy again. This time he smiled shyly and came over to say hello. He just said “Du bist mir vorhin schon aufgefallen” (you already attracted my attention earlier). You see, writing about it all and fucking about with strangers is one thing, as long as John is with me, but being confronted with a man who obviously thinks I’m not an ugly bitch is another thing! I’m abysmally shy, I tell you! I could feel how red I was getting and just smiled (and I thought that saying nothing is a better alternative to saying something stupid, right?). He introduced himself to me and before I even knew it, we had a little chat.

It turned out he was nice and he invited me to have a tea with him, as soon as I’d have paid. I told him that before I’d say yes, I wanted to call my partner, and he agreed. John was bemused and told me to enjoy myself, but be careful. Bless his heart, that was so cute 🙂 So, the guy and I went to a nice café and seated ourselves a bit apart from the others. I know it doesn’t quite sound like that, but I’m really shy, even more if John’s not with me, and it was funny to witness myself talking so openly about what I had just bought. I didn’t tell him about Ginny, but obviously he could see her blink through. When he asked me whether I was transsexual, I told him that I am not, but that I like to play around with that feminine side of myself and that it has become a huge part of my life. Apparently he thawed the more the longer we talked, and after a while he told me that he likes to dress up gurlish as well, but has never told anyone about it, ever. We talked the afternoon away and when we had to say goodbye, we had exchanged numbers.

I was very excited about my new friend and when John came home that evening, I told him all about Andrea (which is his gurly name). Of course my sweet husband could hear through what was in my mind, and after a while he just said “you want to play with her”. Uhm. Yes. I wouldn’t have said that, but yes, I guess I want to. So, to put a long story short, last weekend and and this Wednesday, the three of us met, to give us the opportunity to get to know each other better. You can tell by that that it’s not just about fucking, as for me there’s so much connected to it, and I can’t even tell why. Perhaps because Andrea’s the first other gurl I meet in person? Or because it would be exciting to have someone to chat about all that gurly stuff and exchange make up tools? LOL I don’t know. But tonight I’ll find out how far I want to go. John will be there, watching us, taking pictures, but interfering only if we both want him to. I’m OK with that, I always feel better with him attending. I’m very, very excited!



The past few weeks have been very challenging for me. During talking therapy, we talked about the influence my father still bestows upon me, and it left me so sad, confused and desperate. I know that the younger you are when the abuse takes place or starts, the more disastrous is the effect it has. Sometimes I have no idea of who I actually am! I have friends to talk it over, I have the best husband I could wish for, but still I feel so trapped by my father and what he did. When I went to the mental hospital for the first time, I asked my brother why he sent me there, and he answered “to help you”. I had to laugh at that, because I was convinced nothing or nobody would ever be able to help me. But there has been help. It was good to talk it over, you know, good in a certain kind of way. I didn’t enjoy it, but it was good that they believed me and just let me talk. It was good to understand why I did so many things the way I did, like hiding bananas under the couch and whatever.

In the past few weeks, I kept asking myself where I can still see my father taking influence on me, almost 20 years after his gutless suicide. Anyhwere. He is anywhere, in me, in my world, in my dreams and thoughts. I still feel the urge to please him, be a good boy, take care for his moods and needs, keep still, spread my legs, be his fuck toy. The weird thing is that when people criticize him or call him names, I tend to defend him. Like “oh yes, sure he put a gun to my head, but, you know, all in all he was my father, right?”. That’s poor. My therapist told me that’s the survival strategy of an abused child, identifying with the abuser and take the role of his lawyer.

Things are so confusing, even more as the physical feelings connected with him are so confusing as well. Most times, my first impulse when thinking of his touches is to push him away, hit him, shout at him, but it needs just one second more to have me horny, in an angry way. Why? I guess because he didn’t let me take control of my body, but took what he wanted. I found no other way to cope with it than sexually. And the only thing that helps me to control this anger concerning my mind and body, is physical pain combined with sexual relief. I fully understand that all I like in bed is just a reenactment of what he did: being tied down, being hit and hurt, being fucked relentlessly.

My therapist often asks me: “what about you? what do you like?” and I always tall him, I don’t know. I have no idea. Isn’t it me who likes to be beaten and used? If not, than I don’t know if I even exist. Sometimes I think if I weren’t that down-to-earth-guy, I’d have already gone mad. I guess I’m lucky to have my family and my job, right? I even don’t know what would happen if I just let him go, dismiss him from my life. Would it all tumble down? I see that allowing Ginny to come out was the first thing I really did for myself, for my own identity in long years. It’s not like Yoga or running, you know, althought both help, but being Ginny just feels so right and comfy. When I’m her and in her dresses, I can feel myself better, I feel vulnerable and adorable at the same time.

Bad Conscious

The last weekend gave me so much to think about and I can’t seem to figure it out.

First of all, I really have issues with that missing reaction from people towards us (my appearance, me obviously not wanting a haircut, the lead/collar). On Youtube, I have found a lot of videos testing people’s reaction. This is called “social experiments” and I wasn’t surprised to see that most people do not react in any way if they witness harrassment, fights or violence. Most of them just walk by. When they’re questioned concerning their not-occured reaction, most of them say they don’t want to get in trouble. Uhm. That really makes me worry! I don’t know how I would instinctively react if I witnessed a fight or harrassment. To be honest, I regard myself as a coward and I have always tried to avoid confrontations. I don’t know if I’d have the nerves to interfere. I hope I would. Or at least, I hope I’d have the courage to call for help. But anyway, it feld bad to be in that situation. I don’t even know whether I had wanted someone to barge in, but I was confronted with my own helplessness and that’s an ambiguous feeling. More of that later.

Second, I have really bad problems with my new hair length. If there’s one thing I’m vain about, then it’s my hair. I’m that kind of guy who even uses conditioner on a regular basis, and having had an involuntarily haircut makes me feel hurt, even though many people reacted very kind to that. Like telling me my hair looks better/thicker now and so on. I’m bad in defining who I am, but I would always mention my hair as a big part of myself, and having John rule about it, feels weird. I don’t really get that point, you know. It had been OK in the past if he told me what to wear, where to shave and even who to have sex with, but my hair is so special to me. It took me a lot to have it cut and I’m not OK with it yet.

The third thing I fight with recently are conflicting feelings regarding my role on the weekend. On the one hand, it was hard to accept this role of a useless fuck toy. I felt more like a pet than a husband and there were moments in which I fought with tears. What John demanded from me was not little and in some ways, it reminded me of what my father did. It was somehow like triggering memories I wanted to forget. On the other hand, it make me going, you know.

When I take a look at what I have written over time, I can clearly see that these conflicting feelings are very typical for me. There are times when I try to cope with every injury, both mentally and physically, in a quite “grown up” way. Going to talking therapy, trying to calm myself, trying to do my chores, be a good and kind person, trying to oppress the urge to hurt myself in thought and deed and just being a nice, loving husband, a reliable friend and a good brother. In such phases I tend to think that I can live without the pain and that I even might learn to like normal things like truly consensual, clean sex, soap operas and puppies. Then BAM and everything changes. I seem to lose grip of myself and all my good resolutions. Then I just need dirt, pain and humiliation and really thinkI am ready to fully embrace the fact that whatever I learn about myself or whatever I talk about with my therapist I am broken and have the goddamn right to like all that stuff. Sorry for cursing. And after a while, I’m again into a good phase and think of myself as a disgusting, insane person with those perversions making me tick.

Having these conflicting feelings and needs puts unbelievable pressure upon me. In a good phase, I disgust myself for the need for pain, and in a bad phase, I despise myself for the attempts to live a clean life. For John, there is no clash between the “good” and the “bad” John. He says it’s always him and he totally accepts that he is a realible, nice guy with dominant and sadistic needs. Period. I totally adore him for this ability!

Craving what I crave, needing what I need makes me feel like a bad person, and I can’t even remember a time when I didn’t have a bad conscious about my sexual fantasies and about other fantasies as well. And even if I know it’s all just because of the abuse that took place for about two decades, it makes me feel insane, bad and psycho. The worst fantasies are those of me being a kid and having to please my Dad. I know, I really, really know it’s just because of what he did, and I wish it would not turn me on like it does. It makes me feel so worthless, but I have failed in about 18 years of therapeutic sessions, stays in several mental hospitals and a whole lot of work woth myself to find better, cleaner things to turn me on.

Since last weekend, I keep asking myself whether I will always be that torn?

His Bitch

If the last weekend made one thing clear, than that you can do most anything in public without anyone even asking questions. That actually makes me feel a bit odd and even insecure about how it would be if I ever were in an emergency. But anyway.

Obviously my wailing finally got John mad on Friday evening. I was being pushy and kept asking when he’d allow me to cum again, until he said if I’d ask that one fucking more time, I’ll regret it. Because he said that in a sweet voice, I thought he was joking, and because I was a bit perky, I asked again. The reaction came immediately. He hit me in the face, grabbed my hair and forced me to my knees. How could I ever forget how strong he is? He forced me to look up at him, telling my in a harsh tone that he is fed up with me annoying him and that I should learn to control myself (well, actually that was the basic message, but I think he used to term “fucked up whore” several times, ahem). He then maneuvered me over to the couch and I hoped for a spanking, but all I got was to kneel beside his feet for the rest of the evening. When it was bedtime, I was announced that I’d sleep on the floor and that at 12 I’d be expected to be ready with slutty make up on, wearing slut-wear and my collar.

Well, while Master was already asleep, I lay on the floor with my heart still pounding. It’s been quite a while since my last severe punishment and I was a bit worried. As a matter of fact, I didn’t get much sleep, so when my clock rang at 10.30, I was still tired, but nevertheless excited. I shaved well under the shower and when John got up, I had my make up finished and was looking for the perfect thing to wear. I thought I’d wear opaque tights and a nice grey skirt and a white blouse, but John took out a very short pink skirt with a fitting shirt, see-through tights and not real high-heel shoes, but my equivalent to them out of my wardobe. You know, I adore high-heels, but I am not able to walk with them, so I have bought shoes with little heels, like perhaps 5 cms, but that’s enough for me! When I was dressed, he told me to put on shiny pink lipstick and when I finally took a look at myself, I thought, well, yes, a cheap whore. I prepared breakfast and while he ate at the table, I was told to have whatever standing. Ugh. Before we left the house, he put the lead to the collar and kept the other end in his hand. This way, we made it to the car.

I didn’t dare to ask where we were going, but after a while it got clear that he was heading to a city about one and a half hour away from home. He parked the car, came over and took me by the lead again. There were a lot of people, although less than I had feared, but I felt each and everyone looked at me. I guess over the years I have developed a certain kind of resilience concerning odd looks, but yesterday, I could feel them pierce me. It was the very first time he made me go out like that and it was embarrassing. He dragged me through the city until he had found what he was looking for: a hairdresser. I hate getting my hair cut. Like, I really hate it. I love my hair and always fear they might cut off too much. If Master wishes to really, really frighten me, he puts scissors to my head and tells me he’ll cut all off if I keep misbehaving. So, obviously he thought it was an appropriate punishment for me to get my hair cut yesterday. He instructed the hairdresser to cut off at least 25 cms. I began crying and asked him “please, don’t…please….”, but he just told me to shut up, smiled at the hairdresser and said “well, I think, 30 cms would be better”. Oh my gosh. It was clear that if I protested any longer, I would lose more hair, so I froze. The hairdresser said “but he…err…she….err (HA HA) doesn’t seem happy with that”, which John shot down with a kind smile and a simple “es spielt keine Rolle, was sie will” (it doesn’t matter what she wants). To put a long story short, I really lost 30 cms. And that was really demanding and painful. When she was finished, I considered taking my hair with me, but did not dare to ask. I guess I was far away from myself and I could not believe that this had really happened. I still can’t. You know, I still have long hair, but 30 cms is a damn lot. Sorry for cursing.

I asked myself, why would he do that? But the answer is obvious: to put me back where I belong. To teach me he is in charge and I am just a toy, a worthless cunt he can tread as he wishes to. What really puzzled me was the weak reaction by the hairdresser. I think I’d have expected more resistance to cut my hair as I obviously didn’t want that to happen, but apparently a self-reliant apparence is enough. Well.

When we were finished, he dragged me through the city again, this time into a quieter area where we sat down in a café, he for a coffee, me for a glass of tap water. No treads for sluts, right? But anyway, sitting there helped calming down a bit, and he was very nice, telling me he liked my new hair and petting my face like I was a kid or a bit backward. Ugh. After he was finished, he maneuvered me further, led me down a stair. And all with the collar and the lead still on! He made me kneel on the pavement and put his cock right into my mouth. I tried to say something and got hit in the face for that. “Eat it!” I did. I could hear traffic and people up the stairs, but nobody came down. He deepthroated me until I spit myself and had tears in my eyes, then he rubbed his wet cock through my face and smeared my make up. “You look just like what you are”, he told me, and I believed him. After he had cum on my shirt and had taken some photographs with his cellphone, I was allowed to get up. I felt weak and shaky. He wanted to drag me back into the city, but I resisted.

I know he knew that was the crucial moment of that day. I was about to use our “stop it all immediately” safeword (with is Van Gogh, by the way). I felt so humiliated and wortless, I was overwhelmed. I thought it’s one thing to be a slut at home, you know, with the two of us attending. But that was too much…wasn’t it? We could meet someone we know. We could be discovered and reported. It could become very nasty and beyond kinkiness. And moreover, I felt hurt and used, really worthless and embarrassed. On the other hand, there was this throbbing stiffy in my pants and I wished for nothing more but to lose control and get fucked and fucked and fucked. And…well, I kept thinking “oh Gott, ist das geil” (oh God, that’s horny, and I thought that in German, which was odd as well). It’s always the same question: do I trust him enough to do let this happen? I could feel the ring on my finger and I could see his on the hand he held the lead with. Did I trust him? I did. And I knew he knew what had just passed my mind.

He led me back into the city, right into a big store. In Germany, we have a clothes chain store with an impressive department for women’s undies, and that was our goal. He dragged me through the aisles, handed me this and that to try it on. An assistant came over and asked whether she could help us, obviously a bit alert by my face and the lead. I thought, that’s it, they’ll ask us to go. But I was wrong. John was so very charming, she helped him with finding what he was looking for, all in approximately the right size for his “girlfriend”. To tell the truth, it’s not only odd, but moreover perplexing to witness what he’s doing to manipulate people. He’s so sweet and self-reliable that people can’t do other but do what he wants, and I keep asking myself ever since how much he manipulates me, but do I want to know? I’m not sure about that. Anyway, he had me trying everything on with the collar and the lead only a bit annoying, and finally decided to buy what I’d call a chemise, you know, the sexy and a bit too short version of a nightdress. It’s black with an included bra and a lot of see-through lace. My silicone tits are actually too big for it, but if I wear a bra under it, it’s ok with my tiny naturals. Additionally, he bought me self-adherent tights and what John calls a Schlampenhöschen (slut’s panty). While I was changing, he felt me up. As I have written before, for month now I have trained my tits and they got really sensitive and I’m to be aroused easily if he plays with them. So once again, I got a stiffy, but he just ignored it.

After shopping, John was hungry, and led me to a nice restaurant where we had something to eat. Again, people looked at us, but none of them reacted in any way, not even the waiter. And again that made me feel uncomfortable. All in all I don’t like things to get too publicly. It’s OK to have sex outdoors with the possibility to get seen, but I prefer keeping things between the two of us. It made me feel at unease to be watched and I felt insecure. John could feel it and took hold of my hand for quite a long time, telling my that I’m a good gurl. Sigh.

After that, we went back to the car, and John allowed me to take a rest. I snuggled up inside his arm and was even able to take a 20 minute nap, which I rarely ever can! Afterwards, he face-fucked me, but just a little. It was already dark when he drove us to a gay club, more in the near of where we live. We’ve been there many times before and over the time, we have come to know some of the guys attending, and they of course know us. They know we’re having a 24/7 BDSM relationship and that I’m often kept chaste and that apparently I’m into being a gurl. Attending that club is always a bit like coming home, you know, I feel comfortable there. First, we had a shower (me sparing face and head), then we changed. I dressed up with the new things and I liked how slutty that made me feel.

When we entered the playground area, there were several men I already have had sex with, and obviously they liked what they saw. John told me to go over and “say hello”…well, I did, but I couldn’t make much words before my mouth was full. What followed was delirium fucking. I wasn’t able to count, to speak or to think. That was just COCK and CUM, until I felt like I had taken drugs. I had craved for that for a long time now and it was satisfying beyond words. And the best thing: I was able to cum without clit stimulation!

To be honest, the rest of the night is quite blurred. Somehow I was brought home and into my bed, still covered in cum and fucked empty yet happy as fuck 😀 It’s been a while since I’ve slept that well and when I woke up, it was Sunday morning. I would have liked to take a shower, but John said we’d be going for a walk and I’d be wearing my slutty outfit again. To be a long story short, he took me to a rather public place and fucked me there, you know, not on the pavement but quite in the near of it.

When we were home again, he finally let me take a shower and even came with me to wash me. It was then, I had my tender Sweetheart back with me, exhausted, used and so happy. He asked me how I felt about it, like being used like a whore, or even worse. I answered spontaneously and said I liked it, but over the day, I needed to talk about several aspects. When he went to bed, he kissed me and asked me in German: “Bist du meine Schlampe”? (are you my bitch?). I said a heartfelt YES I AM. To be honest, I would have liked it to be paid for that. But now off for bed, I’m still a bit exhausted 🙂

Late Night Fantasies

It’s too late for anything, and tomorrow is my weekly therapeutic session. I’ve been watching porn for hours now, I’m having a stiffy, but as I’m not allowed to touch myself, I’m getting more and more frustrated. John is already in bed and asleep and I feel lonely and moreover, horny like fuck.

At the moment, I really enjoy watching Thai ladyboy porn. They are so cute, totally perfect. In some videos, you can see post-operation ladyboys, but that’s not turning me on. I really have no use for a pussy, thank you. But I totally adore those beautiful women with those very small, limp cocks. Don’t get me wrong, I would not want to fuck them. I’d like to be one of them. Ugh.

Thankfully, John wasn’t as bemused as I thought he’d be when I brought that fantasy into play, you know, being his ladyboy-whore. Meanwhile I think we’ve found our niche, but I also feel my thoughts and wishes go deeper. When we were in France, the was an occasion where a man paid me a coke (which were 3 €) for sex. I didn’t get that out of my head and the fact that I’ve been a cheap whore is an instant turn on for me. Well, it’s a turn on as long as I don’t question it. When I start to put that in question, I realize fast that it’s just a repitition of what I was forced to do in earlier years. My father sold me to other men and well, later on I sold myself. Probably it’s never been OK for me, but my insane brain makes it feel kinky, because otherwise I’d not be able to cope with that. But anyway, it turns me on.

I’ve been fantasizing about getting paid for sex ever since that certain occasion. Sometimes John presents me with a little something when I’ve pleased him very well, but what I liked best was when he gave me 2 € to “buy something you like”. Oh damn, that was hot. You know, I’ve got enough money. It wasn’t about the money itself, but about the very small amount for quite a while of rough sex. Liked that. To tell the truth, I’ve been fantasizing about having to sell myself to other men and handing the money over to John who might PERHAPS let me 1 €…to save and to buy slutty underwear afterwards, when I have enough, to turn on new guests. And I even took it as a compliment when Master said that I’d probably earn more money as a whore than I earn now.

I’ve been fantasizing about being forced to take pills to make my tits grow and my cock shrink, to make it really difficult for me to cum. Why? I guess because then I’d be more of a useful fuck toy than I am now and because my level of frustration would increase then.

Insane? Fuck yeah. But I really try to figure out that being aroused by the dirtiest things is OK. That’s one thing I really wish for in 2016, you know, allowing myself to be that brazen, that insane, that constantly horny and fixated on fucking. I was not born, I was made that way.

I’ll do anything, Sir.

Coping With Frustration

Obviously, the urge to write about this topic arises from being frustrated LOL At the moment, I’m not in chastity, but nevertheless John likes to deny me. In his opinion, frustration should be an essential part of a sub’s life in order to keep him on a certain level of arousal, which actually means to keep him obedient, willing, horny and aware of the fact that he’s dependent on his Dom’s good mood.

For some days now John didn’t allow me to experience an orgasm. He arouses me by words and deeds and then, just when I think he might let me cum, he tells me to get up or leave or do whatever but cum. If that happens every now and then, I’m really happy for that kind of prolongued foreplay, but if being denied lasts on, I get really frustrated. It feels like the arousal jumps up and I’m even able to endure it for quite a time, but then being aroused yet unfulfilled gets annoying and painful, both physically and mentally. It is as if my world shrinks and sooner or later only circles about sex. Sex only. I know John loves me being in that state of mind and he enjoys my attemps to be a good gurl to satisfy him in the hope to get relief. I myself like feeling dependent to a certain level, but if it gets beyond that, I only feel helpless and frustrated.

Even if being frustrated is somehow familiar, I’m really not good in enduring it. I try to distract myself from all the thoughts that come up by doing my chores, drawing, running, concentrating on a book or making Yoga, but to be honest, there’s a level of frustration and arousal that can’t be dealt with by those things. When I’m locked in, I automatically begin to feel up the Birdlock, try to wank myself, but that just leads to more frustration. At the moment, I’m not locked in, but John told me not to touch myself. I know it’s not correct, by I try to make me cum by rubbing myself against the corner of a table or the back of a chair, just to be able to say “I did not touch myself”. John laughs at those lame attempts to cum, because in fact I have never been able to cum by humping furniture, but that makes it worse. Sometimes he watches me doing it and starts to make remarks concerning my inability to cum or he compares me to a she-dog in heat and tells me how pathetic I am.

To tell you the truth, being sexually unfulfilled and frustrated often leads to the urge to hurt myself. Over the years, self-harm has become less and there are phases in which I don’t hurt myself at all, but I’m not over it yet. Since our holidays in France, I sometimes hurt myself without leaving marks, and that even more when I’m sexually frustrated. Being denied can lead to starving myself to punish me, or to wrapping elastic straps around my fingers until they turn violet or whatever. I’d prefer cutting myself, but I really try not to do it (not always successful). Wanking/cumming is a good way to relieve feelings of anger and frustration, and being denied makes it all so much worse.

Another aspect of being frustrated is humiliation. John makes me watch him wank or fuck others, he teases and edges me without orgasm. He tells me how small and pathetic my cock is, which arouses and annoys me at the same time. I try to cope with this kind of frustration by telling me that that’s part of our game, but it gets harder the longer it lasts. Sometimes I’m even denied to please him and then I really, really miss his beautiful cock.

When I ask him what denying me is all about for him, he tells me that it turns him on unbelievably to have that power over me and to witness my growing arousal and frustration. He says he likes to have me horny and whimpering for his cock all the time, beause that makes him feel desired, loved and well, needed. With that in mind, I try to hang on to this treatment, because I know he likes it. If it was only about denying me for my own sake, then where would be the point in having a 24/7-relationship?

All in all, my everyday life at the moment is all about coping with frustration and feelings of lust and anger.

If you’re kept in chastity or if you are denied, how do you cope with that?

A Star In The Darkness

In the past few days, I’ve tried to take a look back at 2015, but obviously I failed, so anyway, welcome back to my blog in 2016 🙂 Hope you enjoyed the festivities and have arrived well in the new year.

John and I spent New Year’s Eve with A and M in a kind of fancy restaurant with live music and dinner. Definitely the occasion to wear a tuxedo and hell, I was horny all night long just when looking at him 🙂 But I had my difficulties to wear a suit. You know, I’m more that jeans-and-t-shirt kind of guy and tend to feel overdressed when wearing a suit. Moreover, when I took it out of the wardrobe, it made me sad because Ginny rather wanted to dress up and wear a nice gown or something. Finally, Love told me to wear fancy underwear which resulted in feeling like a gurl in disguise 🙂 To be honest, I didn’t quite understand until now why A and M see my nails but don’t ask or make remarks or whatever. That left me a bit uncomfortable, but anyway.

The Midwinter ritual I attended at W’s was totally awesome. M had prepared the feast for us and it was so, so good! 🙂 For the ritual, we sat in a circle with 13 candles lit in the middle. W guided us on a journey and kept blowing out a candle at a time until all was dark. When he told us to come back and experience the darkness, we literally sat in the dark. It was very intense. W and I had made a deal before we had started: if I felt uncomfortable, I could reach out for his hand (I was seated next to him), and so I glady did when I felt like monsters were crouching in the darkness. Uhm. He kept holding my hand until I felt better and that helped me finally to embrace the darkness. He had told us to look for gifts of the darkness, a sparkle or whatever, and bring that into our everyday lives. I found a shimmering star at the bottom of the darkness. First, it shone with dim light only, but after I had taken it, its light grew brighter. I put it into my heart area. When W began putting on the candles again, I thought that obviously the star is a symbol that’s meaningful for me at the moment. In one of my last journeys with Lord Shiva, he gave me a star, too.

Later on, W told me that he thinks of the star as a kind of guide, like, you know, the star of Bethlehem which guided the three Magi to the child. I have no Christian background as W does, but I like the symbol of a guiding star. Seems to me I can’t go wrong if the star s guiding my path.