Posted at 01:49 on 19 Jul 2014 by Pandora Blake
It's too hot for spanking sessions. London in the summer means hot tubes, buses, crowds and sweat. I love the heat if I can spend the day in my cool flat with the patio doors open, or out in the open air, but public transport and busy streets are pretty unpleasant.
The heat makes me lazy. Getting up in the morning before a day of domme sessions, I feel flat and lethargic. It's a deliberate effort to psych myself up, find my toppy mojo. My usual pre-work grooming rituals help me get into a work headspace - showering, shaving my body hair even if it won't be visible. An elegant summer dress, matching jewellery, and I feel more prepared to face the world. Presence is assembled slowly, layer by layer.
For me it's the downtime before work that helps me find my focus - the meditative calm of washing, brushing, dressing, packing my implements. It takes time to muster erotic energy; if I was trying to answer emails or edit video up until the last minute I wouldn't be able to do it.
Since learning the language of conscious kink this year, I've been inspired to introduce certain aspects of my private practice into professional sessions. I'm agnostic/atheist/humanist these days, but in my late teens and early twenties I learned a lot of ritual magic. I'm starting to discover how valuable the skills of grounding and centering, energy manipulation, breath, creating a ritual space and establishing intention can be to mindful spanking play. If I have a client who seems distracted, nervous, self-conscious or not fully present for whatever reason, I can use ritual to bring them into their body and help them open up to me.
I have lots to learn, I know, but even making it up as I go along using my old tantric and neo-pagan knowledge seems to be remarkably effective. A ritual of deliberate embodiment lays the groundwork for unexpected intimacy and erotic connection. It hasn't failed me yet.
After a session like this, even after taking the time to wind down and disperse the energy, I leave the venue glowing with erotic magic. I walk down the street feeling like I'm floating, like I'm ten foot tall, as if light was shining out of my pores. I feel expanded, wide open, alert to every spark of sexuality. I am hyper-aware of every physical presence I pass in the street. Lust flares as I step towards someone, gaze at them, walk by. Brief moments of eye contact with strangers feel like tiny electric shocks.
Then I remember: this is London, the city of overcrowding and metropolitan blindness and never making eye contact, the city where you have to draw yourself so effectively within the boundary of your own skin that pressing sweaty physical contact with strangers on the tube doesn't feel intrusive. This is the city where if you were to lie in bed and open your awareness up and out over the streets, rising up as you grow aware of every consciousness flickering below, you would quickly be overwhelmed by the intensity and volume of that many sapient beings squeezed in together and working living eating talking shouting dancing fucking puking running playing laughing crying singing swearing all on top of each other, in dozens of different languages, all the time.
This is the city where you close yourself up, look down, walk on by. It is not a place to walk down the street in rush hour broadcasting sexual energy like a beacon, with your receptors wide open, trailing long feelers of erotic magic that curl outward towards passers-by in search of openings and connections. That is not appropriate metropolitan behaviour.
So I reel it all back in, pull it down and button up the edges. I breathe out, deflate, close the shutters and contract. It takes an hour or so to tuck in every last tendril, but once I've finished drawing my energies back into my body and dimming the intensity to usual human operating levels, I've settled back down to my normal mundane self. Back to normal, like a good little city-dweller. Until next time.