fairy stories

“Everything’s a story – You are a story -I am a story.”
Frances Hodgson Burnett, A Little Princess


Among my grandfather’s gifts, he was a creative, generous story teller.  He could spin the simplest things into colorful narratives, holding me in rapt attention.  That’s a neat trick, when you have to entertain a small child.  His gift of story telling instilled in me a lifelong love of a good tale.  Any story well told is a gift to the listener.


Of all the legends he told me when I was little, I loved the fairy stories the best.


According to my grandfather, a family of fairies lived in our house, in the walls or under the sink or floorboards.  And just like little mice, they were active after everyone was asleep.  Over many nights of bedtime narratives, he familiarized me with their habits and preferences.  There was a Grandma fairy, who wore dresses and aprons and stood about five inches tall.  Often he re purposed my dollhouse furniture to stage evidence of her nocturnal activity: he’d put the little rocking chair on the bay window ledge, with a tiny ball of yarn and two toothpick knitting needles.  Grandma fairy, he explained, was knitting mittens and watching the snow fall.


There was of course a Grandpa fairy, too.  It seemed Grandpa fairy liked to sit in the kitchen with my grandfather, while I slept.  My grandfather put a few drops of beer in my grandmother’s thimble and left it next to some rye bread and cheese crumbs and told me he was teaching the Grandpa fairy to play cribbage.  Grandpa Fairy went to work, just like my own grandfather.  He taught at the Fairy School, and had all sorts of fairy pupils.  Fae children, just like me except very tiny.  The things they learned at the Fairy School were the same things I might learn when I started school: reading, math, spelling.  Sometimes I found their homework lessons on tiny slips of paper.


On warm nights, the fairies played outside.  Grandpa set up my dollhouse croquet set under the lilac bushes, placing the chairs and tea service nearby.  He even added a few crumbs to make the scene more convincing.   The fairies had a tea party because the moon was full.   This is where they danced, on these tiny scattered lilac petals.   Now and then, the fairies could get up to mischief: Grandpa swore they were helping themselves to his tomatoes.   “Go see if you can find any more evidence,” he told me.  “I don’t want them swiping my cucumbers.”  I asked why not?  Didn’t we have enough cucumbers?  “Well,” he reasoned, “if they swipe too many cucumbers, Grandma won’t be able to make pickles.  And you know how you love pickles.”  Enough said.  I scouted the remainder of the garden, determined to protect the cucumber harvest.  Uh huh, just as Grandpa had suggested, there were tiny footprints in the mud near the cucumbers.  I busied myself by making a tiny “keep out” sign, which I glued to a popsicle stick and planted in the dirt where the fairies couldn’t miss it.


Grandpa encouraged me to leave offerings for our tiny visitors.  I suggested leaving them the parts of my dinner that I didn’t want, but he vetoed that and said they’d rather have some of the cake we were having for dessert.  I reluctantly parted with some, which I’m pretty sure he ate.  That’s ok, I’m not mad about it.  Bread for the story teller.  I’d part with a lot of cake to hear him tell another story.


I never really believed in fairies, but the chronicles enchanted me and I understood the unspoken covenant: skepticism is anathema to the spirit of the story.  I knew my part.


His fables stayed with me and continue to enrich my life and inspire me.  Once in a while I pay tribute to him by using rocks, acorns, leaves, twigs, and other such findings to make fairy circles at the park.  My hope is that a child will find it and a story will be told.

gym class

Patrons ask me for humiliation a lot, as part of certain types of BDSM sessions. I understand humiliation.  I get it.  I was first exposed to humiliation by my junior high gym teacher, when I was about 13.

My physical education instructor was Miss Rand.   She was energetic, mouthy, muscular, and athletic.  She sported one silver stud earring and had a spiky mullet (it was an officially sanctioned ’80s lesbian haircut) and I was half afraid of her…but I also idolized her.  By contrast, I was built like a shoestring, mousy and homely and awkward as hell.  I wanted to be her.  I’d never known anyone like her before.  She was in better shape than anyone I had ever met and I suspected I would never measure up but I was driven to try to please her…because she was so demanding of me, doing anything remotely praiseworthy became my goal.  I was Miss Rand’s so called “special project”.  She was determined to make an example of my lack of athleticism, her explicitly stated goal being to “whip you into shape”.  And I tried so hard.  Believe me, if the effort within my power could have improved my athletic prowess, I would have been a star athlete.   Sadly, despite my concerted efforts I never managed to merit her praise.  Instead I received only vehement criticism, delivered in the style of a Marine drill sergeant.  For instance, the way she called me out during our fitness assessment: “Wehrman, get your skinny ass up that rope now!  No excuses!” …and… “Wehrman, you’re reading at a 6 on the skin fold test!  You will never reach puberty!  They do not make gym suits in kindergarten sizes!” …and my favorite: “Wehrman, do you want to be the first person in history to flunk gym?  You better get down on the floor and give me ten push ups!” …as she continued to tower over me, making menacing red marks on her clipboard, her gym shoes mere inches from my face.

This person who was a paragon of fitness and athleticism was acknowledging me.  True, she was acknowledging me for being a clumsy, lazy, skinny fuck up…but STILL. Better that than to be ignored, or so I thought.  Sometimes I feared that if I did well, she might not say anything at all.  This fear never caused me to diminish my efforts in her class though, because I really hoped that if I applied myself I could be like her, or even gain what I coveted most: her approval.  Humiliation can be complicated like that.

I don’t think she’d be much more impressed with me today, but I doubt I’d be as impressed with her.  Nevertheless I do appreciate her contribution to my kink education, if not my motivation to achieve fitness.  That part sadly did not stick, possibly (at least in part) because my role model wasn’t very encouraging.  If she were here in front of me today I’d give her a piece of my mind and talk to her about consent and boundaries.  And that haircut.

some of my paintings

I just updated, added a few new pieces. 🙂

domme de plume

When I’m not doing kinky stuff or writing or taking pictures, sometimes I paint.

watercolor painting of Yvetteyvette3

watercolor, self portraitdesiree1

acrylic, the Tenth Doctor995486_583871205003913_973508974_n

watercolor, Tarlatarla

acrylic portrait of Onyxonyx2

acrylic painting of Onyxonyx

watercolor painting of Yvetteyvette4

Acrylic painting: Cuntcunt

watercolor painting: slave girlslavegirl

watercolor painting: Malcolm X15109342_1269175719806788_6994362499761114760_n

watercolor painting: Obamawatercolor7

watercolor painting: menstrual periodperiod

watercolor painting: Black Power, back pocketblackpower

Acrylic painting, Freddie Mercuryfreddie

acrylic painting, self portraitdesiree

watercolor painting, self portraitwatercolor3

watercolor painting, the Golden Girlsgoldengirls

watercolor painting, Colin Kaepernickcolin

acrylic painting, Blood Of My Cuntry (protest art)bloodofmycuntry

Bruce Springsteen, watercolor, 16″ x 12′


Mr. Rogers, 12″ x 14″, watercolor


Judith, 16″ x 20″, acrylic


Prince, 24″ x 28″, acrylic


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