Tag Archives: life

Five Hundred Posts

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This is the 500th post on Rowanwood Chronicles, and I want to pause for a moment rather than rush past the number.

Five hundred posts means months of thinking in public. It means essays written early in the morning with coffee going cold, notes drafted in train stations and kitchens, arguments refined and re-refined, and ideas that only became clear because I was willing to write them out imperfectly first. It means following threads of geopolitics, technology, culture, relationships, power, science fiction, and lived experience wherever they led, even when they led somewhere uncomfortable or unfashionable.

This blog was never intended to be a brand or a platform. It has always been a workshop. A place to test ideas, to connect dots, to push back against lazy thinking, and to explore what it means to live ethically and deliberately in a complicated world. Some posts have aged well. Others mark exactly where my thinking was at the time, and I am content to leave them there as signposts rather than monuments.

What has surprised me most over these five hundred posts is not how much I have written, but how much I have learned from the responses, private messages, disagreements, and quiet readers who later surfaced to say, “That piece helped me name something.” Writing in public creates a strange kind of community, one built less on agreement than on shared curiosity.

To those who have been reading since the early days, thank you for staying. To those who arrived last week, welcome. To those who argue with me in good faith, you have sharpened my thinking more than you know. And to those who read quietly without ever commenting, you are still part of this.

I have no intention of slowing down. There are still too many systems to interrogate, futures to imagine, and human stories worth telling. Five hundred posts in, Rowanwood Chronicles remains what it has always been: a place to think carefully, write honestly, and refuse simple answers.

Onward.

Why I Don’t Struggle With Dating

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I’m in my late sixties now. I live on a small farm where the chickens have better time management than I do. I work when I feel like it, consult when the project’s interesting, and spend the rest of my time in the delightful company of women who know exactly who they are, and what they want. I’ve been called many things, some of them printable, but “a dragon” is a personal favourite. Apparently, I’m the kind of mythical creature who still believes in emotional literacy, direct communication, and showing up with actual feelings. Wild, I know.

And yes, I date. Often. With love, with humour, and above all, with a plan that includes snacks. Now, here’s the part where the other men clutch their pearls. “Dating? At your age? In this climate?” Yes, Geoffrey, in this climate. And I have a wonderful time doing it.

Because while a lot of men my age (and many younger too) are out there groaning that dating is broken, that women are too picky, too independent, too online, too much, I just smile into my coffee. Not because the world hasn’t changed. Of course it has, yet the tools for connection haven’t disappeared. They’ve just been upgraded. These days, you need emotional intelligence, a working knowledge of consent, and the radical ability to say what you mean without making it weird.

I suppose I had an advantage. I spent most of my adult life wandering: new countries, new jobs, new time zones. That sort of lifestyle trains you to find connection in the moment, to seek relationships that aren’t propped up by obligation or role, but by truth. Along the way, I stumbled into polyamory and, not long after, BDSM; not as lifestyle accessories, but as practices of honesty, intention, and trust. That’s what shaped me into the man I am today: romantic, responsible, and suspiciously good at calendar coordination.

Why don’t I struggle with dating? Simple: I know who I am, and I say so. I’m polyamorous. I’m a Dominant. I believe love is abundant, not scarce, and I show up with presence and clarity. I’m not interested in convincing anyone to like me. I’m interested in being myself and seeing who that naturally resonates with.

It’s like showing up to a party dressed as yourself, rather than as someone from the catalogue of “what men think women want.” It’s shockingly effective. Also, fewer dry-cleaning bills.

Meanwhile, the average bloke is still stuck in a loop: swiping furiously, confused why his “Hi” didn’t spark instant passion, grumbling that women only want six-foot investment bankers who play guitar on mountaintops. I hear it all the time:

“Women don’t like nice guys.”
“They only go for tall guys.”
“Dating’s a rigged game.”

Brother! You’re not playing the wrong game. You’re playing last season’s game. And you didn’t read the new instructions.

Today’s dating world rewards emotional fluency, not pickup artistry. Vulnerability, not vague texting. Boundaries, not bitterness. The new dating superpowers are things like “active listening,” “self-awareness,” and “being able to hear ‘no’ without falling apart.”

Most men I know who are struggling haven’t done the internal upgrade. They’re still trying to fix their dating lives with better profile photos and punchier icebreakers, instead of asking the truly dangerous question: Would I date me?

Here’s what my dating life looks like: maybe breakfast with one partner, a phone check-in with another, a lazy evening on the deck with the third. Nobody’s confused, nobody’s being played, and everyone’s emotionally fed. Why? Because they know I tell the truth. I listen. I own my shite when I get it wrong. That’s not magic, it’s just good relationship hygiene.

So if you’re a man out there feeling lonely, frustrated, or tempted to write another “Women today just don’t…” rant on Reddit, let me offer you something better: a challenge. Become someone you admire. Learn how to feel your feelings without fear. Learn to ask for what you want without pretending you don’t care. Practice showing up for others, even when there’s nothing in it for you.

Dating isn’t broken. You just need to update your operating system.

There is no shortage of love out here. No shortage of desire or connection. But there is a shortage of men willing to do the work to meet women as equals, as partners, as whole humans. That’s not a condemnation. It’s an invitation.

You don’t need to be rich, ripped, or romantic in six languages. You just need to be real. Because honesty is still the sexiest thing a man can offer.

When Bed Bugs Became Normal

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Over Christmas, in the middle of one of those conversations that wander from politics to rent to the sheer exhaustion of trying to live well, one of my kids said something that stopped me cold.

“You boomers don’t really get it,” they said. “Bed bugs are just part of life now.”

I laughed at first, because that is what you do when something sounds exaggerated. Bed bugs, to me, belonged to a different era. Something from old boarding houses, wartime hostels, badly run hotels in novels. Not something you simply absorbed into your mental list of modern inconveniences, like delayed buses or terrible customer service.

But they were serious. Not alarmist, not dramatic. Just factual. Friends had dealt with them. Neighbours had dealt with them. People they knew moved, threw out furniture, slept with their clothes sealed in bags, and then went on with their lives. It was not a story. It was context.

I live in Ottawa. I pay attention to housing. I read the news. And yet this had somehow slid past me. So I did what I usually do when I suspect I am wrong. I went and looked it up.

What I learned was uncomfortable, not because bed bugs are especially dangerous, but because they are ordinary now in a way they were not when I was younger. Bed bugs were largely suppressed in North America by the late twentieth century. They never disappeared, but for a long while most people never encountered them. That changed in the early 2000s, and the change stuck.

Public health agencies, pest control data, and municipal reporting all tell the same story. Increased travel, dense urban housing, and widespread resistance to common insecticides have allowed bed bugs to rebound and spread efficiently. They do not care if a place is clean. They do not care about income. They move by hitching rides in luggage, backpacks, furniture, and clothing. Human mobility is their advantage.

Ottawa, it turns out, regularly appears near the top of Canadian city rankings for bed bug treatments. Not because it is uniquely dirty or negligent, but because it is dense, mobile, and full of multi unit housing. Apartments, dorms, shelters, hotels, and condos form a continuous ecosystem. Once bed bugs are established in a building, eradication is slow, expensive, and often incomplete.

What surprised me most was not the prevalence, but the tone of the official advice. Ottawa Public Health does not speak about bed bugs as a rare emergency. It speaks about them as a recurring condition. Something to be managed. Something residents should learn to identify, report, and respond to calmly.

They do not transmit disease. That is the reassurance. But they do transmit stress. Anxiety. Shame. Sleeplessness. Financial strain. Entire households reorganized around plastic bags and heat treatments and waiting.

When you grow up believing a problem has been solved, its return feels like failure. When you grow up with the problem already present, it feels like weather. Something you watch for and plan around, but do not expect to eliminate.

That, I think, is the generational divide my kid was pointing at.

For many people in their twenties, bed bugs are not a crisis story. They are part of the background risk of renting, traveling, and sharing space in a city. You do not panic. You check. You adapt. You hope you are lucky.

I still do not like the idea that this is “just how it is now.” But I understand why they said it. And I understand now that my shock said more about my assumptions than about their reality.

Sometimes the world does not change all at once. Sometimes it just quietly adds another thing you have to live with, and waits to see who notices.

PS I did wash their bedding and clean the rooms as soon as they left.

Sources: 
Ottawa Public Health. Bed Bugs.
https://www.ottawapublichealth.ca/en/public-health-topics/bed-bugs.aspx
CityNews Ottawa. Ottawa ranks among Canada’s bed buggiest cities.
https://ottawa.citynews.ca
Health Canada. Bed bugs.
https://www.canada.ca/en/health-canada/services/pest-control-tips/bedbugs.html

🧩 Messy Lists, Veto Power, and What We’re Actually Talking About

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Polyamory has a funny habit of turning emotional work into policy debates. Messy lists and veto power are classic examples.

On the surface, they’re about rules. Underneath, they’re about fear, trust, and responsibility.

📋 What a Messy List Is (When It Works)

A messy list is usually an agreement not to date people whose involvement would have outsized impact on shared lives.

Common examples include:

  • Close friends
  • Coworkers
  • Family members
  • People deeply embedded in shared community spaces

At their best, messy lists are risk management, not control.

Healthy messy lists tend to be:

  • Short and specific
  • Based on foreseeable harm, not insecurity
  • Open to discussion and revision
  • Grounded in context, not categories

🚩 When Messy Lists Become a Problem

Messy lists stop being useful when they quietly turn into enforcement.

Red flags include:

  • Long or vague lists
  • Whole categories of people instead of specific situations
  • Rules that expand every time discomfort appears
  • Agreements that can’t be questioned

At that point, the list isn’t about safety. It’s about control.

🛑 Veto Power and Why It Feels Bad (Even When Unused)

Veto power is the ability, explicit or implied, for one partner to end or forbid another relationship.

Even if it’s “only for emergencies,” its existence shapes behavior:

  • People self-censor
  • New partners feel disposable
  • Emotional investment becomes conditional

The core issue isn’t hierarchy. It’s externalizing emotional regulation.

Instead of asking “What do I need?”, vetoes ask “What do you need to stop doing?”

🔄 Where the Two Blur Together

A messy list becomes a veto when:

  • Breaking it automatically ends a relationship
  • Context doesn’t matter
  • Growth doesn’t matter
  • Discomfort alone justifies enforcement

The language may say agreement.
The structure says control.

🧭 A More Functional Approach

Many people move away from vetoes and rigid lists toward boundaries and consequences.

Examples:

  • “I won’t stay in relationships that destabilize my closest friendships.”
  • “I need advance discussion if something affects my work or housing.”
  • “I’ll limit my access to shared spaces if I feel unsafe.”

These don’t forbid choice.
They clarify impact.

❓ The Real Question

Instead of asking:

  • Do we allow vetoes?
  • What’s on the messy list?

Try asking:

What do we do when something genuinely threatens our shared life?

If the only answer is control, the structure is fragile.
If the answer includes communication, boundaries, and accountability, it has resilience.

Polyamory isn’t about avoiding mess.
It’s about learning how to handle it without taking away someone else’s autonomy.

Objective vs. Subjective Truth: Can Reality Be Independent of Perspective?

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With many of our political leaders and wannabes being even more flexible with facts these days than usual, especially during elections and internal party races, I felt I needed to get back into the whole Truth vs.Transparency debate.  The notion that truth depends on perspective is a long-standing debate in philosophy, epistemology, and even science. This idea, often associated with relativism, suggests that truth is not absolute, but rather contingent on individual experiences, cultural backgrounds, or frameworks of understanding. However, this claim is not without challenges, as there are also arguments in favor of objective and universal truths. To fully explore this concept, we must examine different domains where truth operates: subjective experience, science, social and political contexts, and philosophical thought.

Perspective and Subjective Truth
In many aspects of human experience, truth is shaped by individual perspective. This is especially evident in perception, memory, and personal beliefs. Two people witnessing the same event might recall it differently due to factors such as their background, cognitive biases, emotional states, or even the angle from which they viewed the scene. This idea aligns with psychological research on eyewitness testimony, which has shown that memory is often reconstructive rather than a perfect recording of reality.

Similarly, in moral and ethical debates, truth is often perspective-dependent. For example, the moral acceptability of euthanasia, capital punishment, or animal rights varies across cultures and individuals. Some believe that these issues have absolute moral answers, while others argue that they are contingent on cultural norms, social circumstances, or personal values. This form of truth relativism suggests that moral truths exist only within particular frameworks and are not universally binding.

The same can be said for aesthetic judgments. Whether a painting is beautiful or a piece of music is moving depends entirely on the individual’s perspective, cultural exposure, and personal taste. In these cases, truth appears to be entirely relative, as there is no objective standard for determining beauty or artistic value.

Scientific and Objective Truth
While subjective truths are shaped by perspective, there are many instances where truth appears to be independent of personal viewpoints. In science, for instance, objective truths are discovered through empirical evidence and repeatable experimentation. The boiling point of water at sea level is 100°C, regardless of who measures it or what they believe. The theory of gravity describes forces that apply universally, irrespective of individual perspectives. These facts suggest that some truths exist independently of human perception and belief.

However, even in science, perspective plays a role in shaping how truths are understood. Scientific paradigms, as described by Thomas Kuhn in The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, shift over time. What is considered “true” in one era may later be revised. For example, Newtonian physics was once seen as the ultimate truth about motion and force, but Einstein’s theory of relativity redefined our understanding of space and time. This suggests that while some scientific truths may be objective, our understanding of them is influenced by perspective and historical context.

Social and Political Truths
In social and political discourse, truth is often contested, shaped by competing narratives and interests. Political ideologies influence how events are interpreted and presented. The same historical event can be described differently depending on the source; one news outlet may highlight a particular set of facts while another emphasizes a different aspect, leading to multiple “truths” about the same event.

This phenomenon is especially evident in propaganda, media bias, and misinformation. A politician may claim that an economic policy has been a success, citing certain statistics, while an opponent presents an alternative set of data to argue the opposite. In such cases, truth becomes less about objective reality and more about which perspective dominates public discourse.

Additionally, postmodern thinkers like Michel Foucault argue that truth is linked to power structures. Those in power determine what is accepted as truth, shaping knowledge production in ways that reinforce their authority. This perspective challenges the idea that truth is purely objective, suggesting instead that it is constructed through discourse and institutional influence.

Philosophical Challenges: Can Truth Ever Be Objective?
Philosophers have long debated whether truth is ultimately subjective or objective. Immanuel Kant, for example, argued that we can never access the world as it truly is (noumena), but only as it appears to us through our senses and cognitive structures (phenomena). This implies that all knowledge is shaped by human perception, making pure objectivity impossible.

On the other hand, Plato’s theory of forms suggests that there are absolute truths – unchanging, eternal realities that exist beyond the material world. Mathematical truths, for instance, seem to be independent of human perspective. The Pythagorean theorem is true regardless of culture, language, or opinion.

Existentialist philosophers like Jean-Paul Sartre take a different approach, arguing that meaning and truth are constructed by individuals rather than discovered. From this perspective, truth is not something external to be found but something we create through our actions and beliefs.

Is Truth Relative or Absolute?
The idea that truth depends on perspective holds significant weight in subjective, moral, and social contexts. In matters of perception, ethics, and politics, truth often appears to be relative, shaped by individual experiences, cultural backgrounds, and power dynamics. However, in science, mathematics, and logic, objective truths exist independently of human interpretation, though our understanding of them may evolve over time.

The challenge lies in distinguishing between what is truly relative and what is universally valid. While perspective influences many aspects of truth, dismissing the possibility of objective truth altogether leads to skepticism and uncertainty. A balanced approach recognizes that while some truths are shaped by perspective, others remain constant regardless of human interpretation.

A Year in the Wilds of The Rowanwood Chronicles

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A reflective essay by the fellow who somehow decided that blogging about politics, climate, gender, and quantum mechanics was a relaxing hobby

I did not set out to become a blogger. No one does. Blogging is something that happens to you when you’ve said “someone should really write about this” one too many times and then realize the someone is you. That was my first year of The Rowanwood Chronicles. A steady accumulation of small irritations, large curiosities, and the occasional planetary existential dread finally pressuring me into a keyboard.

Over the past twelve months I have written about food systems, seismic faults, mononormativity, AI governance, and the demise of centralized social media platforms. This is, I admit, not a tidy list. Most writers pick a lane. I picked several highways, a few dirt roads, and one unmarked trail that led straight into a thicket of gender theory. Some readers have thanked me. Others have quietly backed away like I had started talking about cryptocurrency at a family barbecue. Fair enough.

The funny thing about running a blog with the byline “Conversations That Might Just Matter” is that you end up feeling mildly responsible for the state of the world. Somewhere in the back of my mind I became convinced that if I took one week off, climate policy would collapse, privacy laws would be gutted by corporate lawyers, and Canada would discover a massive geological fault running directly under my house. It is exhausting being the only person preventing civilization from tipping off its axis, but I have bravely carried on.

Along the way, I learned a few things.

First, people really do want long-form writing. They want context. They want to know why their health system is groaning like a Victorian heroine on a staircase. They want someone to explain decentralized social media without sounding like a blockchain evangelist who drinks only powdered mushroom tea. They want nuance rendered in plain language. I can do that. Sometimes even coherently.

Second, writing about politics is like trying to pet a squirrel. You can do it, but you have to keep your hands calm, your movements measured, and be prepared for the possibility that something small and unpredictable will bite you. Every time I published a political piece, I felt like I was tiptoeing across a frozen lake holding a hot cup of tea. Most of the time it held. Some days it cracked.

Third, the world is endlessly, maddeningly fascinating. One moment I was researching drought-related crop instability in the Global South. The next, I was reading government reports about flood plain management. Then I found myself knee-deep in a rabbit hole about the Tintina Fault, which sits there in the Yukon like an unbothered geological time bomb politely waiting its turn. Writing the blog became my excuse to satisfy every curiosity I have ever had. It turns out I have many.

What surprised me most was what readers responded to. Not the posts where I worked terribly hard to sound authoritative. Not the deeply researched pieces where I combed through reports like a librarian possessed. No. What people loved most were the pieces where I sounded like myself. Slightly bemused. Occasionally outraged. Often caffeinated. Always trying to understand the world without pretending to have mastered it.

That was the gift of the year. The realization that a blog does not need to be grand to be meaningful. It simply needs to be honest. Steady. And maybe a little mischievous.

I will admit that I sometimes wondered whether writing about governance, equity, and science from my small corner of Canada made any difference at all. But each time someone wrote to say a post clarified something for them, or started a discussion in their household, or helped them feel less alone in their confusion about the world, I remembered why I started.

I began The Rowanwood Chronicles because I wanted to understand things. I kept writing because I realized other people wanted to understand them too.

So here I am, a year older, slightly better informed, and armed with a list of future topics that spans everything from biodiversity corridors to the psychology of certainty. The world is complicated. My curiosity is incurable. And The Rowanwood Chronicles is still the place where I try to make sense of it all.

If nothing else, this year taught me that even in a noisy world full of predictions and outrage, there is room for thoughtful conversation. There is room for humour. There is room for stubborn optimism. And there is definitely room for one more cup of tea before I press publish.

The NRE Rule: Why Nothing You Say Should Count within the First 180 Days

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I first shared a version of this article on Fetlife, where it sparked some discussion. My aim here is to focus on the experience of being in the NRE zone, rather than on the potential fallout that can sometimes occur around it. That said, I do include a few considerations you might find worth reflecting on. Enjoy!

Polyamory veterans know a universal truth: New Relationship Energy (NRE) makes people completely, gloriously bonkers. And not in a “quirky fun” way – in a “you just cancelled dinner with your long‑term partner because your new crush sent you a TikTok of a honey badger” kind of way.

For the uninitiated, NRE is that fizzy cocktail of dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin your brain starts shaking up the moment you meet someone new who lights up your nervous system. Think champagne meets espresso meets a sugar rush. You’re drunk on possibility, jittery with lust, and convinced you’ve found The One (or The One Plus the Others You Already Love).

Your friends nod knowingly while making silent bets on how long before you resurface. Your partners smile politely while you quietly move your toothbrush back to your bathroom. And you? You’re busy imagining joint vacations, co‑buying an air fryer, and wondering whether it’s “too soon” to introduce them to your entire extended family. (Spoiler: yes, it is.)

The NRE Rule

My personal safeguard – forged in the fires of experience – is what I call The NRE Rule:

For the first 180 days, whatever you say to each other is lovely – even magical – but it doesn’t count for shit.
Come day 181, you’d better know what you’re saying and committing to… or else.

Why 180 days? Because science says that’s about how long it takes for the champagne bubbles of NRE to start going flat. The hormonal flood subsides, reality wanders back in wearing sweatpants, and suddenly you’re seeing this person in normal lighting – not just by candlelight or after three Negronis.

Neuroscience tells us that in those first months, your brain is actively conspiring to make you overlook flaws. Evolution likes this trick – it’s great for mating – but terrible for deciding who you should let rearrange your furniture.

Why It Works

The NRE Rule is not about being cynical. It’s about enjoying the high without buying real estate while you’re still tipsy. It:

  • Protects your long‑term loves from your NRE‑drunk time‑management disasters.
  • Keeps your new connection fun without attaching premature permanence.
  • Gives relationships breathing space to prove they work in ordinary, boring, real‑life conditions.

So by all means, whisper “forever” under the covers, build blanket forts, and make each other playlists. Just don’t sign a mortgage, merge your Netflix accounts, or promise to raise alpacas together until you’ve passed the 180‑day checkpoint.

Because here’s the thing: Day 181 is when the fun talk turns into real talk. That’s when “I’ll always be there for you” starts meaning right now, in this actual moment, with all our messy schedules and emotional baggage. It’s when the NRE sparkle gives way to the glow of real compatibility — or the thud of “oh… so that’s who you are.”

Until then? Enjoy the sugar rush. Just remember: before 180 days, you’re spending Monopoly money. After that? The bank account opens for real.

And I don’t care how cute they are – no one gets the air fryer until they’ve made it to Day 181.

The Jade Tree and Carl Jung’s Synchronicity

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I hadn’t thought about her in over a year. No particular reason. No emotional weight behind it. She just drifted across my mind, calmly, clearly, and I noted it, then moved on.

Half an hour later, my phone buzzed. A message from her. No small talk, no explanation. Just a photo of a jade tree I’d given her a while back. It looked healthy. Thriving, actually. She thought I’d like to see how well it was doing.

I thanked her for the photo, wished her well, and left it at that. I didn’t feel any great pull to re-engage, but the moment stayed with me, not because of her, but because of the timing. The randomness. The feeling that something just lined up.

Carl Jung had a name for this kind of thing: synchronicity. He defined it as a “meaningful coincidence”. Two or more events connected not by cause and effect, but by meaning. They happen together, seemingly by chance, but resonate with something deeper. He saw it as a sign that there’s more to reality than we can see or measure. That sometimes, our inner world and the outer world speak to each other. Quietly. Precisely.

I’m not someone who needs to romanticize everything. People reach out. Thoughts come and go. But there was something clean about this particular moment; no buildup, no emotional noise. Just the sense of a thread that hadn’t fully frayed. A small echo between two people, delivered through a jade tree and a phone screen.

There’s no need to dig into it more than that. I wasn’t longing for her. I wasn’t unresolved, but when synchronicity shows up like this, I pay attention. Not because I think it means something I need to act on, but because it reminds me I’m connected to more than just what’s in front of me.

Jung believed these moments reflected the presence of a collective unconscious, a shared field of symbolic meaning, memory, and emotion. A psychic network we’re all tuned into, whether we realize it or not. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe we just carry people with us in subtle ways, and now and then, something stirs.

What I know is this: there was no reason for her to reach out when she did. And no reason for me to be thinking of her right before. But she did. And I was. And I’m glad I noticed.

The jade tree is still growing. That’s enough.

Her Power, My Rules: When a Submissive is a Real Alpha

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She commands a room with a glance. Corporate meetings, brand deals, photo shoots, livestreams watched by thousands, she owns them all. My girl is a powerhouse in every sense. She’s in her 30s, brilliant, ferociously independent, raising kids and rising in an industry where power is often performative, and women are taught to either outdo men or obey them.

She does neither. She submits – to me.

I’m her older Daddy Dom. Retired. Steady. Quiet. A man who no longer needs to impress anyone, and in our private world, behind the soft chime of a voice note or the sharp tone of a command, she kneels. Not because she’s weak, because she chooses to lay down her power at my feet.

That’s not a contradiction. That’s the truth of submission most people can’t grasp: real power doesn’t vanish under discipline – it expands.

I Don’t Dom Her Potential – I Hold It
She didn’t come to me for control. She already controls everything. What she needed was containment. Someone who could see the whole of her and not be intimidated. Someone who would honor the woman, the brand, the mother, the CEO, and still grab her by the throat when the time was right.

My rules aren’t petty. They’re structural. She checks in before meetings, sends me her weekly intentions, wears specific underthings I’ve chosen for her to major events. I don’t micromanage her brand, I support the woman behind it. I help her carve out rituals that let her breathe.

And when she forgets herself, or needs to be brought back down from the ledge of performance and pressure? I correct her. Not cruelly. Not theatrically. Just enough to remind her that she doesn’t have to do it all alone.

She Makes Money. I Make Meaning.
There’s something that happens when an ambitious woman comes home to a Dominant who doesn’t need anything from her. I don’t want her money. I don’t curate her followers. I care that she ate today. That she’s sleeping enough. That she remembers who she is when the cameras are off.

She once said to me, “I’ve never had a man ask for less from me, and yet get more.”

She’s right. I don’t push her to produce. I make space for her to rest. And in that space, her submission blooms like something sacred.

Because here’s the truth: it takes a patient, considerate man to hold a woman like her. She is the Alpha Wolf in the public square, yet in my presence, she is a girl again. Not smaller, just softer. More fluid. More honest.

And I protect that space like it’s sacred.

Submission Is a Rebellion, Too
When we first began, she worried what people might think. “You’re older. You’re retired. You’re not in the scene like I am,” she said.

“You don’t need another performer,” I told her. “You need someone who sees past your act.”

She laughed. That was the moment we both knew.

She’s used to being the one people orbit, but in our dynamic, she surrenders. Not as a loss, but as a conscious, defiant act of rebellion against the world that insists she always be on.

When she kneels, she’s not giving up status. She’s reclaiming her soul.

We Negotiate With Truth, Not Fantasy
Our D/s doesn’t run on clichés. There are no 24/7 protocols that disregard her children’s needs. There are no humiliating tasks that undermine her role in the industry. Our play is intense, yes, but always integrated.

Sometimes she wears my collar under a power suit. Sometimes she sends a voice memo in the car before a pitch meeting “Daddy, I’m scared. Tell me I’ve got this.”

I tell her. Every time. Because my Dominance isn’t performative. It’s responsive. It adapts to her evolution without compromising its authority.

She calls it the most grown-up relationship she’s ever had.

Not Everyone Will Understand Us, and That’s Okay
Sometimes people within our inner circle ask her why a woman like her; beautiful, public, successful, would kneel to a retired, older man. They don’t understand that what we have isn’t about age or power imbalances. It’s about Resonance. Safety. Depth.

She once whispered in bed, after a scene, “I feel small and safe in your hands. Like everything I don’t show the world can just…..fall away.”

That’s the highest compliment a submissive can give, because when a woman like her chooses to submit, it’s not from need. It’s from trust.

And when a man like me receives it, it’s not from conquest. It’s from care.

There are many kinds of D/s relationships. Ours is not performative, or photogenic, or built for display. It is deeply intentional, ethically structured, and spiritually rich. She brings the storm. I hold the stillness. She is the Alpha in the world, but in my arms?

She is mine. Entirely.

Great Textpectations: And Other Hauntings From Ghosters Anonymous

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Ah yes, ghosting, the ultimate disappearing act of the digital age. It’s like ditching a party through the bathroom window without so much as a “thanks for the snacks.” Passive-aggressive? Check. Lazy? Double check. But effective? Sure, if you count avoiding awkward conversations as an accomplishment. Spoiler alert – it’s not.

Let’s be real. Ghosting is less about sparing someone’s feelings and more about dodging accountability. It’s like saying, “I’m too emotionally constipated to have an adult conversation, so here’s eternal silence instead.” Bravo, ghoster. You’ve unlocked the relationship equivalent of turning off your phone and calling it self-care.

Now, here’s the plot twist: some people ghost people they actually like. Why, you ask? Oh, just a cocktail of commitment issues, fear of vulnerability, and the maturity of a houseplant. Think of it as emotional dodgeball, except they threw the ball, ran home, and never came back.

Research (and common sense) shows that people with attachment avoidance are the reigning champions of ghosting. These are the folks who would rather fake their own death than text, “This isn’t working out.” Instead, they fade away like a bad Wi-Fi signal, leaving you wondering if it was something you said, did, or wore (it wasn’t).

Here’s the kicker, ghosting isn’t about you. It’s about them. Their fears. Their insecurities. Their inability to handle adult-level emotions. So, when someone ghosts you, consider it a blessing. You just dodged a lifetime of, “Why won’t they talk about their feelings?” Pop the champagne and move on.

That said, let’s not sugarcoat it, ghosting hurts. It’s the emotional equivalent of yelling into an empty canyon and waiting for an echo that never comes. One minute you’re texting about your favorite pizza toppings, the next you’re refreshing your messages like a stock ticker in free fall. And just when you’ve pieced yourself back together, in shuffles the ghost turned zombie.

Ah yes, the zombie; a ghoster who rises from the dead with a “Hey stranger!” text at 2 a.m., as if they didn’t vanish like a magician’s rabbit. It’s the ultimate insult: “I didn’t care enough to stay, but I’m bored enough to come back.” Block them, delete the thread, and light a sage stick for good measure.

So, what’s the moral of the story? Ghosting is the coward’s way out. It’s a neon sign flashing, “I can’t handle hard conversations!” If you’re ghosted, clap for yourself because you dodged an emotional grenade. And if the zombie reappears? Ghost them right back. Poetic justice tastes even better than that pizza you never got to share.