“That’s ASMR, isn’t it?” Matt asks of that one American Dad episode. I nod happily. As one of millions of “Tingleheads” out there, it’s nice to finally feel like I belong.
Whispering wasn’t my first trigger, or even was a trigger for me to begin with. For me, crinkly plastics and hairdryers are among my top triggers. It is often said that ASMR roots in a place of feeling safe and relaxed, and when I was a little girl, my grandmother used to take cellophane bags and fold them up to use another time. The soft crinkle as she meticulously folded the bag was hypnotic for me, she also used to read the details and ingredients on crisp packets which would have a similar effect. For hairdryers, then having long, thick hair, my mother used to blowdry my hair often. Those moments of peace, tranquility and closeness were very special for me.
Matt also experiences ASMR, and sometimes I intentionally cut paper extra slowly with a pair of scissors, just because it’s fun to watch the sadist have to focus that little bit harder on the TV. Okay, so truthfully it’s more because I like to make my partners feel good and relaxed, but…
“You’re not doing it right” Francine says to Claus.
“Is that right? Not everyone can do it?” Matt asks. I smile.
“There’s a difference between a relaxed, almost motherly whisper and a creepy stalker whisper, yes” I say. I think some many “ASMRtists” forget this – just because you can whisper, doesn’t mean you can produce ASMR. Just because you can tap, crinkle or eat something, doesn’t make it ASMR. As much is about intent and your relationship with the audience as is about the sounds you make. If your intent instead is to whisper, aggressively tap, or chew away into a cheap microphone and earn some extra pocket money, you may be disappointed. There is a reason the likes of GentleWhisperingASMR and WhispersRedASMR are so successful, they are intentional about what they do and they care to connect with their viewers. That’s what keeps people coming back for more.
“Okay, last question, has it ever been used?” I freeze. Used?
“In the community” he adds.
“Well in the ASMR community, why yes, of course. We started off as the whisper comm-“
“In BDSM” he asserts, I swallow and bite my lip. Diversion tactics not working today, huh?
“ASMR generally?”. He nods.
“I’m… aware of quite a crossover between the communities, but no, not used that I’m aware of, per se. It’s a curiosity of a lot of people for sure, but would it result in a whole new level of play or would the submissive partner simply fall asleep? Would it even work at all?”
“It’s hard to relax while you’re being tortured, although it turns out, some of us are quite into that” I smile. He laughs and shakes his head.
I want to roll my eyes, but I opt for a sigh of relief when he stops interrogating me instead. The experiments. The everything medical. Is it ASMR? Is it BDSM? Is it a bit of both? And why does the woman who is so curious about the crossover now find herself looked at as being the one to experiment on, to find those answers with? The scientist and the subject, if you will.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Janmas went off without a hitch, although it was considerably more low-key than what I expected it to be. Plates were still overloaded and my brother still had the biggest plate, then sat there huffing and puffing when he couldn’t manage it all.
For my part I delivered a rather nerdy speech about the presence of tryptophan in turkey, that it’s an amino acid and a buiding block of melatonin, hence we feel relaxed after consuming it. I was slightly smug when both my mother and their brother and their minds blown by my scientific knowlege. Once a nerd, always a nerd.
I set up Mum’s new lamp for her, then we all cooed and ahhed as she played around with the hundreds of colours that she could create in the room, using the smart bulbs. Mum set the lights to red and thoroughly amused herself.
“Oi, it’s a bit back back streets of Amsterdam, that” Mum jokes, everyone laughs and Matt looks to me. Red is our colour. Our playtime colour.
There’s an added implication in his look and only I understand it. If I like red light like a slut then I must be a slut, and Matt knows that hits a spot that I hate. It’s true, and I know it’s true, I just don’t want it to be. It reduces me to a begging mess; anything to be of more worth than what he now sees me as. In order to not be a slut, I become a slut. Such is the submissive paradox.
“This is ‘pleasing'” I say, showing Mum one of the ‘scenes’ on the app. The colours cycle smoothly against the ceiling.
“No” she says flatly. Again everyone laughs. Okay then.
“Have you seen my paintings?” my btother asks Andy. Matt and I stretch and sigh, The Malcolm Show has commenced.
I try to take an interest in the conversation, although to be totally honest, I’m just letting the guy talk about himself for a while. The guy is insecure and depressed, and I know that. If I can pick out bits and pieces to work with then maybe I can help him. Maybe.
My favourite piece of his is one called “Sea Greeter”, and it depicts a dragon-like monster in coastal waters. The level of detail is incredible, far better than I could ever do. I got a D in GCSE Art & Design for a reason.
But then things go downhill, and a lot of his paintings depict doom, gloom and turmoil. They’re not really art anymore, they’re more self-expressions of how he sees the world.
“This is the Ivory Coast” he says, holding up a rather mobid painting with smoke plumes in the distance. “As you can see, there are several fires.There are constant fires there where they’re literally just burning stuff all the time”. It amazes me how he’s come to that conclusion – the guy has never even been to Africa!
“This is ”Safe As Houses‘” he says, holding up a picture of a silhouette of a family sheltering in a house while nuclear explosions go off around them, “it was nspired by my dear sister and her fear of… certain things.”
“You know your fear of a certain Russian action?” he asks, I nod. I don’t think it’s just my fear exactly, but okay. Still, I’m an inspiration now!
“How much would you offer me for this painting?” he asks, holding up another equally depressung picture. “Go on, don’t think too much about it”. How the hell do you tell an aspiring artist that you think his work is better deserving of a place on his Mum’s fridge, at best?
This is where it pays to be tactical. Fortunately tact is, or at least it can be, my strong point.
Not in the hundreds, that’s for sure, but I know that’s what you’re looking for.
I want to say twenty-five pounds, but that really would be a materials-only cost and so that he could hopefully afford to produce something better, something more positive. Would I put it on my wall? Probably, but certainly not above my fireplace.
“Sis, you’re overthinking it!” he says. Shit! Yes, I am.
“Okay, sixty pounds?” I offer. Sixty pounds, take it or leave it.
“That’s a pretty good offer, actually” Mum says, “very reasonable”. Even my brother accepts it without question and doesn’t try to haggle me on it. I don’t think it’s even worth that much in his eyes.
“Have you ever thought about painting a snow scene?” I ask, “I’ve painted one or two in my time, they’re always fun to do.”
“I can’t say as I have” my brother says. I smile.
“With your creativity, you could maybe create something with elements that change the picture somehow, like glow in the dark paint or viewing angles, then you could call it ‘Snow What?'”. My brother rests a finger on his chin while he considers the idea and I smile again.
Just like that, a more positive idea implanted. Hopefully.
Bloganuary continues to go okay, though I’m definitely getting to the point now that I can’t wait for the next two weeks to be over. I’ve enjoyed it, but in truth, I’d probably enjoy not being glued to the computer all day a lot more. It’s been a success, yes, but not really succcessful enough to say that my writing everyday has been worth it. If we say that I’ll hit 19 Bloganuary posts tomorrow, and I have 21 followers to date, then that works out at 1.1 followers per post. Not all have followed me from Bloganuary I do realise, but it’s at least a very crude equation. That’s not a bad ratio for sure, but it’s still hardly an explosive success. Could I do just as well writing rambles every three days instead and interacting more? Probably. I think I’ve concluded by now that Bloganuary is neither good nor bad for me, it just is.
It was an adventure, something new to try, again, just to see if I liked it more the second time. As my father used to say, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Not applicable to all things, might I add.
My relationship with Bill continues to go from strength to strength, and the fact that things feel so smooth and settled now really does give me hope for my future in polyamory. Like Matt, Bill is a pleasure to hash stuff out with, if that can ever be a thing. There’s no “I’m right, so you must be wrong”, there’s just sharing views, talking, finding solutions, forgiving and moving on. There’s an ease, because we all want and strive for the same thing – a peaceful co-existence.
I like having you in my harem
Of course I roll my eyes, and of course he would. What man wouldn’t like having slaves, multiple, honestly? What heterosexual man wouldn’t be happy with having the women he likes be so willing to serve his every whim?
But Sir makes me happy, and it’s more than just sex and fucking, it’s all of me. Sir is proud of me, I know he is.
I find it interesting, because there was a time of day that I was so steadfastly against being a part of any harem. I hated the idea of being “collected”, I was worth more than just jbeing a part of some collection of submissive women. I knew I was.
But Bill was the one that slipped the net. I suppose in part because, and despite everything, then I really do think that Red and I could find some common ground yet, but also because Bill sees my value. It’s not just about collecting sex slaves for him, we are women are worth, to be treated and loved as such. As much as I would do whatever possible for Bill, he would also do the same for me. This isn’t just a roleplay. For us, it’s a whole partnership.
I could do with you to put up some more hooks
And so therein, it seems, perhaps lies my future as a slave. Not just in sex and whipping, but also DIY.
Whispers Of A Phoenix 