It’s unseasonably cold in Vegas this year. I’m wearing two layers and fluffy socks splattered with “ho, ho, ho.” While others are banging away at outside decorations, bundling up in their jackets and scarves, I long for a pair of shorts and the freedom of sandals. I’ve been in my house for three days running, huddled near the fireplace and wondering what happened to my sense of well-being.
I don’t want to workout or get sweaty. I don’t want to do much. Truth be told, I’m freezing and depressed.
What’s that you say, I live in the desert? I get plenty of sunshine in winter? This is true. On the rare occasions it does get overcast, such days are thrilling, romantic, and appreciated for the hint of life-giving water. If I am going to rock my cute Snow Bunny attire, I’d prefer it to be in a chalet with radiant-floor heating, a bearskin by the hearth, and mostly naked slaves rubbing me down with coconut oil after a day narrowly avoiding trees on the slopes.
I usually feel this way at the height of summer, as well, when it’s just too damn hot to do anything but suck on ice cubes.
I’m not going to wax on about SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). There is always light at the end of the tunnel and enough adrenaline-producing pastimes to avoid hitting the prescription bottle like it’s a fifth of whiskey.
What I need to do is GIVE.
So far I’ve wrapped presents for the homeless, baked cookies for the Humane Society, and taken my Husky/Shepard pup Timber on numerous treks to the mountains. She is never happier than when bounding in all her magnificent huntress ability through the powder.
I’m also patient. I know that this is one of the busiest seasons for my business. All those stressed out men, women, and couples’ are going to be running around, tending the traditions, wrestling with disgruntled shoppers, and secretly, quietly plotting the chance to arrange a post-holiday session when everyone else is napping after a buffet.
I don’t blame them. Our society seems to flame out over the materialism, making sure little Suzy and Billy have all twenty-five presents on their lists. Even as the warm bubbly feeling at seeing our manic offspring tear through acres of rainforest fades around the time the pancake and syrup breakfast as crashed their little systems in a flood of angry, low-blood sugar tears, Santa and his helpers are ready to put their heads through the wall.
I’m just the right Amazon Elf to de-stress the big guy, bringing peace and happiness to the land once more.
This is not an original idea.
As much as I need to fulfill my purpose as Mistress, Domina, Wrestler, Girlfriend, sometimes Boyfriend, and all around Placeholder for the inner freak, it comes to me that my beloved submissives, those that are counting down the days for their own Christmas mornings on a session mat, may also be down in the dumps.
For example, the ass and foot lovers. When winter comes around, there goes the legs, the feet, the exposed loveliness of arches and French manicures. Pictures don’t do much, videos are the equivalent of Prozac, maybe he’ll get lucky if there’s a sale on leggings, what’s a guy to do except move to the tropics?
Same goes with all manner of horny lover whether you like breasts, trampling, humiliation in latex, a nice whipping (heats the skin to perfection), or are simply fantasizing about someone who can strip you of your duties and make kindling out of those turtlenecks.
They NEED to give in worship. To do without is very much a loss on their primal existence. It’s SAD.
The best thing I could do for my delighted holiday depressives is give them something to look forward to. I can’t do this feeling pasty white, sluggish, and lacking in mind-body awareness cheer.
My proposal for an empowering woman winter season, the time when reflection, family gatherings and relaxation should be in full force, skip the damn hot chocolate and pie, you don’t need to compound the problem with negative self-image and seam-stretching bloating. You NEED to get hot.
Not just physically. That’s the tip of the iceberg. I mean, mentally, emotionally extinguishing the moping mates syndrome of the over-stressed, overfed, cyclical “I’ll eat everything in sight and start my diet for the New Years Resolution.” Don’t do that. Go lift weights, get in a hot yoga class, have a CrossFit coach make you throw up, or strap on the gloves for a series of grueling kickboxing sessions. Sweat by all that’s holy, sweat!
After which, you shall be flooded with endorphins, your basal body temperature shall rise, and all those layers? Eh, not unless there’s a blizzard coming your way. If that’s the case for my Northern family, guess what? You’re going to be secluded with a partner who can appreciate your increased testosterone, your calm in the face of in-law sneers, your ultimate demand of a worthy stocking stuffer.
It is a Winter Wonderland and these slopes are in need of riding.
Time to take my own medicine. There’s an Asian spa in town not connected to the bells and whistles of a casino. They have a yoga spot, herbal and salt steam rooms, saunas, and an ice bath.
That’s the ticket. The best thing I could do to knock this pouty look off my face is strip down naked and walk through an all-women’s quarter. There’s every body type from Cirque du Soleil athlete to Armenian housemom. This may be the only place in town no one gives a damn what I look like or how I feel.
After showering off, I start with the steam. It’s intense. Smells a little like Doritos. The air is so hot the edges of my nostrils sizzle. I stay until I’m on the verge of dizzy and then it’s into the ice tub. This isn’t pleasant at first, but I think about Russians and the guy in the Sopranos Chris and Paulie shot in the head before he vanished like a ghost. Actor or not, that dude was in his pajamas bottoms, seemingly loving the exhilaration of the cold. Those are some sturdy fuckers.
I repeat this cycle a couple of times until my lungs and my head feel clear as Windex. I head to the jetted Jacuzzi to simmer and sweat. Minding my own business, there’s two rows of long low seated showers. I’ve never used that portion of the room, and notice now there are two small Asian women sitting on the square plastic stools. The younger is lovingly, gently, and thoroughly washing the older with a large natural sponge. I wonder if it’s her mother or grandmother.
The mother has more gray than black hair. Her back is curved like the neck of a swan. She could be 50, 60 or 70. I can’t tell because the look on her face has evaporated her age. I’m trying not to stare. As the sponge and soap and quiet spray of poor water pressure sleuths its way down her neck and shoulders, she feels good because she is being taken care of, cleansed.
The daughter does her work methodically. This could be a weekly event. She pays attention to the space behind her elder’s ears, the hollow of her collarbone. She scrubs at the dead skin under her shoulder blades, a place aged people find difficult to reach. She stands. She pulls the woman’s back to rest against her belly and washes her hair. All with the grace and pacing of a child’s melody.
It’s not my business but they are giving me something beautiful and of great value. Neither ask anything in return.
It will be the same for me soon. Whether I am washing or being washed, in session or with familial loved ones.
I’m hot all over. I may head upstairs for a smoothie and the hilarious Korean soap operas I can’t decipher but understand perfectly. I am done longing for happiness. If that’s the only emotion I want to feel for the entirety of my life, I’m an idiot. When I get home, I will concentrate on my box breathing. I will stretch and thank every muscle and ligament that protests the activity. I will turn into the depression and ask it what it wants most, knowing on the other side, the sleeping dragon of my zest for life has been resting. When the time is right and the playmate presents themselves, the beast in me will uncurl and overwhelm them with feminine heat. Happy holidays and hell yeah, it’s a New Year.
After all, ‘tis the season for giving.
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