Down

When I am standing against a wall, a mantel, a cross, a bedframe, I get overwhelmed before it even begins. I start thinking about what's to come, what is about to literally hit me, and I start questioning my life choices. 

It's over in a split second or two. It's my opportunity to either let go, or stay. It's my chance to resist, refuse, speak the manipulation, voice the no. A fellow submissive said recently something like "I can either give myself over to it and let it happen, or stop now." Every day, every minute, is a submission. Every time I choose to move forward and submit and stay in place. There's no law that keeps me standing there. 

The other choice I have to is go away, and leave by body where it is. Disassociation, they call it. Stepping outside of my body and letting it happen to someone else, is what I call it. Except it's me, there's no avoiding that. I'm the one with the marks, the success or failure, the residual aching and arousal. So many times you have recognized where I am, and your hand on my shoulder or between my legs, or around my neck, reminds me that there are not two identities but one, and I must daily make peace with all of it. All the parts. The beautiful and ugly and disappointing and raging with joy parts. The hot and cold, the smooth and razor sharp gouges that everyone including myself has left. 

There's more to a beating than the physical. 

a little something

a possible play date has come up in the kinda-near future.

part of the complications of being poly is that - well - it's somewhat difficult to find poly people with whom you'd actually like to become involved with. anyone out there who's poly is probably saying "ya think?" finding my way through the mire of the different definitions ("open", "poly", "slut", "etc") has been an ongoing challenge. i gave up a long time ago, and began using the term "polyamorous" because it seemed as close as i could get to what i was talking about.

i don't make the decisions regarding sex in my relationship with my owner. not when i have it, not how i have it, not with whom. i suppose i have some input, and i certainly have opinions, but ultimately, it's not up to me. as a result, i've ended up in some sexual situations in which i was pleased as punch, and in others where it kinda sucked.

but the possible one upcoming has me nervous. the last time we met with this person, i almost-barely survived. okay, that's not literal, but it felt like it at the time. while my owner scares me in a primal way that only he knows how to accomplish, this person scares me - differently. physically. i've tried to articulate it before, but i can't quite seem to come up with the right words.

he is not my owner, but he does care about me. those are two separate things. he is not my owner, so his personal obligation towards keeping the property intact, healthy, and humming along smoothly, is non-existent. he may very well care about those things, but because he cares about me as a person, a friend. but as a dominant, it's not his problem.

he's there for the show.

it's turning over in the pit of my stomach with a sickly twist like nausea, but my mind's eye sees it coming like a car crash that i can't wait to see.

on a scale of 1-10

one of the beautiful things about the internet in all it's twisty and winding ways is that we do not have to lie about what it is we want. maybe we're getting impatient, or bored, or unbearably lonely. but lying about facts won't help one's cause.

it used to be that if one was a masochist, one needed to "submit" to someone to get those needs met. perhaps that took rise out of the old guard, where the culture was based on respect, and there were things akin to rites that brought one from one level to another in the community. so, if you wanted pain, you gave respect to the one who could dish it out well, and relatively safely. that's not necessarily submitting, but as the kink world grew, it re-interpreted as such.

my point is that now, thanks to the internet and the endless clarification of terms, you don't have to call yourself submissive in order to get your masochistic needs met. BDSM is not all the same thing, it's an umbrella term that covers all sorts of types and fetishes. for some people the worlds meet, and in others, very separate.

using myself as an example: i am not a masochist. i do not get off on pain - i can't get aroused by being in physical (or emotional) pain alone. my personal fetish is control. my owner uses pain to reinforce his control over me, and it is in that regard that i "enjoy" it. if you put me with a top who giggled, i'd be out of there in a hurry. it's not funny to me. however, as a top, i'm definitely a sadist. i have just about zero interest in controlling another person, but i thoroughly enjoy hurting someone to the point where they grit their teeth, or possibly even scream.

so, i'm at one end of the spectrum for D/s, and the other for S/m. in my own brain, i understand this perfectly well. for years, i was with a man who was only a kind-of dominant, but a huge sadist. it was a horrible mis-match. my owner now is a good fit for me - the overall relationship needs for him are about control, but his sexual fetish is pain. without the control, it undercuts any painplay that might happen, and de-values it. i've found that we have less pain-involved play, but that's probably because the *primary* need of D/s (extreme control) is being met for satisfactorily for both of us for now.

i get frustrated by people who seem (i can't prove it) to *use* D/s or S/m to get to the other, seeing them as part of the same continuum. if you're not interested in D/s, don't manipulate someone into a relationship who needs it. if you don't want painplay (for example, a dominant who abhors really hurting anyone physically) don't get involved with a masochist.

please. be honest about your needs and you'll have better luck getting them met. i promise.

trigger

for the first year or so, it never happened. there was somehow a switch inside me that got stuck in the "off" position, and the slapped-on smile stuck to my face like it was cemented there. i could rattle off the details of what happened, and throw in some jokes besides.

almost exactly a year later to the date of it was the first one. i started feeling depressed, although the spring had come and was melting the ice with tiny rivers through it, usually my favorite time of year. i went back to therapy, because i couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom.

the last time before now was a bad one. it almost felt like my self had split into two beings - one, rational and able to speak pretty clearly and articulate what was going on, while the other one wept and shook uncontrollably. both selves took a moment to retch a few times.

it's almost like it's getting worse with each event. i was already overtired, and not feeling well. somehow the ability to remember that everything was actually okay and would not destroy everything i loved faded into the background like fog. i could barely speak, and the images and actual visual memories returned, like a slide show. at the time of the event itself, i cried. i know that much. but any more emotion than that went into lockdown, and i remember thinking that it was all unreal, and was probably a bad dream. i didn't get upset, particularly.

with every episode now, it's like my body rather than my mind is remembering what i should have felt at the time.

it would be easier to say that my extreme need for submission, masochism, and suffering was somehow a way to replay all of it in a more positive, building rather than deteriorating environment.

but it's not. i've always been like this. before, during, and after. those of us that have been through things like this understand in the cells of our body, not our minds, how what we do is simply not abuse.

i miss you already

"what always fascinates me about you is that you don't like it. but you want it."

"yes, sir."

i don't like it. i don't like the pain. it makes me gasp, it makes me cringe, it frightens me and i dread it. some kinds are worse than others, but none of them are pleasurable. but i'm the one who suggests the opportunity, drags down the box, and shuts up.

there are still phrases and words that send an electric jolt through me. "hard use." "suffer, bitch." and the mere actions of a man using his slave for his own purposes, not caring what the results are other than his own satisfaction. i don't ever go numb, but being your rag doll certainly brings me damned close. if only you wouldn't hurt me so much, i'd be able to float away.

it's a riddle, isn't it. hurt me so i can suffer so i can't float away.

i don't like sleeping in your bed without you.

too far, not so fast

you asked me if, in my moments of objectification and muffled screaming, i'd have preferred to be used sexually instead.

within seconds, images of everything that happened flashed: four hands pinching and placing and moving and slapping and hurting. unable to breathe through the gag because my nose was stuffed from sobbing.

"i hate electricity," i responded. "i've always told you that."

"that's not an answer," you said, as you kept your eyes on the road, and my eyes wandered around your face. i kept looking for the real question there, but couldn't find it. i occasionally forget that you are a man of action over words, and that it doesn't occur to you to hide your meanings.

"i'm not sure if i can answer that," i said finally. i looked out at the road in front of us as we were driving away. "i don't think it even occurred to me that that was an option."

"it wasn't. an option for you, anyway. you don't have options."

"that's not what i meant." i tried again. "i mean that in the midst of it, it did not occur to me that something could be different. that i could want something other than what was happening, even if i hated what was happening. electricity play is something i've never done well with, and there's really nothing about it that's erotic to me." i paused, carefully trying to get my meaning across.

"i wasn't thinking that i'd rather be fucking. i was thinking, frankly, about survival and trying to obey what was happening in the present, and wherever it went, i would go. for you."

a few seconds passed as i watched the graying sky beyond you and the slow smile that grew across your lips.

all night long vanilla

conversation under the covers almost asleep:

me: you ever hear about those people who have sex "all night"?
D: yeah.
me: what's that about? how do you have sex all night? vanilla sex? all night? that's a lot of fucking.
D: i don't think they mean active penetration for 12 hours.
me: oh. 'cause that sounds - tiring. and boring.

[interlude in which we attempt to describe what vanilla sex consists of. we rack our brains. this is not a simple task.]

me: i mean, vanilla sex? all night? honestly, that sounds like torture to me. ::: laughing ::: hey - that's a new way to torture me - make me have vanilla sex for 8 hours. but i think you'd be bored shitless.
D: actually, that's an idea. but i wouldn't do it. i'd get someone else to do it.

[very long pause.]

me: uh. with all due respect, "getting someone else to do it" isn't vanilla.

[short pause]

D: huh. how about that.

dig

you dig into me with your teeth with your fingernails with your stare ditchdeep i'm sunk, deeper deeper i only have tunnel vision back to you a thin line a thread a line of spit slowly falling to the ground where my knees belong and you dig dig deep down dirt daughter dark your open hole.

the high cost of gasoline.

"Subdrop is a state of depression and moodiness that often occurs after a heavy scene or where the submissive is away from their dominant for an extended period of time. Subdrop can happen quickly or it may not manifest itself for several days after the scene. It may also appear as the result of being away from a relationship where feelings of love and submission are particularly strong."

box

"why can't i just be nice?" you said, mocking me as you twisted my skin. my hands hung limply at my sides, because it doesn't occur to me anymore to try and stop you.

whatever became of the expectations i used to have of men? of how they are, what i know of their internal puzzles and foci, whatever assemblages of personality they'd made for themselves, i'd set about unfolding it until i saw their heart and judged it. yes, i did - i made judgments and assessments about who they were, and once i'd done that i was numb to it. it was over.

you are a chinese box, and i feel simple and small next to you. the pain you give me makes me need you and hate you and know that i would do it, whatever it is, that you ask. it's not so much a "gift" of submission as it is a helpless offering to the only higher power i understand.

the right phrase

"...a love so violent it was almost it's opposite."

-A.S. Byatt, "Babel Tower"

driven insane by food rules

i want sugar. not yoga. i want:

oreo cookies
lemon meringue pie
key lime pie
chocolate mousse
creme brulee
a hershey bar, with almonds
mocha latte
non-diet coke
brownies
cheesecake
strawberry shortcake
mudslide sundae
goobers
jelly beans
birthday cake
pancakes

some days, i feel like i'm just going to snap.

you'd think after all this time i'd either just give in a realize it ain't gonna happen and find some fucking peace about it, or give in and take the consequences.

somehow i can't seem to do either. this isn't a whine, this is a helpless, sweating-it-out in a daily basis kind of thing. i rarely get angry at my owner, and when i do, it's almost inevitably about food.

the other day, i asked and received permission to eat an english muffin with cheese. this was a moment to note because bread is on the "my eyebrow is raised you'd better watch it" list. not completely forbidden, but it's not exactly high on the "wonderful!" list, either. but before i could run off and take full advantage of the permission as given (as i'm wont to do these days - i no longer stand around hemming and hawing and looking gift horses in the mouth) he added "with an egg." not a big deal, no?

but i didn't want an egg.

what i wanted was freedom to pick my own goddamned breakfast the way i wanted it. i was so incredibly pissed off that i sat my ass down on the couch in the other room and fumed about it. to the point where i resentfully thought to myself, "fine. i won't eat anything, then."

which doesn't work, now, does it. especially when you're hungry.

so i got up, cooked the goddamned stupid egg, stuck it on my now-tasteless english muffin, and ate it.

yeah, slavery is so glamorous i can't stand it. the extra-sad thing about all this is that i know my owner is going to read this and laugh hysterically, and then eliminate english muffins. sigh.

**edit** yeah, we're all shocked. indeed, hysterical laughter and a new addition to the forbidden list: english muffins.

Scott

i used to know this guy named scott. scotty. the diminutive was ironic, i suppose, since scotty always seemed well above 6'2", built like a brick wall, and had a flatness in his eyes that implied a past life as an executioner.

he had a slave. well, she was never explicitly called a slave to my knowledge, but looking back on it now i guess she was. i didn't know either of them that well - in passing, enough to say "hihowareyou" at a play party, but i'd heard the gory rumors of the way they played, what they did in private. but i never asked them directly, i just fantasized about the gossip and what they might be doing.

a few years later, they'd apparently "broken up", if you can call it that. all i knew was that they had been a unit, and assumed relationship of an assumed dynamic, and then they - weren't. on occasion i saw her and and her new partner, a lover, a switch, so it endlessly confused me how she'd gone from one extreme dynamic to that.

maybe she fell in love. maybe she fell out of love.

i saw scotty later, on occasion, as well. one momentous scene at a huge play party was a turning point in my own life. i was well-involved in the middle of the room, single-tailing my girl's back with ten bloody stripes. later, as she cuddled against my boots, i watched scott and his new play partner in a alcove in the same room. he'd put black plastic garbage bags lined up against the walls. it wasn't until later when the blood started flying against it that i realized why he'd done that.

i'll never forget the sounds and screams she made. i'd never heard anything publicly so close to nonconsent. i had no idea what prior arrangements, negotiations, agreements, they'd made - only that it sounded very much like it was dark, and bad, and that he had no intention of stopping. i was horrified, and caught, by the sight of what was happening.

no one stopped him.

fifteen years later, i'm at a different place in my life.

i wonder what would happen if i met scott again now.

marked and again

your name carved into me. you traced the lines with your finger, rubbing, and the echo of that touch later when i'm touching myself and thinking about it. sharp splinter pain from your knife and it wasn't that that made me cry.

nothing i could have said would have stopped you, then.

paraphrased

k: he holds your hand?
me: puke. i mean, yeah. he does.
k: do you dislike it because you just dislike it or because you don't trust it?
me: hm. both. i dislike it because i distrust it. it always used to feel like bullshit.
k: yeah, i get that - me too.
me: it scares me.
me: i'm terrified of i don't know what.
k: you know what.
me: what? what am i scared of?


i am a thing on the way

i see you everywhere
your eyes on me
you're a watcher a thinker
i'm a thought
that crossed your
path in hope
a crisscross on my skin
marked that you met me there
once

value

a quick stab again of needle-thin jealousy.

jealousy, as pointed out somewhere recently, is not the same thing as betrayal. jealousy is fear, and fear turns me on. risk, turns me on. it starts low in my belly as a cold sweat panic until i identify what it is, and then it becomes something wholly different, something masochistic and gasping.

an invitation: i know i would suffer for her, too.

did i mention

i love the signal whip?

limited

yes, i want to bleed for you.

no, i do not want the pain. i'm not wired that way, i can't just find pleasure in pain. pleasure in suffering, yes. pleasure that turns into a white hot wire from my brain to my cunt and you know it, you just know that i cannot refuse because of the way i am made. why, why, why would you make me say a choice?

"because it doesn't really matter what you want anyway."

and there it is.

little knives

sometimes the things you say to me slice me open, and i stay raw for days. wounded, or broken, or aching. you carry those words with you - "never", and "thing" and "mine" and throw them like well-aimed darts, just like the knife you carry always in your pocket.

you, painfully deep inside me and holding my chin to face you and a knife in your hand. we both watch you cut me, and mark what is already yours. and then, then i want to come, to give you thanks but what you take is the denial of pleasure, which is what you want more. there is nothing in the world like your face when you take and do not give.

what happened

his disappointment in me flecks away pieces of my self. i scramble around trying to pick them back up and put them back in place the way he wants them.