My fuck ups now also include screaming very inappropriately at Noah.
I told you that I’m an asshole.
This is why we closed the relationship last time.
My fuck ups now also include screaming very inappropriately at Noah.
I told you that I’m an asshole.
This is why we closed the relationship last time.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to cancel but I need some serious alone time in my garage.
I haz feelings. They suck.
Joking about violence. That’s something that I definitely have a history of doing and this has changed for me internally and I need to change the manifestation of my behavior. I don’t want to be a hypocrite on this one. If you hear me say something… please call me on it. (Threatening to hurt my submissive isn’t the same thing. I’ll actually do it and we’ll both have a great time so… uhhh exception.)
I also seriously need to work on my language in general. I don’t mean with the swearing. I mean with the ableist, racist stuff. I’m noticing a few things I do and it… it isn’t ok. I’ve done pretty well with making my language more gender inclusive. I need to work on it more. I’m not as respectful as I want to be yet. I need to work harder. Think about what I say before I say it. Heh. That would be novel. Only if I do that… I find I’m not listening to the person as well. This is going to be hard.
Being better at being brave about asking Noah for things. It’s hard to rock the boat. I’d rather just say I don’t want rules and go act like an asshole. Sometimes I don’t know what I want and it is hard to ask. I need to find these words anyway. We have already started talking about rules. Quite a few (ugh) that are weirdly layered. I need to think about Noah’s feelings and ask for permission. This is going to be hard. But it is important.
I need to figure out how to talk to Noah about being scared of him. That’s an elephant in the middle of the room we dance around. We just can’t… deal with it yet. It is hard because I have compartmentalized that fear very well and I can have a generally loving, trusting, safe feeling relationship as long as he walks very carefully around the elephant and he has for a long time. He’s feeling sorta done with not being able to walk straight through the room and I don’t know how to evict the elephant. This will be very hard. This is going to involve a lot of crying. Fuck.
Leading a bit more with Eldest Child’s education. I’ve been super lazy lately. She’s ready for more direction and I’m not giving it. I need to be more assertive here. She wants it and I’m just… putting energy in other places. Stupid remodel.
Interrupting less. Listening to myself on the radio show was kind of a revelation. Good grief. Am I always that much of a self absorbed asshole? Oh god. I sure as fuck hope not. Because that was bad. They thought it was ok and they invited me back, but I can’t do that again. Ok yes, I do want there to be more women who can insert themselves into conversations. That doesn’t mean I need to conversationally walk all over everyone. I don’t think I’m usually that bad, but I need to work on it anyway. It was rather obnoxious. I also suddenly scream frequently and that is jarring as fuck. Sad face.
I need to do a bit of research on child development stuff because the four kids are getting together a bunch and I need to manage that more skillfully. I think I’m doing ok at helping them integrate but there is more proactive interaction I could do. I need to start. They need to be consciously taught how to interact. I’m the grown up. I get to do it. Ok. Things like: I need to teach them how to play catch. I’m the one. Ok. Get busy, bitch. You want to be where the buck stops then get off your ass and teach these kids how to play a game together where they have to look at each other and communicate and build physical skills. Yes, every one of the uncoordinated geeks would rather stay inside and read. You are the grown up. Lead. Most of us don’t naturally want to be healthy. We have to be taught. Modeling is the way. Just do it motherfucker. (Clearly I’m motivated here.)
I also need to be more serious about gardening any day now. The remodel was supposed to be done already so I could be gardening more. Fuuuuuuuuck. I need to weed so much. The grass seeds are almost ripe and I’m going to be screwed. My nice gardener can’t get the lawn mower to the back because of the god damn bath tub. UGH!
I apparently planted a few too many potatoes this year. A large chunk of my crop will be… potatoes. And that’s ok. I like eating them. I have a small yard. It’s easy for one plant to dominate. One year I had a sea of tomatoes. That was kinda fun. But canning 60 lbs of tomatoes got a bit old. It took over two years to eat all the fuckers. (Because we also ate 20-30 lbs of tomatoes fresh and we got over saturated.)
Food glorious food. I will learn how to grow it.
I want to work on running and my posture. I’m not running and that’s a problem. I should run to and from class today. I am now at a point where running does a lot to loosen up my muscles and when I don’t I hurt and that sucks. This is like that bullshit I did with high heels where I deformed my calf for years. Only this is better for me. I hate running. Why did I pick up this hobby? Now I pretty much have to continue. Fuuuuuuuck. I want to be back at a half marathon by Christmas. I really like how I feel when I’m exercising like that. And by extension I feel like shit when I slump. But I slump most of the time. Good grief Krissy. WTF?
I need to count out pills again because I should start this round of nutrition shit and get into the habit of taking the meds I’m starting. This thought makes me want to cry. I’m so sick of pills. Will this be my whole life? At least I have taken so many that I no longer throw up when I try to swallow pills. Uhm. Yay for exposure therapy. Or Boo. I think boo.
That’s enough. Frowny face.
I took 2 pills at 8pm. I was in bed and asleep before 9. I woke up at least two times but I think three. Noah says I was not very asleep past 1:30. But I feel like the fact that I was able to get back to sleep at all past 1:30 was pretty good.
I had severe pain in my chest. I don’t know how to describe it. Words are hard. It was in the top left hand side of my ribs. It felt like several muscles around my ribs started throbbing and burning and I don’t know what. Where you can grab the ribs and put your hand around them on the top part, right under my boob.
Chest pain is a worrisome side effect. But I’m not 100% sure this isn’t part of Cupid bruising the shit out of my ribs. (Yes, you bruised the shit out my ribs.)
I’m not sure how I feel about this med. I’m not sure I should take a daytime dose today because I have to drive. But I don’t have to drive for many hours afterwards. I’m worried because it is my first day. I maybe will wait till tomorrow when I don’t have to drive. I have literally no idea what daytime impact this will have on me.
I really don’t want to die on accident because a med made me not-alert. So yeah. I’ll wait till tomorrow to find out how this feels during the day.
I’m happy with the sleep. It isn’t my best ever but it is definitely in the better half.
Do you know what I think is funny? When someone I’m sleeping with tells me that I’m a selfish slut for saving hand spoons for jilling off instead of immediately answering their questions. That’s hilarious.
Also: I’m quite thrilled that Cupid says it is ok to answer questions he asks me here. Good. Noah will like reading this too.
“I could be meaner in where and how fast I punch, but I don’t have a lot more strength.”
I feel like I live for statements like that. Fuck yes. Good. I’m glad to feel where that is. This is going to be a beautiful play relationship if that is as hard as you can punch me. Because you won’t be frustrated that my limits are short of yours. Yes, you can hit me with nastier toys and wear me out faster than you but it is much hotter to wear us both out.
I love it when the rev limits are similar. It’s so satisfying. Can I take more hitting than that? Yes. I still haven’t really cried. But the bruises on my thighs tell me I don’t need to be whiny about not getting harder. Yeah. That’s hard enough to be incredibly satisfying. Like satisfying.
[I wrote all that before the radio show. Now that Noah and I have had quite a week of talking about how much he doesn’t like it that I want to play with other people heavier than I want to play with him… I feel like it is important to point out that Noah hits harder than Cupid. I’m thrilled to hear Cupid say he can’t punch harder than that because I very rarely can max someone out. Usually I have to cry uncle. And then, if it’s Noah, he feels sad he didn’t get to max out his rev limit but jeezus I can’t take that. It hurts too much. Which is complicated.]
Why is being hit so satisfying? I don’t know why. I just know that when I have to lower my pants to go to the bathroom and I see blooming bruises I want to stop doing chores and go masturbate. (I usually don’t because I spend all day with my kids and that would be rather inappropriate.)
I’m glad that Noah has been able to see the last two times I played with Cupid. [Well, honestly I have slightly more mixed feelings now. But hopefully it’ll go on to being just good.] It’s lead to interesting questions about my level of being overwhelmed. Post-kids for quite a few years there I told Noah “no intensity”. I needed him to be… really gentle. Like shockingly gentle for me. It was a uhhh hard adjustment for both of us. Him because it meant trying to learn new techniques, me because it fucked with my self-identity. What is this I can’t do intense bullshit?!
The road trip just reset things and I don’t feel like I understand why. It was starting to build before then? But something about being that kind of independent and just doing stuff really changed how I felt in my body. I want to feel things again.
Parenting has been fascinating. I’ve worked hard on learning a lot of boundaries around intensity and sex and gentle handling. I didn’t have many of those skills pre-children. Integrating who I want to be with who I already am has been jagged and uneven. I feel like pieces of who-I-was are creeping back and reintegrating those things is complicated.
I was thinking earlier that part of the reason that going to more intense space with Noah is terrifying is because of how the rape went. I’m not upset with Noah. But that… broke something in me. In December it’ll be ten years. It still impacts me. That’s… that’s fucking scary. Noah is really strong and really intense.
I don’t know how many more things like that I can take in this life from my safe person. Which makes really intense edge play with Noah scarier than it is from anyone else. Which is becoming stickier and more complicated and harder by the day.
If someone else fucks up and breaks me… Noah can fix me. What do I do if Noah breaks me? That… that scares the ever loving shit out of me. It’s not fair in a whole bunch of ways and I know that. It means I kinda cock block him from a lot of stuff both of us might enjoy because I’m scared.
It means he has no idea that I like being overwhelmed… a little. Because when he overwhelms me it doesn’t go to 11 it goes to 16 and I just… can’t.
Because I can’t let him overwhelm me like that. Because if something breaks I have no safe place to go to get away from it. Noah is my home.
I’m not sure what this will mean. I think I understand more about why my play with my Owner often left me feeling so shitty afterwards. I had no safety to come back to. When I felt like I was drowning in fear and anxiety I was supposed to shut up and go back to serving his life.
I can do that in a limited sense as long as there is space for me to be nonfunctional for long periods of time. When I lived with my Owner I had… a lot of alone time. I was usually alone in the house for 10+ hours at least three days a week. I had time to go hide in the bathroom and cry by myself. I don’t have that kind of space in my life right now. I must function. Every day. All day. Despite shitty mental illness stuff I have made it so I have a life structure where I must function.
Home schooling my kids is kind of my way of forcing myself to have no choice but to deal with a lot of my problems. I have to get up at a reasonable time and interact and be cheerful and explain things and help them with things and … be a person who takes responsibility. That’s my life. I want it and I like it, but I didn’t have that kind of frame without them. I spent a lot more time being… well… a huge asshole.
Being hit the way Cupid hit me at the last party, till I’m having trouble standing because I’m in so much pain… that feeds me and I don’t know why. That kind of being overwhelmed. Being beaten until I really can’t take a lot more without passing out or going to a hospital is as satisfying or more than the marathon. Because when all is said and done that allows me to access more positive brain chemicals. Running is less fun. Ha. And often when someone beats me like that they also want to get me off and that’s just fantastic when I am limp and empty and drained and I have nothing more to be taken from me and then they just keep taking from me.
I’m feeling this hunger still. Not super intense. I need to heal first. I still haven’t been hit till I cry. Not really. A little bit of vocalized sobbing without tears barely counts.
Are you giving me enough time to process, oh sweet Cupid? That depends on your goal. I look forward to when we get around to having our first dinner date and we can have a conversation in person with our clothes on. Ha.
Are you missing more subtle reactions? Certainly. Absolutely. You are missing tons of subtle reactions. You aren’t hearing gasps or moans or sighs. You probably aren’t noticing a lot of grimaces and flinches.
Is that a problem?
Depends on how much you like those reactions and are motivated by them. If what you want is to get to a place of overwhelmed and intense and sobbing… honestly you’ll have an easier time if you aren’t hesitating every time I gasp.
How much pleasure do you want me to have?
Cause I’ll tell you. Once my body hurts like that coming is… honestly not that much pleasure. It can be a fun kind of not pleasurable. The kind of not-pleasurable that makes me masturbate like crazy for a long while to come.
(Oh man. Noah and I have a do-whatever-he-says-date coming up. Recently we did a forced orgasm scene. I hit 78 orgasms. He is currently threatening me with needing to beat that number. Ow. Ow. Ow. Yeah, there’s a point at which orgasming isn’t pleasurable. But I sure find it entertaining that people want to do that to me.)
Will I enjoy it in the moment? Not once we get much over 60. It starts just… cramping…
But I’ll beat off thinking about it afterwards and that’s fun.
No Cupid… I’m not trying for a resistance scene and I’m not hoping you’ll chase me when I collapse. I’m… in too much pain to stand and I’m trying to breathe. Sometimes my leg is genuinely collapsing under me from cramping. Please oh for the love of toast don’t hit me when I’m down.
Although god it was hot the other night when you knelt behind me and hit me in a different spot…
Do I want you to stop or not?
(By the way it is charming as all get out to have Cupid’s other play partner be so enthusiastic about sharing. I’m enjoying the heck out of talking about his sexual preferences behind his back. That’s hot. “No he likes sex! You aren’t disappointing him!” What a nice lady. Yay.)
The reality is that I’m coming up on my physical limitations more than the limits of my spirit. I probably should at some point acknowledge that it may not be good for my body to have this many contusions this often.
Noah says I need to start worrying when the bruising stops healing fast. So I’m fine. Snicker.
Oh, yes I did explain to the other person with your name about the cramping/fisting. We exchanged delightful supportive messages. I’m shocked by how… caring he is being? I don’t know. I feel like he changed over the last decade and some. Maybe being a father was good for him? Ha. He is quite thrilled we had such a good time at his party.
Growing up is good for all of us. I’m feeling so dang loved lately. I have awesome friends.
I am thrilled to hear that you would consider fucking me in public. That’s great to hear. Swoon. I get your unthrilledness about fucking where there is no shower. It is… inconvenient. I can live with that pickiness. We are old people. I like having things just so. (We are old…. Lol. I’m so funny.)
I… don’t think I want to try fisting when I’m already in that much pain to begin with again. And better lube.
I’m totally cool with trying again since that’s something you are into. But… I’m always going to be more fond of fucking. I like feeling a body on me. I like feeling someones hot breath on me.
This is a list Noah agrees with.
I cheated. Then I said I wasn’t sorry. Both were separate levels of hurtful.
I negotiated gloves for all genital contact and then broke that rule like 24 hours later.
I said maybe one person, maybe once a month. Yeah. That lasted less than a week. So many dates. So many people.
I have not been malicious. But I have been ridiculously selfish.
I’m glad he’s going to write me a list of what he feels he is doing wrong. I need to see that. He isn’t into the public exhibition of shame and that’s ok. I’ll see it.
Noah came home from his date glowing. Apparently it went very well. Which means that all of a sudden he is very contrite about how he has been treating me. So his list of done-me-wrongs is shrinking and his list of oh-I-fucked-up is growing.
Well. That’s a good sign. See. Patience.
I know I’ve done pieces of this in thoroughly asshole ways. I didn’t do it out of malice. I did it because I flail a lot and I do my best and sometimes my best absolutely sucks ass.
Just like yours does.
I’m not the only asshole in this relationship.
I can forgive you if you can forgive me.
Right now I’m fairly cranky and I have no idea what the path forward looks like.
But I think there will be one. I think there will be more good things than bad things. I think we will find a way to interact that allows us to hurt one another less. I believe that because it has always been true so far. For more than ten years.
Sometimes we have to have a big screaming fight. Because we’ve both been scared of rocking the boat for a long time. Sometimes the boat has to get rocked.
But we’ll be fine.
I’m not sure why I believe that. Sometimes it seems almost like idiocy. Like the most ridiculous fantasy I’ve ever had. Why in the hell am I stupid enough to think that anything can work out?
Because I have Noah.
I want to type so bad it is driving me insane. But I would say shit I shouldn’t say. And my fingers and arms hurt really intensely.
I’m not very good at thinking inside my head. This is not my thing. This sucks.
I want to write it because that’s how I stop thinking in circles. That’s how I reach conclusions. Right now I’m circling like whoa.
What is belonging?
I am somewhat hyperaware that someday my kids may grow up and read this. It could happen. That means I actually… edit… maybe more than you might think of my life here. I’m nervous about how I present Noah. I talk about him in terrible ways sometimes. I also very carefully avoid saying a lot of terrible things about him.
I do not want sides taken. I do not want back and forth bickering in public. I do not want my children seeing the depths to which we sink when we are being fucking petty. Why not? It’s complicated.
We haven’t fought like this since we closed our relationship. Fighting like this is why we closed our relationship. Because we didn’t think we could stay married through fighting like this.
But that was when we had babies and it just wasn’t ok at all for me to have emotional variance because of my relationship with Noah. I had to be regulated because I was teaching emotional regulation just about 24/7.
That was kind of a difficult thing for someone who is as dysregulated as I have been all my life. I look at my children and feel that I succeeded. Clearly they got the lessons they needed developmentally when they were needed. I did it. I stayed calm. I taught them how to handle conflict and big feelings without flipping out.
I did it.
Which means I can have more things in my life that cause my feelings to fluctuate. Which is fucking tricky.
Nonmonogamy is going to be hard. There are a lot more insecurities here than either of us are really having fun talking about.
What does safety mean? What does connection mean? What are we working towards? What do we want? What is the purpose of sex in our relationship? What do we do for one another versus for ourselves?
I sure wish that these conversations could come with a little more sleep for me. Out of the past three nights I’m now only down about one night of sleep. That’s improving…
But we talk all night long because we can’t talk in front of the kids.
I am not sure either of us are being fair. Yeah, I’m being an asshole. I’m not in denial. I’m not trying to say that I’m being fine and he’s the asshole. I’m really not saying that.
I cheated and broke his heart. He thought he was going to get to be my one and only forever and ever amen.
He’s allowed to be absolutely furious about that.
I’m trying very very hard to not get into done-me-wrongs. I will talk about what I know I have done wrong. I don’t need to get into done-me-wrongs.
It won’t help. I hiss those often enough in person. It’s not like I’ve forgotten the list. I just don’t need to write it down.
How do you fight in civilized fashion when you are a compulsive over-sharer? Like this. You say what you did wrong and talk about being angry without placing blame. I’m not saying that Noah is to blame for my feelings. He isn’t. I mean… a couple of his particular phrase choices were infuriating… but whatever. I’m being a right bitch in this fight.
How do you build towards a vision of self that may not be what your partner wants? How big do you want your partner to be? How small so you can feel bigger? I don’t know.
Who is pulling whom around on a chain.
I don’t want to leave. That’s part of the reason I have no particular reason to bad mouth Noah up one side and down the other. I don’t want to leave. Even though I’m angry about some stuff right now… that’s life. I flipped the canoe of our life over. There are going to be some feelings we have to deal with. I’m ok with that. I’m not enjoying this process but I see it as necessary.
I’m not afraid of conflict.
I’m afraid of not getting my needs met.
I’m afraid of not being who I want to be because I am afraid that someone else doesn’t want me to be.
I’m afraid of making myself small and unthreatening and never doing anything with my life again because I have decided I don’t deserve to ask for what I really want.
What does necessary even mean?
I’m sure I don’t know.
Am I fucking everything up permanently? Well. I guess we will find out. There is the non-zero possibility.
It is hard when I feel like I’m absolutely the bad guy here. I’m the one insisting on change because the status quo wasn’t working. I feel like a fucking asshole for not making it work. For not deciding that it was just good enough because that was all I agreed to this life.
I did not promise sexual fidelity in my marriage vows. Yeah. I slammed the door four years ago when we were having screaming fights about lying and … shit don’t rehash it. It wasn’t well done.
I feel like everything bad must be all my fault. I feel like I am a monster. A selfish, disgusting monster.
Day 38. Still no bleeding. PMDD means that right before I start bleeding I tend to have intense spikes of depression and anxiety. My suicidal urges go through the roof. This is a well documented phenomena.
I need to be something other than a cum dumpster who can’t cum. This just… isn’t working any more.
I wish I didn’t feel so fucking bad about that.
Sometimes people ask why I write such whiny melodramatic stuff. Aren’t I embarrassed? I’m documenting what living with an acute stress disorder is like. The kind that results from brain damage. If you think I should be embarrassed that says more about you than it does about me. No, it’s not fucking smooth. Yeah I’m a lot of fucking drama. Lots of ups and downs.
That’s what brain damage does. Pieces of it are absolutely my fault in an ongoing way I really don’t deny that. But I’m also trying to deal with my problems. That means I’m going to flail and do things that don’t work sometimes and I will document those fuck ups so I don’t forget and have to make the same mistake over and over.
I’m not writing for you.
I’m writing for me.
Recently I suggested that I shouldn’t post much when sleep deprived. In the past 50 or so hours I’ve gotten about 9 hours of sleep.
Noah isn’t in a much better state. Getting so very sleep deprived let Noah finally get to the point where he could blow up at me about stuff he probably should have blown up at me about months ago.
Feelings are ok. You are allowed to be mad at me. I cheated. And then, not only did I cheat I was a callous fucking asshole who has said over and over, “I’m not sorry.”
You are allowed to be angry about that. You don’t have to soothe me. You don’t have to tell me it’s ok. You are allowed to just be angry.
I think that Noah has put himself into a position over the years where he doesn’t feel he is allowed to be mad at me and that’s not good. I am an asshole. I hurt him. He has every right in the world to get angry with me and express that anger.
But I shouldn’t write much more about it now. Sleep deprivation guidelines and all.
So I’m still alive. I’m going to have a few crying days because yeah that happens sometimes. It’s ok. We need to fight about this. I was awful. Him glossing it over because he doesn’t want me to get upset is not going to work.
Relationships are complicated and take work. I’m ok with that. I’m in this. I want to stay in this. I want to do this work.
3,000 fucking words and I didn’t bring up rape play.
What the hell.
I have totally joked about inflicting violence. I can never ever do it again.
Yeah. That’s how that works. Ok. Can I talk in my blog about wanting to commit violence? Gosh that’s going to be complicated–isn’t it?
Before I think about that I need to think about what I’m going to say tonight. Not babble. More like an outline. What is related to what.
There are a lot of different kinds of catharsis. For me in this 2 hour block I want to talk about:
The thing about traumatized people is there are layers of things they need to process. For me:
This show is about sex. I’m not going to get into all the stuff I’ve done though I’ll drop in that it involves 31 years and counting of therapy. I do the work to get my life in order. But bodies are complex places. What am I going to do with my sex life as a highly traumatized person? Pretty much whatever the fuck I want. This is my body. I get to own it now.
I like extreme bdsm. I’m there so someone can get fucked up. Me or them. I’m good either way.
What kinds of bdsm am I interested in:
The usefulness of well delineated boundaries:
Different bdsm relationships and intensities. How ongoing is a relationship to count as serious?
What does the daddy stuff mean to me at this point? Well it is really directly tied to my clit. I was indoctrinated to be interested in my father sexually from early childhood. I prosecuted my biological father and he killed himself after confessing to everything so… I feel weird about the prominence of incestuous play in my life. But you know what… I am who I am. It makes me get off. Orgasming causes my brain to be flooded with positive chemicals and at this point fuck you if you don’t like how I get them. I’ve spent enough years doing really bad things to try and deal with my depression and anxiety and ptsd. If calling someone daddy during sex is better than cutting myself, Hey there daddy. I’m pragmatic about my promiscuity and perversion.
Differences between public and private play.
What do the different kinds of catharsis mean to me? Why are they different? I’ll be honest and say that whereas I can rationalize most play I do after the fact when I’m doing it or when I’m negotiating for it I don’t know exactly why I want it. I may react like an animal in a trap if you ask me why I want something. Blind panic. Or I might confidently say, “Oh I want x because blah blah blah blah (go on for 5 days)” it really depends on how much writing I’ve done on that specific piece of myself. Spiritual catharsis has come in stages. I haven’t mentioned the scenes I’ve done that were less brutal but more emotionally impactful because mostly they’ve happened in private during sex with people I really don’t have permission to talk about.
The problem with being a big slut is that you have to kind of track the boundaries of a lot of different people. The folks who did not want to be written about have mostly filtered themselves out of my life at this point. I miss them but I understand. Trusting me to keep my mouth shut is… questionable? I mean… I can. I keep a lot of secrets. But I talk around them in tortured ways and that probably is hard to hear for the folks I’m talking about. I don’t have permission to talk about most of my queer relationships. The het men I fuck seem to really not care what I say about them. This is a fascinating dynamic for me.
I play with people and have sex with people because I want them to give me permission to be certain aspects of myself I otherwise don’t know how to be while sitting alone in a room. There are parts of a personality that only exist as it relates to other people. I don’t actually ask for permission. It is a symbolic thing. I’m allowed to be this thing if you want me to be it in front of you/with you. I’m supposed to not do this in front of you/not be this in front of you if it bothers you.
Physical catharsis is a real thing. There are layers of letting go of pain and trauma in your body.
Non-bdsm stuff I might want to bring up.
All of this written where the kids can’t see the screen but they can blab to me while doing chores. Sometimes my brain hurts.
Fuck. I need to stop typing. I can’t write for the lawyer today. Owwwwwwwwwwww.
A friend who watched me play on Saturday wrote to remind me that intense play can have a serious emotional drop afterwards and he is worried about me.
I thought he was an evil sociopath! Gosh he’s come a long way. I feel so loved.
I dropped after the first scene with Cupid because I misunderstood the tone of an email (completely something I do). I wonder if it’s kinda smart to wait two or three days to process more because then I don’t have that initial OH MY GOD WHAT IS YOUR TONE reaction. Hm. Useful?
Over time I’m a lot more comfortable that Cupid is there doing what he wants to do. I was really anxious the first time that he was humoring me to be nice because in the scene… there’s at least some play that is motivated that way. Lots of folks can’t get the play they truly want unless they do it with a friend. I kinda suspected he wan’t as motivated by selfish reasons?
Ok at this point I think he’s doing it because he likes doing that sort of thing. No one would hit me till I was freaking out like that unless they wanted to.
Ok I can cope with that.
This is part of the fuzzy complication with Noah. Noah has never had a partner with whom such play was possible. So I’ve never seen him do it. So I don’t believe he wants it for himself and I can’t bear the thought that I am dragging people into brutality like that.
If you do not have such brutality already in your soul it is an evil gesture to try and implant it.
I worry a lot about what I want to talk people into doing.
The feedback I got from watchers was “You looked profoundly unhappy.” Happiness is such a funny emotion. Was I happy when I was screaming, “Fuck fuck fuck” while he was punching my thigh on top of already existing bruises and cramps?
Happy … isn’t the word?
I wanted to be there. I’m still glad I was there. When I heal… I will ask for more. But I need to heal first.
Why is this so good for me? You would have to live in my body to understand. I deal with such intense variation in emotion on a nearly daily basis that this kind of play is… kinda like going from running with the kids to running by myself.
Oh yeah. I swing back and forth from an intensity of 3-7 over and over and over again and now I get to hit 10. AWESOME.
It is walking with a toddler then going for a run as a grown up.
I spend so much time with incredibly intense emotions all within a limited range that when I get to have super intense catharsis outside my normal range it is like there is less pressure inside me.
I have that intense screaming and freaking out inside me. It wants to come out. If I don’t ever let it out in play it creeps into my life and creates problems.
I don’t really want to scream like that because I’m hit. I want to scream like that because of emotional problems and the hitting gives me an acceptable smoke screen. The hitting justifies what I’d like to do anyway and if I did it without being hit I’d be called crazy. So yeah, please hit me that hard again.
It means I’m not crazy.
In the past, before kids, when I played like that I did drop more. But after play like that I would be alone. I would be alone to think about how that kind of contact was most of what anyone wanted with me. I didn’t feel like I was worth very much.
Now when the play is done and my snuggles with my top are over I go back to Noah and Noah takes care of me like I am a precious, fragile piece of art. I come home to children who want to say, “OH MY GOD YOU WERE AWAY FOR FOUR WHOLE HOURS OF MY AWAKE TIME I NEED TO POUNCE YOU AND COVER YOU IN SNUGGLES.”
My life is different.
I feel so much gratitude for where I am.
Drop is a very different experience when you are loved compared to when you don’t feel very loved.
Which isn’t exactly fair. I was always loved. I’ve had Jenny longer than I’ve been in the scene. I was always loved. But not in the ways I needed to be loved. That waited till Noah and the kids. That seems ok?
I feel like I have a place where I am important. I am needed. I need to deal with my shit because there is work to be done.
I like my life so very much.
I’m not going to spend my whole life in dungeons. I’m going to show up when I need to get something from the experience. I’m there as a supplement to what I already have. It is different feeling from when I lived the bdsm experience.
I’m getting emails on that kink site from folks I haven’t seen in forever because they want to talk about the good old days. “Wasn’t it awesome when there was one play space in the bay area and it was missing a wall and everyone who was a pervert got together like four times a year?”
Well… it did have some charm but I’m glad things aren’t like that now.
It was nice feeling like I knew everyone like me within 100 miles. That was cool. It’s not like that now. Bdsm is… uhhh… more popular and shiny now. It isn’t dirty gross weird people. I miss that. I’m a dirty gross weird person! I used to fit in more! This is harder. I’m not going to fit in as well with all the newly minted acceptable fetish crowd. They are inspired by things that are commonly kinky. Usually they think extreme kinks are “weird” just like vanillas.
Hey I thought it was awesome watching the guy put the jar of bees on his dick. I like watching scenes where people pound large nails through cocks. I like intense shit.
I miss the kinds of events where people will show up with a kiddie wading pool, jello boxes, and a rubber chicken. I’m not even fucking kidding. That was one of the meanest scenes ever.
The folks I knew from back in the day are complaining about how commercial everything is now. I have mixed feelings about that. Part of the reason things feel more commercial is because so many kinky people are trying to make a living off of being kinky. Once upon a time the scene only supported a very small number of craftspeople and pornographers and they mostly lived in squalor because we didn’t take care of our own that well. Now a lot more people want to be living better off of the scene and that takes money.
I have mixed feelings. We have forced the marginal people out entirely. I don’t know how most of those people are doing these days.
I feel really embarrassed that I haven’t tracked all of them to make sure they are ok. I haven’t. I wouldn’t know how to look them up now. They were my community and I let them down because I was small, selfish, and only looking to my own life.
I know who my friends are who are craftspeople and pornographers and I know how they are doing. But there were more people who did that. Not that many 16 years ago. I could have tracked those folks. Not everyone who has appeared in 16 years. But I could have been loyal to the old days.
It is kind of funny how many people in their 50’s want to discuss the “good old days” with me. I grin and think, “I am now at the age where you consider your “golden age” to have been. I refuse to think that the golden era of my life is fucking over. I’m 34 fucking years old. My good times are not god damn over.
I listen to Nikki Minaj a lot.
The last year has involved feeling more alive, feeling more potential, feeling like my life is going somewhere than I think the rest of my life combined.
My golden era isn’t over. It is just picking up speed.
I have felt for a while that I’ve already gotten to participate in more than one Golden Era. To such an extent that on my egotistical as fuck days I wonder if I bring it with me.
Theatre in college was amazing. I’m still friends with most of those folks. No one else has had a period that good since then. I have.
The bdsm community in 2000-2004 was a pretty magic time for a lot of people I’ve met. It wasn’t just me. That was a really well connected, awesome time. I know a lot of friends who think of that general time period as being intense and special for… not sure why. It just was.
Teaching was amazing for me. Teaching was wonderful because unlike for other people teaching represented the first time in my life when I got to have permission to be the one who set reality and invited people into my space to learn. That was magic. I had never had a home. I had never had a place. But I had a classroom and a whole bucket of intense shit I think you need to know to be ok. Let’s get to business.
The first year of my oldest child’s life was the happiest, most blissful year I’ve known. I sat on the couch or on a chair and nursed. I didn’t clean much, cook much, or go anywhere.
I just sat encased in love.
I am almost 10 years into the only permanent home and real family I’ve ever had.
What is my Golden Era? When is it?
I have been so blessed in my friends.
Putting myself out there has been a mixed blessing in life. It is why I have a laundry list of traumas that horrify people. It is also why I’ve had so many Golden Eras. I try to bond. I try to connect. I want to be attached. I have so much love. Can I share it with you?
Some dude pinged me on okcupid and said he treats dating (or attempting to date?) as a creative writing exercise.
I totally know what you mean.
I’m bouncing off so many people because I want to figure out what to say, how to say, what I want, and how to deal with what other people want and I do an awful lot of the figuring in writing. I don’t have room for more serious relationships though. God I’m drowning.
Another random dude wrote to complain that it isn’t fair that I don’t have lots of time available to pay attention to him because I sound really interesting and he’s not willing to have connections with people unless they devote a lot of time to him. Sometimes I want to say, “Can you hear yourself?” It isn’t fair that my life is too full for the kind of connection you want to have. Uhm.
For the record my profile is set to only looking for friends and it states that I’m not polyamorous, just slutty. And I still have random people telling me that it isn’t fair that I’m not giving them what they want.
Noah asked me why I’m not reading more books lately. I can’t. My brain is full. I’m thinking of too many things.
Today I need to: clean the house, spend time with a neighbor, homeschool the kids (whatever that means), put together a timeline of issues with the remodel for my lawyer, and write a loose outline for the radio show tonight.
I don’t have room in my brain to synthesize reading a story. It’s too hard. I can’t even reread Tamora Pierce right now because it is too hard.
I understand more about why the GATE evaluator told my mom if I was any less brilliant I wouldn’t learn at all given the chaotic environment I grew up in.
To change topics again, one of my favorite things in the world is happening right now. Eldest Child has a double chin. That means she’s about to shoot up. It’ll happen in the next week. I will get to watch her transform. I love that double chin. It is a hint that I need to start staring super intensely or I will miss some cool transformation. I am very sad that Youngest Child does not have such a tell. The growth happens more secretively and I’m constantly like, “OH MY GOD WHEN DID YOU CHANGE?!”
It’s like a pop up alert on my phone. Or my period app. I love that double chin. I love that her experience of life has been that double chins are awesome and wonderful and to be greeted with joy.
My weight goes up and down like a yo yo and it’s not cause I’m trying. When I have a double chin Eldest Child points it out with glee and I grin and say, “Yup. These days I’m living well.”
My kids have managed to grow up in a world where fat is greeted with “Mmmmmmm fat.” Do you know what fat bodies mean? Glorious snuggles. Fat bodies mean love.
I’m up to almost 8 years of this. Between 40% & 60% of 6-12 year olds are worried about their weight.
When I gain weight do you know what I do? I stand in front of the mirror naked with my children in the room and I say, “Damn I look good.”
Even when I think I’m lying I say it with conviction and a big smile because I owe them this performance.
I… have a lot of trouble accepting my body when it is lighter. I strongly dislike the fact that I am usually more appealing to sexual partners when I’m smaller. It offends me to the core of my being.
Fuck you for wanting me to be less.
Years ago one of their cartoons had an anorexic horse. It was an interesting thing to explain because my kids were totally baffled. Why in the hell was the horse refusing to eat?!
I told the kids that it is very complicated and the explanation I’m going to give would be grossly insulting to some people who suffer from this disease because it is complicated and I’m just not capable of giving them the full answer. I said that creatures have lots of reasons they will stop eating. Sometimes because they get confused about how they look and they think they must look a certain way and they must force their body to do that even if they die. Sometimes people punish themselves because they don’t feel worthy. Sometimes people confuse what makes them valuable and they think they need to worry about their appearance so much they make themselves unable to do the things that would actually make them valuable.
If a creature feels they can’t eat enough to sustain their life it is because some part of them is sick and needs help. It doesn’t mean they are bad. It means they are suffering and need help.
I feel very grateful that I have been able to shield my children from television and magazines and movies for the most part. It’s not that we don’t watch anything. It is that we watch fairly curated stuff. We live in a bubble. A bubble where bodies are wonderful and they need to be embraced for however they happen to appear. A bubble where there are positives and negatives to every way of being and there is no such thing as a “better way” only the way that works for you.
A bubble where it takes all kinds.
No wonder my kids spend so much time saying that even if they move out someday they think they will always want to come back and spend a lot of time in Wonderland.
I’m actually living what I believe in. Because I believe in magic. I believe if you want something hard enough and you work hard enough and you study hard enough… you can change things. Not everything. Not everything for everyone. But you can change things. Ripples matter.
Good grief. Prince just died. Think about what one person can do.
Ack. My first appointment is at 8am. My last appointment ends at midnight. I woke up at 4:30am after 8 hours of sleep.
No time to tag. ttfn
I figured it out. After very very little sleep.
I don’t believe this person is serious about breaking Noah’s legs. I think he wants to say it so that he can seem intimidating but he wouldn’t do it.
Saying that kind of thing to/about my family scares me to absolute pieces.
And I get to be scared like that, not because he would genuinely do something like that and he is giving a warning… but because he wants to posture.
That’s a problem.
That’s treating my emotions like a ball to be whacked around. He didn’t say it to me, about me, or in front of me. So why am I such a self centered piece of shit?
Because Noah is my whole fucking world and I do not know what I would do if someone were hurting him.
I don’t think I’d get as upset if someone threatened to break my legs. You don’t fuck with my Noah.
I think I would feel… differently upset if I thought there was actual threat present. I don’t. I’m not trying to imply that this person is dangerous or a serious problem. I truly don’t believe him to be.
But there are jokes I’m not ok with.
Noah and I spent a while yesterday talking about indebtedness. What we owe each other. Whether we are truly earning from each other the kind of care we will need as decrepit old people. We are both highly transactional people. Are we building up enough of a debt? What does that even mean?
Noah is afraid he isn’t doing enough to earn my eternal gratitude so I stay no matter what. I think he underestimates what feeding me means.
But he’s scared. Like a human being. He’s scared I’ll leave if things get hard. That’s a reasonable fear. I’m a selfish motherfucker.
But let’s wait and see, mmm? I’ve stayed 10 years so far.
I moved into this house just before I turned 25. It will take a very long time before I have built up enough feeling of stored safety to feel like I can run away from what I have here. If ever. I don’t know.
You know what? I’m still pissed he said that. It’s not cool. I have a real problem with that.
But I had a really really really really really good night.
When you have to tell someone to stop making you orgasm because you just can’t bear how much your legs are cramping from muscle spasms?
That’s an incredible night.
No you don’t need a lot of toys. You need your hands. Your delicious, evil hands. Punch me. Punch me over and over and over and over all over.
Even when I really don’t like it there. Even when I’m going to pay for that for a while.
Why is this so explosively hot?
I don’t know. It just is. I’m trying to think about the scene and get back to my buzz so I can go give Noah a proper thank-you fucking. I was really fucking angry when we got home and I didn’t want to be touched.
But I’m… chilling out.
Even though my trophies are lovely I have never and will never get bruises that seriously impress me. The most impressive fucking bruises ever were from a water skiing oops when I was 18 and I’d never heard of bdsm. I was there with Pam. She doesn’t even remember my impressive bruises. I’m so sad. My inner thighs. My entire inner thighs were black for weeks. I screamed so loud they heard me on shore. We were on Clear Lake. It’s not a small lake and we were way the hell out.
So yeah. Comparisons are funny.
Perspective is funny.
Life is funny.
The fact that being punched in my ass can make me get off is funny.
Why the fuck shouldn’t I do it?
I really can’t come up with a good reason. I’m fucking thrilled we already have more dates on the calendar.
One of them is a private date. I might be able to talk him into fucking me again. After several beatings in a row in public where he won’t…
I’m going to be so annoying.
He might just have to fuck me first, then beat me. Because god damn. Ok, I don’t think he would agree to me just being a snot and ordering him about. But it is funny to think about.
I’ve lived with Noah a long time. Sex is ready and available any time the kids are occupied and I’m interested. Any. Time.
God I love you Noah.
I have almost finished talking myself into coming in and fucking you.
I’m… not sorry exactly that I got so mad. I really have a problem with bully posturing. But I’m annoyed that it has interrupted my sleep cycle and our sex life this much. I’m trying to deal with it fast.
Remember when this used to take a week or more?
I’ve come a long way.
I have completely and totally no idea what to think about this. I mean… I don’t know what part of my life this anger will alter. I don’t know what boundaries will change.
But I know I have no desire in any way shape or form to penalize the partner of this person for these words.
She didn’t fucking say it.
So yeah. Complicated. Big feelings.
*beat head on wall*
You know what… one of my play partners crossed a boundary recently. I said “Don’t slap my face” and the first thing he did was slap my face. I burst into tears and freaked out. He realized that he fucked up and apologized.
I don’t think he should be threatened with bodily harm because he fucked up.
What do I want here? I want to stop thinking about this because there is completely and totally literally nothing I can do about it.
And that kinda sucks.
I feel sad and kinda helpless.
I suspect that if I’m in a room with this person I will need to turn on my heel and walk away. Or just very consciously not go to rooms where I think he might be. Which… is really sad.
Threatening to break someone’s legs… even in jest is a fucking boundary for me.
I get to have that. It’s not being an over sensitive baby. That’s a god damn reasonable boundary. Noah gets to figure out his own boundaries.
I won’t be around someone who will do that. They aren’t safe. I don’t care how safe they have been to or with other people. Nope.
It doesn’t matter if he would ever do it. He said it.
That’s too much for me.
That hurts me. That makes me feel like shit. That makes me feel scared as fuck. That makes me feel like I might need to fucking attack someone to get them the fuck off my husband.
I don’t like this feeling one little bit.
It’s ok that this freaks me out.
It’s ok that I have this as a limit. I don’t have to be ok with “jokes” that are violent. I don’t have to be ok with casual threats.
Even if they aren’t to me.
I know this has been the all-slutty-all-the-time channel lately but…
Noah is my life.
Threatening Noah’s body is threatening my life.
I don’t have to accept that. I don’t have to excuse or justify that boundary. That’s allowed to make me angry.
But mostly I’m so so so so sad.
I want to feel relaxed and tight and sore and hot from what I did tonight. No, he can’t fist me when my legs are cramping so badly I’m screaming non-stop through every orgasm.
Let’s try that again without the leg punching first.
I left that party with my entire body feeling on fire. I planned to fuck Noah silly and pass out.
But Noah and I needed to talk about the party. Because yeah. We do.
AHHHHHHHH. We got home almost two hours ago. I’m still consciously working on not gritting my teeth. My dentist is very adamant that I’m not allowed to crack more teeth as anger management. We have stern conversations every six months.
He doesn’t really want me to have to pay for a new implant. Breaking that would suck. I mean, the teeth I’ve broken have been bad enough… oh god. I need to be careful with the implant.
How do people live in bodies without destroying themselves? My fingers are saying that I’m a big selfish cunt right now. This whole organism that wants to type. Fuck you brain. Go the fuck to sleep. Calm the fuck down. Your fingers are not able to do this forever you know.
I’ll get over it. I will. It’s 4:12. How long will it take. Shit.
I’M NOT OVER IT YET. But it’s kinda like that TMBG song where the guy is waiting for his date and staring at a clock and it never moves. It is still 4:12. No wonder I’m not over it yet.
Would it be weird if I went to the missed connections section of the party and said I’d be interested in dictating to that dude who types 150 words/minute in exchange for play. I could totally do that.
Uhm, I’m not explaining that.
And I’m not serious. I really don’t have time. But it was a funny few seconds of thinking.
Ahem. I’m trying to cheer myself up. And be interested in sex. Because REASONS.
I’ll feel better afterwards. Now it is 4:15. I still ain’t over it.
But I’m taking breaks to stretch my shoulders. I was dumb to try and stick it out with my hands over my head.
Note to self: don’t be macho before play has started. Fuck that shit.
Ow my shoulders.
I’m not entirely sure how I felt about the rib punching. It was… hot.. super fucking painful… and deeply… God I don’t know the word for this. Everything I’m thinking of is wrong. It’s not about “primal” (I kinda cringe when I hear that word) it’s not about submission exactly because we don’t have a dynamic exactly…
I don’t know.
I don’t know what that feeling is. It scares me and I’m ok with that. Noah and I talk a whole bunch about the scenes I do and he talks about the ways in which he reads my faces and says “When x happened you seemed unhappy. Why?”
God I love the way that man looks at me.
Cupid wasn’t giving me a light sensual beating for “strong sensation”. He was… deliberately hurting me. In ways that weren’t fun and I was cringing away from and crying.
That makes my cunt throb.
That’s what I don’t know how to do with Noah. I don’t know how to let him hurt me quite like that. I always stop him. We always retreat from those really dark places.
Well, not always. Heh. But Noah doesn’t beat me till I’m cringing and crying unless we are deep in role play and it is ok to treat that character like that.
Cupid thinks it is ok to treat me like that.
Which… it is ok for him to do. Because we negotiated extensively in advance like grown ups. We talked about limits and interests and desires and now we are figuring out how those things really mesh.
God damn I think it’s awesome.
And kissing him gets better every time I see him. I’m not… used to that? I don’t know. Usually people kiss about how they kiss and I like it how much I like it pretty much from day one. I liked it on day one and I like it more now. It being the kissing, of course. But I dropped a modifier.
It isn’t that I think I’m falling more in love with him. That’s not it. I… I don’t know?
I feel like I don’t know much of anything any more.
It’s 4:30. I can go to bed now.
So we got home right around 2:20. Noah probably told me this around 1:45ish? Closer to 2 maybe cause I think we were at the 92 when he said it.
That’s… pretty good for me. I’ll take it.
I feel lucky. I feel like my life is just about magical.
Ok, I left the party buzzing. I felt great. I felt higher than a kite. I had a fantastic scene with Cupid.
Then on the drive home Noah told me about a conversation he had with the partner of someone he wants to play with. I wasn’t standing there and I’m paraphrasing what Noah told me but the phrase “break your legs” came up with the idea that “you better not hurt my woman”.
I am so angry I feel like the top of my head is going to come off. That’s not ok. That is toxic masculinity bullshit and I feel absolutely consumed with contempt for the person who said this.
I am… so angry I really shouldn’t say any more. Because I could write about 8,000 words about how fucking pissed I am and that might cause problems with his partner. Which would make this problem all my fault, right?
I am so fucking pissed.
To be clear, the scene with Cupid was top notch. We are getting better at playing with each other every time we do. This is working for me. This was the third time we’ve played. It’s getting better and better.
But I’m still pissed. I’m so pissed off that my buzz got wrecked. God fucking damnit.
It’s not ok to threaten people like that. Are we children?
I feel like I really needed to read these two essays on power dynamics and consent. They talk about what you are doing and why and your intentions and… Like, right now I had to hear that. What am I doing?
Two links above. Good stuff. No more typing.
I need to start getting my thoughts in order to talk about catharsis. I’m sure that what I actually say will vary from what I’m writing about. Such is life.
Because I’m me, let’s start with a definition:
Strong or repressed emotion. I have buckets of that. When I think of catharsis I think of a flood of things all at once. I think about beating my friends until they cry because it is hard to cry on your own. I think of being beaten until I genuinely sob. Not many people have ever done it. I think of being crucified. I think of atonement. I think of freedom from the burden of carrying these emotions forever.
I have two female friends in particular I think about when I think about cathartic scenes. One is my Sarah and another is one I don’t have permission to name. With Sarah a lot of what I work towards is helping her feel ok making noise and taking up space. I do that very deliberately because I have known her for a long time and she has good reasons to make some fucking noise. It’s ok for her to cry about the stuff that is happening and has happened. But that’s a hard thing when you are punished throughout your childhood for having negative feelings.
My other friend had a hard time safewording or really saying no to anything, ever. What is a safeword some of you sweet people ask. A safeword is a word that can end the scene. For most people red stops a scene and yellow means “please check in”. Traditionally speaking safewords can be any significant word or phrase that wouldn’t occur naturally in a scene. In really heavy sm scenes… sometimes a safeword is the difference between a scene and abuse.
So I asked my friend if she wanted to learn how to say no. I hit her for a long time. A really long time. It felt like hours. I was vicious and terrible. The whole time I told her, “I want you to decide when this stops. You have to tell me to stop. You have to defend yourself. You have to know you are worth that.” And on and so forth because fuck I talked for a long time.
Eventually she did crumble and sob and beg me to stop.
I hear she’s done much better with boundaries ever since. I’m glad.
Sometimes you can’t really understand the size and shape of your boundaries until you go all the way to the other side of them so you can get a good look at where they should have been.
I think of a lot of my rape experiences like that. “I should have done ____.”
I didn’t know.
Positive stuff. A few truly stand-out scenes as a bottom. The first crucification was the most intense. When you don’t know what to expect, it is more intense.
Without getting into details about why I told my then boyfriend/top/later Owner that I had a lot of sins I needed to atone for. He joked and said he could crucify me. I said that sounded great.
We built a padded backboard together. Full of hardware and gizmos to make the gearhead happy. I was grateful for all that time in the wood shop learning skills. Yes, I can help you construct equipment. I am a useful tool to have around.
There was obviously a crossbar for my arms. He tied me to the backboard using polyester rope. That was his preference at the time.
I’ve been suspended in a lot of positions. I’ve been suspended by enough people that I think I have a good idea of what the different positions are like. They are all intense in different ways.
The crucification was early in my scene career. I didn’t have much experience then. I was shocked by the breathlessness. That was what made the scene so intense. It hurt, yes, but it was the constriction of my lungs and diaphragm that caused me to see stars and hallucinate and feel like I was talking to dead family members.
I remember feeling a sad benevolence. These people absolutely could not love me while they were alive. The love they feel now is hollow and empty and useless but present. What does it mean? It means they don’t hate me.
It’s ok that I was born. It is ok that I chose my life over theirs. It is ok that I forced retribution on my father for hurting me.
It is just how life goes.
I talked to my boyfriend a little bit about what I felt and experienced. Not long after that he told me he didn’t want to know more about my past. Heh.
I really desperately needed the experiences he gave me. I think he kind of sensed that and couldn’t do it if he knew just how badly I was abused. Especially considering how recent it was when I met him.
I met my future Owner less than a year after my father killed himself.
Now, as a 34 year old that kind of blows my mind. Wow. Less than two years after my father sat in a garage with the motor running and a note saying everything was all my fault… I became a 24/7 slave. Now it was half my life ago.
I didn’t have a normal college experience. I had weird ritualized sm and no alcohol or drugs and I was shoved through doing homework and learning responsibility and household management experience.
He was a parental figure as much or more than a boyfriend. He taught me about loans and interest. He taught me about different levels of protocol and etiquette and appropriate behavior for different settings. It took a while before I was civilized enough to go to work stuff with him.
We spent a lot of god damn time on behavior training. I needed it. I needed to have someone pay attention to me and help me learn those skills just about like ABA therapy.
Do you know what I find funny? Most every boyfriend I’ve ever had is thrilled I married Noah. Because he pays the kind of attention to me none of them ever wanted to pay. They are happy I found that.
I like my life.
Another stand out scene: that scene with the couple in Portland the weekend before Noah asked me to marry him. I love going to Portland. I do so much fucked up shit there.
In that scene it was the first time they had ever co-topped together. It was intense the way they would stop addressing me to focus on one another and talk about what they wanted to do as if I were just kind of a toy then they hurt me fantastically. This is the stand-out most painful scene of my life. He picked me up by my pectoral muscles and shook me like a dog.
That pain made me almost completely lose my mind. It felt like my body was about to be shredded apart. Given that I have previously had the bottom quadrant of my face ripped off by a pit bull, that was an intense experience.
And when I came down to the ground again completely flipping out his partner slapped my face.
I think I collapsed to the floor.
I honestly don’t remember at all what happened after that.
It was a casual pick up scene with folks I barely knew from the rare parties I attended in Seattle.
Why was it cathartic instead of traumatic? Consent. Bitches. There are scenes that once you are in them… there is no way out but through. There are life experiences you must endure that are traumatic even though you want them.
Childbirth comes to mind.
Why did I trust this man to do this to me? He had extensive training by my government on how to torture people. If anyone was going to be able to do it and walk me right to the edge of the line of what I was going to be able to walk away from… it was him.
He did a fabulous job. Good man.
And his partner? God damn. I love a mean woman.
Why was this so positive? Partially because for the whole rest of my life I have an established 11 experience when it comes to pain. Unmedicated childbirth is not the most painful experience of my life. Having my face torn off wasn’t more painful.
Holy fucking shit.
Being in that much pain lets you appreciate all the days you sit at a 6. It’s not so fucking bad.
Would I be so into Noah if I hadn’t had such a shitty life? Probably not. But I am who I am and it is working out pretty well.
I need to talk about how Noah creates safe space for me. That’s a big deal. That’s kind of the foundation for a lot of the good that has happened.
Noah was ok with me coming out to the garage every morning for months and months and sobbing hysterically. He didn’t react like I was a weirdo and I should stop making him uncomfortable. He said, “Ok. This is where you are right now. What do you want or need from me?”
The process of training him in how to be support has been long and layered, but there is improved trust with every year. That makes everything easier. He does what he says.
Goodness I trust him. The ability to trust someone is… huge.
My cathartic experiences with other people have been primarily one-off releases of emotion in my body. I’m not usually supported before or after. I had a great deal of structural support but just about zero emotional support from my Owner. He had very specific verbal boundaries around this and I really think he behaved ethically.
But I want something different from my forever and it’s ok because I have it.
A lot of my cathartic experiences with Noah have been more gentle and about building connection and intimacy and attachment and trust and care taking and…. It’s different.
And then there are the drug experiences. We’ve had some fucktastically good drug experiences together.
But uhm, that’s not what the show is about.
People are weird.
Maybe I can’t sleep. I woke Noah up for sex (like a nice girl) and that wasn’t enough to make me sleep again.
Masochism has been a very central pillar of my life. The degree to which I submit my will to someone else’s will is much more variable but if you include emotional masochism… I’m always a masochist.
I’m going to sound a little snotty. I don’t mean it that way. I’m trying to figure something out.
Last night it was fascinating being in a triangle between Noah, Deity, and Cupid. I say this because Noah is somewhere between Cupid and Deity in interactions at this point. Realistically I shouldn’t judge Deity’s sadism because I get the impression I’ve just seen the first hints of teeth and I haven’t seen the real thing yet.
But I went from sitting in front of two mean boys who wanted to hurt me to being hit by a sadist.
In the past few months since I’ve shown up at the bar I’ve gotten to relearn I fucking hate pinching. I am having a hard time not slamming my skull into peoples noses as they pinch the shit out of me. It makes me angry. I want to fight back. I’m trying really hard to go along with it because clearly other people are enjoying it.
But it makes me feel hateful and angry.
Sometimes some grabs with a full hand aren’t as irritating… but the small grabs… fuck I feel mean.
It feels like I’m dealing with mean boys again.
This is a weird thing. Because I sure do like mean men. But I feel differently about mean boys.
This is hilarious because I am the youngest of all of these people. So what. It’s an energy thing not a statement about age.
I don’t know why the pinching makes me so mad. I try not to get angry. I try really hard to be pliant. I feel fucking angry.
My brothers pinched me a lot. My father pinched me a lot. You are displeasing. Shut up. No one wants to acknowledge you. Take this reminder that you are not worth actually acknowledging and shut up.
In order to take it I have to go to a fairly dissociated place with regards to feeling it in my body; I have to choose to shut down my fight response and accept.
Noah was asking me questions on the way home. He could read my facial expression during the pinching and backed off. He switched to punching. Yeah, that’s how you can butter my biscuit.
I feel like there is this line between masochism and submission and I’m stumbling on it right now. What is the difference between pain you submit to because it is pleasurable to your partner and pain you submit to because you like it?
I like being punched. I can be punched for hours and I’ll just make appreciative noises. The bruises can be massive. I’ll purr like a cat in between shrieks and bellows and orgasms. I like punching.
Pinching… it takes me right out of headspace. It makes me feel like I need to prepare for a fight. It is intensely triggering to my fight reflex. Which makes submitting to it an interesting challenge.
What bothers me is it never feels like people are challenging me on this incredibly sensitive boundary because they want to have power over me and they want to cause me to work through it. I usually feel like people are pinching me absentmindedly. Like a fiddle toy.
I hate that.
Am I submitting or bottoming? Am I doing this for you or for me?
I don’t know.
It’s like hair pulling. It’s one of those things that people just do because they have this schema around rough sex that it is a mandatory part of things. But if you yank on my hair absentmindedly I will not be able to focus my eyes tomorrow from pain.
My body is in a fair bit of pain under normal operating conditions. I showed up at the bar tonight feeling like I was at a 6. Then I got pinched. Then beaten.
This god damn tile work is killing me. My neck hurts. My back hurts. My arms hurts. And now my ass hurts too. Glorious.
The ass is the only part that’s fun.
How will I be hiding my bruises? Well… I need to develop some habits around dressing in private. Ahem.
I feel like the bruises are coming in harder and faster this time than they did the first time I played with Cupid. Well done.
Noah asked me how I managed to process the hits because they came quick and hard and he’s used to me getting overloaded and shutting everything down.
Instead Cupid hit me hard and quickly and when I collapsed to the floor to squat because it was too much he put his arm around my chest, leaned me back against him, and kept hitting.
My cunt is still throbbing because that was so hot.
I was overloaded but I didn’t feel panicked and I’m not sure why it happened that way. I panicked more and made him back off more at our first date at his house.
I suspect that a hair of it was that I was completely surrounded by people and if it really got out of hand I had help available. It was safer to let it go farther.
I don’t think that was a conscious decision but I think it factors in somewhere.
Where is the line between masochism and submission for me? I felt like part of the reason I could go deeper was because Cupid was managing energy well. He was being aware and barely callous in just the right ways. I’m pretty sure he could tell I was making some noise but not exactly what came from me or what came from the other folks making noise. So he thoughtfully leaned in and let me know that he couldn’t hear very well and he’d be looking for other signals that I couldn’t handle it.
That let him push right through most of my masochist-not-submissive early warning signs. All the “I’m not sure I like this” noise he could just ignore. That’s what I mean by callous. But he did it by being very responsive to physical signals and just… interpreting them how he felt like. He kept going because he read enough yes in my body.
I am so incredibly not upset. I will be spending time in my bunk today thinking about this again. Probably a few times.
It isn’t that I want to distract you with kissing and get you to not beat me. It is that when you intersperse kissing with hurting me I want to give you so much more. Because you are hurting me. Because you are connecting with me.
I was listening to an old episode of the radio show that I’m going on. A woman was expressing her strong preference for not kissing early on.
That was funny to hear just now. I want kissing. I want kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing. Don’t fucking hurt me if you aren’t going to kiss me too. If you aren’t going to kiss it better I don’t fucking like you very much.
But I do sometimes play with people who don’t kiss at all. But that’s because they don’t kiss anyone and they know how to connect anyway. We also don’t go as deep or as hard with the play.
WHY IS THIS SO CONFUSING?!
(I’m totally ok with that person not wanting kissing during first time sex. Whatever floats your boat. It was interesting to feel how I feel about that.)
If you want access to my body it starts with my mouth and my mind. Otherwise go fuck yourself.
I don’t think it is that pinching is a hard limit. I think it is that pinching is a serious kind of play for me. It’s a really big mind fuck and I don’t think people understand that in general. Pinching requires some serious fucking submission from me and playing with that idly is… complicated. Like, I need to talk to Daddy about this. He’s a pinchy motherfucker. (Which I’m not mad about.)
But I need to talk to him about this. Words. I need to find words. I want you to understand that when it comes to my body pinching it is a much more serious activity than hitting me with a mallet.
I like the mallet more.
The mallet doesn’t make me feel like I want to take my finger nails and rake them across your face.
I feel mean when I’m pinched. I don’t feel sexy. I don’t feel wanted. I feel angry. Trying to tamp that down and not explode all the fuck over people is an act of conscious, serious will.
We all come from very particular life experiences. I’ve dealt with a lot of mean boys.
I’m trying to figure out what I feel and why. I don’t figure this stuff out very well unless I’m bouncing off of people. I don’t think about why pinching is such a thing because I’ve just managed to mostly scare Noah out of doing it.
Then I go hunting like a fool.
Fucking pinchy bastards are everywhere.
How do I feel about pinching? I feel like I hate you. Just for a few seconds. Just as long as you are pinching me. I get over it. But I have to decide to. That kind of thing takes a toll. How many times I have to decide to stop hating you in a night adds up.
It is a very different kind of submission than accepting that when I resist someone beating me they will just slam me back down on the table so they can keep hitting me. God that was hot. Ok, I’ll relax and just accept that this is happening now.
I’m sitting on a very comfy lawn chair. My ass hurts.
Thank you. I’m grinning.
Why are some kinds of pain enjoyable even when I don’t enjoy it. I promise you that I didn’t enjoy most of what Cupid did to me last night. It fucking hurt. But I really liked that he wanted to do that to me. I liked that he wanted to take that enjoyment from me even when it was really hard for me.
Why doesn’t pinching work that way?
It can. With the right set up and frame and acknowledgement that this is a huge trigger you are pushing on.
That’s not how it usually happens though.
Why don’t you pinchy motherfuckers push on a trigger point or something. Much less effort on your part, more pain on my part, less feeling like I want to rip your fucking face off.
Somehow I think that an incredibly small fraction of the pinchy motherfuckers will listen to me. That’s both why I date them and why I hate them.
IT WOULD BE OK IF YOU ACTED LIKE THIS WAS A BIG THING. IT WOULDN’T MAKE YOU LESS DOMLY OR SOME SHIT.
It isn’t that I have a problem with mean people hurting me in this way if it is done right. It is that it is hard to do right and most people won’t bother.
That’s a thing.
Being picky sucks.
And then when we got home Noah put his cock in me and it hurt like I was being fucked with a knife. I stopped the sex. No. Just… no. Actually, I’ve been fucked with a knife and it didn’t hurt that bad. The person wasn’t trying to puncture my uterus.
I have no idea what was going on. I woke him up for sex this morning and it wasn’t orgasmic for me, but it didn’t hurt. I think I was so afraid of it hurting that I wasn’t really going to relax that time. But I wanted sex anyway.
I wanted sex specifically so I could talk to Noah about how much I like him and want him and need him. He is being ridiculously supportive as I’m being kind of a pain in the ass. It makes him happy when I demonstrate my gratitude with frantic, clutching sex where I talk the whole time about why he is important to me.
Noah is kinda my world. I need him to feel that or I’m doing something wrong. His primary way to feel loved is to have sex. Not just have sex, I need you sex.
But who doesn’t want that?
I’m just glad he is amused that I enjoy kissing other people so much. I’m glad he is interested in watching other people hit me because he learns more about me as a creature to be studied. I’m so fucking glad that Noah spends this much time wanting to look at me.
He’s been doing a lot more writing for me lately. I like that. I like that so much. He’s been writing scene reports so he can learn from them. He’s been writing about his insecurities and that’s letting us talk about what we want in the future from an unequal power dynamic. The day he proposed to me he told me he wanted me to be his wife and his slave. I said I could do that but it would take a very long time to get to the slave part.
It… was mixed last time and I don’t want to have to walk away from our relationship because that part crashes and burns.
So Noah appreciates chances to watch me interact with other people because he sees how I react to things without his own internal filtering going on. We can talk about why I leaned in to some things and why I grimaced at other times.
Noah wants to look at me. Noah wants me to do whatever the fuck I want just so he can watch.
I love you Noah. Even if you are a mean boy sometimes.
Thank you thank you thank you everyone. Thank you for giving me these opportunities to learn more about myself. I am grateful.
My arms. My arms. Oh my arms. Must stop.