Tag Archives: bdsm

Thank cheese for a good day

I’m really grateful that Noah and I had some good talking yesterday. I am glad that we hugged and touched each other in mellow and non-scary ways. We are both going through a ridiculously hard thing. It is really important to remember that this is a terrible thing that is happening to both of us. More to me, but he’s getting whacked hard too.

My brain is being a giant asshole right now and it means that mostly I’m only remembering the hard and scary parts of my marriage and my relationship with Noah. I did go very far out of my way to find a Big Bad Wolf.

He’s really not a terrible person. All of the shitty things he has done have come with the halo of consent. It’s been a fucking trip. When I say I deserve things that he does to me… well… he and I discussed doing it and then we did it so I guess in the most literal sense of the phrase, I do deserve things that we say we want to do together. It’s a complicated thing. No person arrives at the decision to do a thing completely unshaped by the life experiences they have had.

Noah observed that what we are expecting of ourselves and of each other is quite literally inhuman. People don’t do these things. What we want to be to each other is not standard. I get that. Like, that was not really enough sleep last night because sex after a while of no sex was a lot more important. It was good sex.

I wish that means that I woke up today full of resilience and definitely over my depression. I didn’t though. I still feel shitty and stupid and it takes a very small comment from a teenager to set me off. Teenagers are assholes. Teenagers are trying to create a reality in which they don’t need their mother anymore and that’s pretty fraught for me. The point of my job is to work myself out of a job. I am working towards my sole future occupation: Noah’s companion.

There’s this way his cock gets right before he nearly comes. I notice it best when we stop having vaginal sex and switch to oral. The head feels really tight and swollen and like it is about to explode but most of the shaft is actually fairly soft, it’s nothing close to his most erect. Details like that are going to be most of what I think about in the future. Savouring that feel and texture difference in my mouth and in my hands.

I used to tell my mom that I wasn’t going to be able to be successful as an adult because the only thing I was good at doing was reading fast. I’m really good at making Noah’s dick happy.

It is hard for him and it is hard for me that it doesn’t feel like enough. I’m not saying that I have to suck other dicks. I am saying that I don’t do well when I feel disconnected and unwanted.

My day job is in a complicated place where 2/3 of my primary charges now resent and scorn me. I’m just counting the days till number 3 joins in. I know that Noah sees this with impending glee: soon he will have me all to himself.

Given what happens to me when I try to make friends it is a mixed bag from my view at the moment. I am really upset and sad that I am scared to make friends now with the idea of sex being entirely off the table. That is feeling dramatically unsafe. It also makes me question the sex and friendships of my youth.

I don’t think I am going to stop feeling depressed and frozen and scared until the trial happens and that feels dramatically unfair to my family. I go to sleep every night angry with myself for not getting more done and I wake up every morning feeling frozen and stuck and unable to move because I will be wrong. It was really hard to eat this morning.

Today will be less perfect. That’s ok. There are brighter days to come. My local garden store had plants 50% off because they are going out of business. I have some holes to dig. Let’s see if I can get off my backside. Ugh.

Everything feels raw like a cheese grater has been at me

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I’m rereading Noah’s email to me for his equivalent check in for the week. I wrote the last piece after skimming it on my phone. On a bigger screen I see more nuance but I’m still wildly hurt.

He didn’t say that M/s isn’t working for him he said it isn’t working for me. Which is probably partly fair. I should be accepting that he has the right to treat me any way he sees fit. That’s my role here. If I don’t like it I can leave. Only I can’t leave. Of all the options on the table that’s not one. Not because it is logistically impossible (it’s not) because I would never be ok again. Yeah, people try to tell me I’d be fine and I’d move on. They are wrong. I would never be ok again. This is my only shot at a family. If I don’t get to stay in a family then I’m not staying.

This is what I get.

I am struggling with layers of stuff around sex tremendously. The pagan book about consent I’m reading is actually really evocative and useful as I’m trying to figure out how to put into words why I’m not ok.

Historical actual slavery sucks because humans are not given a choice about being treated as objects to use until they wear out. They aren’t people. BDSM and consensual slavery is not the same thing. It’s about devoting your life to serving someone else’s life by choice. There are manipulative, evil, psychotic people in the scene who try to pretend that if you do M/s then you are genuinely becoming chattel. I’ve made my feelings plain.

Noah, the bits I’m freaking out about around you forcing me to do stuff, hurting me, orgasm control, and disapproval are all coming up around sex. Not elsewhere in our relationship though you are abandoning a fair bit of that consistency to instead be freaked out by me flirting. Last I heard you weren’t upset about how I’m washing your underwear. You don’t object to how I am raising your kids or how I manage your money.

The problem is sex.

I fucked up in 2016. I said shit that hurt you to the core of your being. I did that. I’m not claiming to be better than I am. I’m not delineating all of it because doing so doesn’t help. Not because it is a “dirty secret” but because I have fucking groveled for 9 years.

I fucked up in 2016 because I couldn’t handle the way my body was being disrespected sexually.

I fucked up in 2024 when someone sexually assaulted me.

Have I ever gone off the rails sexually at other times during our 18 year relationship? Not at all to the best of my knowledge. You have a fuck ton of trauma you need to work out Noah and you do need to go do that part with someone other than me. You yelling at me that I’m about to cheat on you again is not ok when I am literally giggling with a stranger whose name I don’t know.

Do I deserve your suspicion since I have already cheated? Hell, now you can say I’ve cheated twice. Both times quite soon after being raped. If you are going to treat me with this kind of suspicion and shame at all times then you need to stop pretending you want me to have a good opinion of myself. You think I am an untrustworthy piece of shit and I need to understand that or I will be incapable of understanding the parameters within which I must operate to be “good”.

The amount of “Carry the trauma and act like it has no impact on you” that is expected of me is quite literally inhuman. I can’t be fun and upbeat and harangued for hours about how inappropriate I am. Those are two states I can’t carry at the same time. I’m not that good. If the tirades are going to be part of every single time I am near a human male because I am not trustworthy then I need to cut my fucking life down.

I feel like fucking garbage because I feel like you expect me to do what I did the first time you raped me in 2006. I didn’t fight back and try to hurt you too; I put my head down and got on with expecting this to be the rest of my life. After that I had a fuck ton more therapy which lead to more self esteem and self respect and then I fought back. I will be punished for the rest of my life for it. If I die in the year 2050 I expect that sometime in the 3 months before I die you will bitterly scream “2016” at me.

I was talking to my new counsellor today and describing how I feel about my sex life. She said it sounds incredibly dehumanising. I’ve noticed that too.

I need to be owned. I am not good enough to own the way I come out of the box. I’ve been altered a lot over a lot of years by a shocking number of people. I feel like shit. I have never and will never be good enough as I am as a human being. I will never deserve to be accepted for who I am naturally inclined to be. I am bad. I hurt Noah quite badly if I stop centering him as the only actual human in my life. If I act like I am a person whose sexuality deserves to be treated as a thing of its own then I am saying I do not want Noah to own me. That is what I got from his email today.

What I am hearing is that if I want Noah to stop yelling at me I need to absolutely go back into the Choke Chain and never rattle it again. He wouldn’t be yelling at me if he didn’t have to because my behaviour is so bad and so out of line that if he told anyone about it to try and get emotional support their only response would be to tell him to divorce me.

I am the problem.

If I want to not get screamed at I know what to do.

I guess it is back to the Choke Chain. I’ve loved these last 9 years of being afraid to say what I’m thinking or feeling. It’s been really rewarding trying hard not to think about sex at all because it is not a thing I am supposed to want. It’s a thing that is done to me when other people want to. I am a bad person if I do not hurt myself fighting off a rapist other than my husband. I am a bad person if I fight back in any way when my husband rapes me. I have consented to that once and now the conversation is over.

I am a bad person because I went and sucked my rapist’s cock two weeks after he raped me. Why did I do it? Because it felt like the only thing I could do.

Noah is right. I am a disgusting piece of filth who should not be around humans.

I’m not going to reread that email again right now even though there are many many many paragraphs I’m not responding to.

If I want ownership the price is getting to have any kind of individual sexual autonomy in this life.

Do I even serve?

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For the past few months I’ve been writing weekly about my feelings about the M/s part of my marriage on a social media site. I am currently completely fucking melting down and I shut down my social media because I will do something I find embarrassing in the long run if I don’t. I can tell. I’m in that kind of place. I want to run my mouth. That’s not safe.

I should give a tiny bit of explanation about what I mean when I say M/s because out here on the open internet I could run into absolutely anyone. Y’all may not have any idea what I am talking about.

M/s refers to a Master/slave relationship. It is a formalised way of having power or authority transfer inside a romantic/sexual/maybe not either but still super intense emotional relationship. Noah has been questioning what we should be calling it.

I should stop referring to M/s then.

He is currently saying that the closest thing is like owning a feral cat, which isn’t actual ownership. I guess that means I won’t be doing a lot of these updates going forward because what I am doing with my life does not count.

I feel like the ways I serve are mostly devalued lately and Noah doesn’t acknowledge them existing outside sexual monogamy. That’s the only service he seems to value these days.

If I am not naturally, instinctively monogamous I am betraying him. I am not serving. I don’t count as property or as a slave.

Cats don’t capitalise titles.

tap tap tap Is this thing on?

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Hi there, whoever you are. I haven’t felt ok about writing here for quite some time now. I’ve had a lot of self doubt and anxiety going on. For a little while now I’ve been blogging elsewhere behind a fence but that’s not feeling appropriate anymore. I’ve been trying hard to be in the closet because it felt safer. It no longer feels safe. Now it feels like a risk.

If you are in the closet people can try to use information to threaten you. My best source of safety is having no secrets. It has been my approach for most of my life. Sometimes I am scared for a while and I shut down. When I feel under threat or if something happens, once again I bust wide open.

I can’t get into details but I am dealing with prosecuting a sexual assault. It means that things are going to come out about my life. People will look me up and I have not tried hard to hide my life. I am not enjoying the fact that I get to come out to folks whether I want to or not. Not that being in the closet has been awesome for my mental health. It isn’t.

I’ve been really depressed for a long while. A lot of the time I’ve been in Scotland. A year or so ago I started getting past the post-partum hump and I have had a renewed sex drive. That’s been complicated with the restrictions and limits of my life. Noah has been pretty awesome about trying to ramp back up after years of me not being up for almost anything.

I don’t want to rehash everything I’ve been writing else-net but a lot has been happening. Noah and I are doing a lot of renegotiating our sex/bdsm dynamic. If you happen to be new here, bdsm is an acronym that means bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, and sadism and masochism. Basically it is part of the human norm to like adventure during sex and this is the path that works for us. If it seems crazy, keep in mind that I went through what is essentially sexual torture as a small child. Yes I am weird and I have weird impulses, preferences, and needs around my sex life.

I’m feeling like I am drowning in shame. I am really hard into avoidance. The short version is I’m having a lot of PTSD symptoms. It’s been a minute since I have crashed this hard. I managed to get through the first couple of weeks post-assault just pushing through. In that process I did some good stuff and some stuff I feel really ashamed of and I feel gross and bad and like I deserve every bad thing that could ever happen to me. I feel like my reaction to the assault retroactively means it was fine because I am such a fucked up person.

I feel low key nauseous basically all the time. My stomach is hurting in a way it hasn’t in many many years. I’m having more nightmares. I’m having flashbacks. I feel trapped and helpless and like many many more bad things are coming. I’m sweaty a lot of the time from my level of anxiety. I am deep in hyperarousal. I’m irritable and cranky and I can’t sleep and I’m having memory problems. I am really emotionally struggling because of how bad my memory is right now. I am just not able to access a lot of memories stored in non-traumatised parts of my brain right now. I am deep in always/never and I just can’t access anything else.

I use the term “always/never” to refer to a really extreme version of state dependent memory. When I feel good I cannot remember how bad I feel sometimes. When I feel bad I cannot remember ever having any good feelings of any kind. My brain simply won’t acknowledge that the other side of the fence exists. This is not good.

It’s kind of funny that the standard wisdom for PTSD is that these symptoms appearing in the month after a trauma isn’t the end of the world, for most people this fades. It didn’t really get going for me until more than 4 weeks after this last assault. I was in “make everyone else ok” mode for the first 4 weeks. Then stuff started feeling completely out of my control. Now I’m freaking the fuck out. It’s been 6 weeks and it feels like the last week has been the start of a really shitty slide. I’m worried. I’m not ok. My desire to self harm or suicide is ridiculously high. I’m being careful and I’m not doing anything over the line. I’m careful to limit my drinking. I am no longer able to withstand the physical trauma of most of my long-ago preferred self harms. I can’t do anything that might create marks because that would be a cluster fuck of issues while I’m going through an assault trial.

I feel incredibly helpless and trapped and worthless and like there will never actually be an end to me being raped. I’m really fucking angry that I now have over 40 years of rape experience. I was really happy about only having 23 years of rape experience. Those 17 years where I didn’t get raped where pretty dang cool. I almost got to have a whole normal childhood span of time free of rape. It makes me feel really sick.

I had a hemorrhoidectomy and the recovery sucks. With all my health complications I’m supposed to not exercise for 8-10 weeks. Part of the reason I need to move back to blogging instead of using the other social media sites is that posting about my frustration about not being able to exercise leads to people pushing me to exercise. Yeah. That’s not ok.

The big change that is a greater deal of positive mixed in with the negative is Noah and I have restarted discussions oriented around polyamory. I have a boyfriend (whom I’ve never had sex with) and Noah is waiting a while because we have a lot to process. He will date. Hell, what I’m doing barely counts as dating. I’ll have sex with someone outside the marriage 8 months after we started negotiating. We are not rushing by any measure. The person I’m talking to is one of my oldest friends. We worked in theatre together right out of high school. We had a lot of interest in one another way back when and no skills for being able to have a relationship together. I still don’t know what’s going to happen or how this will all go but it is mostly a better experience than everything else this year so it’s the upside I get to have. I’m referring to him as my Travel Boyfriend.

I feel numb and empty. I feel like the only way for me to stop being in pain is to die. I mean, it’s true with my physical conditions. That doesn’t mean I get to die anytime soon. It just means I get to endure an unlimited and endless amount of pain for the rest of my life.

Today that is feeling very hard.

You can’t get to yes without risking no.

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Damn. I don’t even know how I want to start this. I don’t know what the frame is for this. I mean, a dude shared https://www.psychologytoday.com/intl/blog/the-state-of-our-unions/202302/why-are-so-many-young-men-single-and-sexless?amp and this article is making it hard to go to sleep.

So this will involve heavy trauma random mentions but I’m not talking about my pain or my victimisation–that really isn’t the point. It’s just for context.

More than 60% of American men under 30 are single and are probably very rarely having sex during their single life. Holy shit. I had more sex than these men before I was 15. I don’t mean the rapes. When you have an exceptionally early introduction to rape it is fairly common to translate that into an exceptionally early introduction to sex. I have spent a lot of time in therapy working through my feelings about whether or not I raped the children who said yes when I asked if they wanted to play. We were the same age. But my play was not age appropriate. Lots of mothers didn’t let their children near me again.

I’m not going to turn this into a dirty story. Lots of kids said no. I refined my approach. Lots of people said no. I refined my approach. Score.

Before I was a freshman in high school I had slept with more people than most people do in their whole lives. In order to get a body count that high I was told no over and over and over and over. This was all made much easier by the fact that I moved approximately 45ish times by that age. I had been to 20 different schools. I had so many prey opportunities and I am a pretty damn good hunter. It helps that I consider gender fairly irrelevant.

I learned the most from the people who told me no. There are some good fucking men in this world who will recoil with horror when a child asks for sex. Good for you, dudes. I wish you were less unusual.

But anyway. The point is that in order to figure out who you are and what you want you need to put effort in to having something to offer. I’m autistic and my special interest was sex through early childhood. I had a really fucked up/healthy boundaries on their part experience of being ostracised over and over and over and over and over.

My kid told me he felt like everyone in the world hated him when a couple of kids bullied him at one school.

God I had to try hard not to giggle. Oh baby. I wish I knew what it felt like to have four people not liking you feel like the whole world. Fuck.

So I really and truly do know how hard it is to ask people for sex and be rejected over and over. The thing is: do you want sex or do you want a relationship? Because if you just want sex then you really should pay a sex worker and be ok with that. It’s a dandy occupation for folks who choose it without any other coercion beyond living in a late capitalist hellscape.

If you want sex in an ongoing way as an adult then you have to make learning how to be a fun person to have sex with a priority. You need to learn how to have skills that make you good to have around. These are broad. Not every man has to have any particular specific skill–you are fully entitled to areas of weakness. I had to focus less on what I needed from someone else and more on what I can offer.

I married the guy who did the most classes. I don’t mean university. He took massage classes. He took dance classes (but holy shit don’t ever ask him to dance unless you want to hear a long rant about how much he hates all dance instructors 😂). He got a motorcycle. He took classes in hypnosis and NLP. He did tantra classes. He went to fucking spirituality weekend retreats all by his own damn self. He constantly reads books on how to be more effective at whatever new task he is about to add at his job. He went to a lot of kink classes. He went to sex classes. We still have all the damn handouts.

He knew that if he wanted to attract attention he needed to differentiate himself. When he arrived in adulthood he did not seem that interesting. He said that his dad told him that he better go learn how to have something to give because no one likes boys and young men.

Ouch. Yeah. I don’t think you could pay me to go through life as a boy. I was treated like shit. I knew beyond the shadow of doubt that I was white trash and every single one of the mother fuckers throwing dog shit at me would be delighted if I were to die. It happened in city after city after city after city. For years.

Fuck no. I don’t want to be a boy. That sounds really rough. How in the hell can people learn how to ask if the question is always wrong? How can there be a way of just magically knowing the right way? ~~You~~ I learn by making mistakes; I’ve made some fucking whoppers. My husband has made big mistakes.

I don’t know how to settle my brain around the limits of this small town. I think it is the best motherfucking thing in the world that I have a choke chain on.

The coping methods that served me well enough to create an extended network of friends and Leather Family really don’t work the same if I am never going to play with or have sex with anyone.

Throughout my life before moving here every single close friend I have had from early childhood has been a sex or bdsm partner. Now I’m just supposed to figure out how to do this thing I really don’t fucking know how to do. It’s terrifying and hard.

I have to go be told no over and over and over. I’m a polarising fucking figure. For every hour I spend trying to develop a friendship relationship with someone I probably get rejected for 15 overtures in a row. That’s not all with the same person. You can’t do that. It’s weird. People don’t like it. But if you wait a few months and try again it’s ok. Three no’s mean you stop asking forever.

Yes I am autistic and I like my fucking rules, ‘kay?

You can’t put all your eggs in one basket. You have to put a small amount of energy in a lot of directions. And it’s exhausting. IT IS FUCKING EXHAUSTING. Then I read about how little effort many men are putting into figuring out how to get laid. SEX IS FUCKING AWESOME AND I DON’T KNOW WHY YOU AREN’T WILLING TO DO THINGS TO GET IT. I mean, I gotta work pretty fucking hard these days for platonic friendships and you won’t put in this much effort for SEX. Buddy, these days I get laid any time I go to bed in a nightgown. He even calls me names and hurts me. He knows exactly where to fuck with my deep seated trauma issues.

He also cooks breakfast 6 days a week. He reads to our family and he does the best voices. Girl Genius comic books are fantastic to read out loud to anyone and I will die on this hill. He was a really tremendously shitty labour partner for our first two kids. So our friend’s mom came with us to the third birth and she told him what to do. You can always go find ways to get support to learn how to do what you need to do to be a better partner.

He doesn’t ask me to teach him how to get better for me. I don’t ask him to teach me how to get better for him. If I can’t tell when my behavior and attitude please him after this many years and this many thousands of hours of conversation then I want my money back this program sucks.

I try to keep a sense of humor about how much it sucks to have to force my face back into that carefully practiced in the mirror face that projects just the right amount of “I would be cheerful if you talked to me.” Fuck this shit. I don’t want to need community. I want to live alone in a box in the woods.

Who am I kidding. I’d die.

I want people in my life so much. I don’t know what shape I want that to take. I have no idea what my relationships with people will look like going forward. I have no internal map for this. Even more fun: I am now going on 4 years out of therapy after being in therapy on and off for my whole life because a lot of shit went down.

I think all these men want people as much as I do. I don’t know what any of them need to do because the penalties for mistakes are so hard.

I know that when I get the same feedback from three people all of whom I already respect that I need to spend some very serious time looking at what larger truth they are seeing that I am not seeing. If I get a bunch of no’s to offers I just need to try again at a different time and get busy living my own life in the meantime.

I do not understand being unwilling to change to get people to like you. I feel like it has been a highly abrasive 30 year process of getting me to anything like socially acceptable behaviour. I have had to learn many things and I have worked really hard.

It is weird feeling all the iterations of personality. All of the mistakes I have made have made an indelible impression.

You never forget the first time someone throws dog shit at you because you were stupid enough to say you liked them. I was 7.

When someone tells me they are too scared to ask for time with someone, a relationship of some sort I marvel. What would it be like to have a place in which it was safe to hide and be safe? I mean. I have it now?

It’s really fucking weird. Sometimes it is almost itchy.

Ah, I know why I am up at 2am writing this when usually I would go to sleep and not think that much about the plight of all these men who aren’t getting laid. Tonight my teenager and I went and took a course out in the vanilla world to possibly learn an activity. Details are unimportant. The point was the man running the presentation spent about 60%-70% of the night talking to me. I know he is roughly 30 years my senior.

That was a man who cheats on his wife anytime he can. It’s like blood in the water. There is a way of really staring. Holy shit have I practiced and practiced and practiced and practiced how to settle my eyes on someone or bounce from person to person to carefully not raise hackles. I got to do it when I was young enough to not earn significant punishments.

I learned it because the kinds of men who will have sex with children are very good at that kind of intense attention.

These are very messy things.

On the ride home we talked about it. He had never seen that happen to me before. The mantle of white motherhood is a fucking thing. Now he’s taller than me so I don’t get as much halo from his presence. He was absolutely incensed. To him this was grotesquely inappropriate.

Oh my god. What would it be like to live in a brain that believes it has the right to say no to the male gaze and have that matter? Whoa. Wait. How are people who like to have affairs supposed to find each other if EVEN LOOKING AT PEOPLE ISN’T OK?!?!?! Like, holy cheesetoast that’s a fucking tight rope to walk. Wait, isn’t the fact that you are someone who will break the rules part of the reason for the intrusive eye contact? Fucking a. Why am I assuming that he would actually end up being successful prey? Maybe the signals aren’t the same and I don’t know shit.

I mean, I don’t know shit.

I’m really good at finding people to fuck, though. I started with the only standard being “will say yes when I ask”. When you ask people that indiscriminately there is this whole cascade of complications. I doubt I would have gotten laid if everyone had phones. Thank god I’m hella old.

I am praying for you fellas. I hope you figure it out. I don’t think anyone else will do everything just like I did and that’s a good thing. Surely there is a happy medium?

The gurus

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They don’t all call themselves gurus, some use teacher, Owner, shaman, tantrika, daka, coach, guide, and memorably one just went by Dragon. That is outside the not-short list of Daddies I have acquired through my time as an adult. They were all men who were absolutely convinced that they knew what I should do to be happier/healthier/sluttier/less slutty/more attractive/more intelligent/less emotional/less crazy… in short what they all had in common was viewing me as a piece of clay that could be molded into their ideal woman.

If I’m at all honest I totally fucking have a type and it definitely extends to people who like having a massive reality distortion bubble around them that intrudes into other people’s sense of self so they could direct the people.

For the purpose of this writing I am going to assume that the controlling person is primarily male, mostly because I have yet to have an enby try to establish this sort of dynamic with me (not saying they never do at all) and very few women try to influence me in the same manner. I have a number of women I look to for advice and guidance and they are all people with extremely strong opinions (FUCKING HAWT 😍) who will tell me what they think then drop the topic and move on. I will listen or not and that isn’t their problem.

The men come back to check if I am obeying. They chastise me. They tell me “you have to ____”. They tell me that if I keep doing x that I will never (whatever they want me to do). They threaten dire outcomes if I don’t fall in line with their direction.

Before you try to go all “Oh look, just another feminist bitch hating on men” I need to point out that I married one of these dudes and many are still in my extended harem (the people I am deeply emotionally attached to who I have fucked or played with in the past), and I even talked to one about how to write this post. Clearly I don’t just hate all these men. I signed on for sucking one of their cocks for the rest of my days. He has no problem at all with my harem of much loved and adored friends. My husband knows that he has a biological family he may not adore but who would show up to rescue him with money and resources if something went sideways in his life. I have my harem, my triad of best friends, and the loose ties I have extending through communities in cities in many countries. He does not begrudge me the only safety net I have in this life. Mommy boards say that I have a lot of emotional affairs. I’m ok with that description.

So when I talk about the feelings I have about my relationships with men who share this personality trait it is not a purely negative topic. When I say that I would not be who I am without these men I’m really not kidding. I’ve done a lot of hypnosis, NLP, conditioning training, improvement plans, slave contracts, affirmation work, and even a fair bit of strait up corporal punishment when I failed to do as I was ordered.

Every time someone gushes about how confident I am about myself I mentally see that meme of an autistic woman accepting her Oscar for how well she masks.

I have a great deal of self doubt, well less than I used to. I have a great deal of suspicion about my own motives and why I am taking the actions that I am taking. I believe that the self I have constructed amongst my friends, mainly through the writing I have done for decades (it all went private when I moved to the UK but once I have citizenship locked down, finger guns I’m sure it will revive) is a binding contract. Old friends tell me that when they are doing things in their life they stop and consciously think about the delineated way I think through why to act the way I want to act when they are evaluating what they need to do in a situation. I feel kind of stunned when they say this. Then I laugh because immediately after they almost 100% feel the need to follow up with “I know what you would do and it would be ____ (sometimes they are right in that guess and sometimes not) but I am just using the PROCESS and I have different values so what I decided was ____.” There is usually this little bit of a funny energy about this exchange that is now emerging with my kids as they get older.

I do the teacher shit fucking hard too. I’m not just dissing on people who like to influence other people.

When you model how to think through a problem without giving a strong “the right answer will always be ‘x'” people can generalise from that into many cases you never considered initially and often there seems to be this little almost foot stamping response of, “Just because you are right about one part of this process that doesn’t make you right about everything! So THERE!“

I think this is pretty subconscious for folks most of the time but when I see it over and over and over and over it gets a little hard to keep the smirk off my face. After this many years of parenting, I am getting particularly obnoxious about keeping a serious, slightly concerned face and leaning in a little to say, “So you are saying I win?”

I’ve now said this to a few friends in situ and they are people who have known me long enough to throw their heads back howling in laughter. Just like last night my coach said at the end of the conversation “So you are telling me that after this conversation you feel a lot more comfortable about the fact that you are clear in your purpose and you don’t think there is underlying inappropriate feelings driving your actions? Now you figured out what you are going to do going forward? So what you are really saying is, I win?“

But do you know what I am honest with myself about? An awful lot of these men are uhm not people I can wholeheartedly endorse as upstanding gentlemen. Many of them have pushed far too hard and have raped women who did not use a firm enough “no”. I have supported communities in enacting blacklists that blocked these men from attending. I have spoken to the men in question and told them point blank that I was going to reach out to people in the community they just moved to and I am going to tell those people about your history. They usually sigh very deeply and nod. They know that it is not worth a single minute of their time to try and talk me out of it.

Someone recently mentioned the concept of being in an accountability circle with someone. I spent a little bit of time on DuckDuckGo and thought about that concept more specifically. Ok, that’s my husband and my triad and harem and my sisters and mothers in leather. Those are the people who keep me on the path I want to be on. They tell me when I’m an asshole. They tell me when I fucked up. They help me figure out how to fuck up less. Harm Reduction is the goal. They see me clearly in all of my layers of machinations and mixed feelings and need to learn what “healthy” responses are and they are really good at asking me the right questions.

Over and over I say that the purpose of working with a therapist is so that you can have access to someone who will ask you the questions you need to think about in order to figure out the answer. Therapists aren’t magicians and they aren’t priests: they don’t have all the answers. You have the answers for you and I have the answers for me.

I rode out most of the first couple years of the pandemic not talking much with most of my harem, my triad mostly went silent, and most of my sisters and mothers in leather were far too overwhelmed to have much ability to interact regularly. I did make more tentative connections with new people here in Scotland but frankly it is still early days. Bailey taught me that friends come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime and you don’t know who is who until the end.

Over the past year there has been a slow wave building in my life, the ocean is just starting to send the tide in. The people who are still in my life and who reach out daily, weekly, monthly, yearly, or just when they happen to see something that makes them think of me remind me of just how far the road has been. I have not sat still with just a couple of people, needing them to fill all of my needs. I have been privileged to be a comet in a great many lives.

It’s not that I still know everyone I have slept or played with. Many threads have frayed.

Do you know who stayed? The fucking gurus.

But not even all of them. I have kicked a few out of the harem. People who consistently showed me that they did not understand the agreement between us about which parts of my life and selfhood were up for attack.

I mean, I did marry the grand motherfucking prize winner of the game “What is wrong with Krissy.” I’m not opposed to being attacked on a great many fronts. These people I am speaking about get to stay because they have been able to shift their understanding of me over time with great nuance. They understand that the opening gambit of our relationship was not to be indicative of how we would get along forever. They can usually understand that they have crossed a line just by seeing me narrow my eyes.

I might be into providing service, I may be an absolute workaholic if I am given a project that will please someone in that group of people, I might be fully willing to be an owned possession who has limits about what they are allowed to do in big parts of my life, I might fucking live for the opportunity worship people and grovel as I appreciate the opportunity to please them…

That is always within a strong framework of you have to learn my idiosyncratic, difficult to track, highly specific to my life boundaries and not encroach on them. There are limits. I will comment when you have crossed them. I will retreat from you rapidly if you respond inappropriately. There are lots of kinds of inappropriate.

The only real appropriate response is, “I just said something that was not good. May I ask how that went wrong?” I train my people like I train my plants. To be clear I do not expect the appropriate response from anyone early in a relationship. Casual acquaintances and folks I know randomly/socially are absolutely going to 100% of the time have an inappropriate response. That’s totally fine. I get that. I am not mad. But whatever inappropriate response results in some level of gentle correction. I evaluate how gentle to be on a case by case basis.

If you laugh at my correction you are now out of the running for ever making it past “yeah I know that guy”. And you know what? I’m not mad about that. Really, it’s ok. I may feel lonely in a lot of ways because I have a lot of touch hunger for the specific people who have the right to touch my body because we are deep enough and close enough in our relationship. The people who have survived hundreds or thousands of little course corrections after inappropriate responses.

When I get word of them having fucked up in their community I figure out what went wrong and I proceed to talk to them about where and how that went off the rails. I am not gentle or kind but I am forgiving. I am just as fucked up as they are and they forgive me too.

I have gotten much better with practice about understanding when and how someone can be my prey.

I am pretty wordy about figuring it out though. Typing is my native language and I have been sitting on everything I’ve thought over the last few years. Necessary time to hibernate and slow down. You have to close some doors in order to open other doors.

When someone tells me that they are desperately holding on to a person in their life because they feel like they are afraid of the pain of the loss I can’t help but think of all the times when creating an empty space in my life lead to me being able to create a different connection that nurtured me deeply but wouldn’t ultimately be as all consuming. Sometimes the person I thought completely lost turns out to be a comet who can show up for chats every few years. Every time I have that happen I say a blessing for Past Me having the wisdom to smile brightly and wish my friend joy as they severed the tie to run off and grow somewhere else.

It’s funny how much this all feels more and more like a cross between gardening metaphors. Oy. That’s yet another detour.

The point, and the reason I haven’t hurried off the dang computer yet is that I know that if I am writing a contract in my head around my behavior and what I should be doing to continue the arc I have been on for quite some time I might have to say pieces of that out loud again. I can’t get to backstory yet but I will. This stretch of writing is a long time coming and most everyone has even told me it is fine if I just use their names. A few asked for pseudonyms and I go with that.

They are each of them a whole fabulous thread of interactions and course corrections and fucking opportunities for growth. Other people don’t need to care about any of this at all. I write it down simply because that is how I learn what I need to learn. I ask myself the question and then I write until I figure out the answer. I’ve made many of my closest friends through writing. We have arguments and debates and always come again and again to the same end result: we each have our own different right answer and it won’t be the same. This is part of how they taught me to think and I miss it deeply.

I miss letting them in.

Finding space for that writing is hard with running and gardening. There’s this whole web to weave. I don’t know how much of it will end up here, probably just most of the slutty or kinky stuff. But I have to start writing again. I am getting off course. As I was told several times yesterday: I am always at my finest when I am saying what I am thinking so that I don’t get cocky or shitty because I would have to admit that too.

I think fuck ups should be very publicly discussed and analysed. I’m not just saying “boundary crossings” or assaults or anything extreme. I find out who is going to end up closer in or farther out on the extended web with every time I talk about them doing something I don’t like.

I’m not talking about a big deal. I’m talking about noticing “Hey, x thing sucks and it isn’t cool”. There is a lot to be learned when people react to that. A whole lot of people will pick up their football and go home and will speak about me with scathing words. Cool. I’m used to that.

But the people who stay all wiggle into the right place for them. It takes time. Seasonal changes sometimes make waves in that group of folks who are around for reasons that might not be so needed anymore. And some of them fade out except for the occasional fond smile or grimace depending on why they faded out.

But the ones who stay. Well, chef’s kiss they are my kind of predators and I am very happy to recognise that my loving them means that I am choosing to do whatever is in my power to help them only go after prey instead of finding victims. I hope not in a codependent way? I really don’t have time for that much involvement with fucking anyone’s life outside of people I live with. Good grief.

I can only ask questions and hope they are the right ones. I can only tell them where they are fucking up and how. I can ask them to consider why they want to do a thing. I absofuckinglutely will do something to deplatform them as much as possible. Fine. Learn how to be a member of a community who is known as someone to keep an eye on. You don’t get to be the leader. You know how you are wanting to go do x, y, and z? How about if instead of you doing that you look around at who could be doing that even better than you can but they need some kind of support to make that happen. Don’t take the stage.

Cause with these specific predators we have agreements between us. I will call you what you are. You will never in your whole life have to worry if I am just sucking up to you. I will tell you what I think without reservation or softening my tone in any way. You get to find out what the inside of my brain instinctively produces in response to you doing that. And we will talk about this until you motherfucking understand how and why you done wrong and how you are fucking going to make amends.

Maybe not in that same city because you fucked up so bad you have to leave. (Ironic that I say that here. To the best of my knowledge I did not leave the bay area because I fucked up and was driven out of any communities. If anyone disagrees with my assessment feel free to comment below.) So maybe my level of intervention is going to be a bit messy and ridiculous. But I know what you are. I know what you have done. And you can have a redemption arc–that’s great. It will require you not doing the same ol’ same ol’. You have to choose to change. You have to figure out what your answers are. Where is the enlightened self interest in your need to change? What should you change to get what you are currently fucking yourself out of in your impulsive dipshit move?

The people who stay are messy and complicated and I hold no illusions about them. As a deeply flawed person I want to be seen and accepted for the totality of myself. And that has involved a lot of agreements about what had to change.

How in the fuck would someone new just know all that bullshit? For fucks sake. That’s ridiculous and unfair.

I know.

I can never really write it all down but it moves the conversation along by so much when I at least try.

So yeah. I suppose this is my personal ad. This is how I have always hunted. My prey is different for so many reasons but if you are patient with me I will be as explicit as I can. You don’t have to come for the whole ride. You are welcome to come in and out whenever you need.

Cause I’m a wordy bitch.

Expectations from slavery x-post

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Sometimes I see what other people want from a slave relationship. From the bottom side it is mostly sex. I didn’t have that much sex as a slave. Really that was part of the problem, I was always sexually frustrated. Instead what I did was clean and cook (I was not very good at cooking then–we are talking tater tots and chicken nuggets) and iron his clothes and lay them out. I cut his hair and finger nails and toe nails. I washed him in the shower. This was not all that sexy cause he wanted in and out. I handled his private life like a personal assistant. I answered emails and planned his social calendar based on how much work I knew he was doing. Most of my job was to be as invisible as possible. He took pictures of me in fetish wear so he could masturbate looking at the pictures. That was his preference for sexual release.

Yeah. It wasn’t the easiest relationship I’ve been in but I absolutely felt secure. It was the first time I really knew what someone else was expecting of me. In many ways it was almost certainly the best relationship I could have had in that phase of growing up. He was 13 years older than me and we met when I was 18. He kept me from doing a lot of very stupid things. I am actually pretty lucky. I mean, sure he broke a bone in my hand and gave me two forms of cancer but no one is perfect.

I see what other people want from slavery and I cock my head to the side a little. If you think what you want is just crazy, wild sex all the time then that is not a relationship with much longevity. Doing that stuff takes a lot out of a person. Those scenes are exhausting and draining. If I had to do all my normal stuff for myself but someone wanted that from me I’d be able to do it once or twice a year because I am fucking tired.

If I had a slave my house would be spotless. I would never wash a dish again. I wouldn’t have to carry all of my own bags of compost and dig my own holes. They would go with me to the bulk hippy store and carry a lot of weight on their bike so I didn’t have to do it all. My laundry would be washed to my preference and folded how I like. (Hey I’ve learned 6 different peoples exacting laundry preference. Laundry is no joke.) I would cook when I felt like it and otherwise food that is to my taste would appear like magic.

If all that happened I would probably have the energy to hurt someone very much 5 or 6 times a year.

Slavery (in my experience of consensual M/s relationship) isn’t something that is about the slave getting to have fun and be sexually serviced all the time. But when people want slavery that’s often most of what they think of.

Instead of being focused on what you want to get out of it, what are you going to give?

I would give someone a sense of purpose and words of affirmation and attention towards the details of their life that were outside my purview. I would push someone to make progress in their studies/work/outside social life. I would help them set targets for meeting people and figure out what kinds of social environments would help them have a well rounded life. I would happily teach them how to cook and clean (but it better not take too many lessons or it is not worth my time). I would teach them about soil biology and why I do what I do in my garden.

I would do my best to build a person up so that at some point they didn’t need me anymore and they could rise up on their wings and fly off to the next stage of their life more confident and happy. But I doubt it would ever turn into me sexually ravishing you for hours and hours every week. That sounds so exhausting and I am already tired.

My first “real scene”.

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So I was 18 and I had just moved out of living with my fiancé. He and I had dated for about 2 years at that point and we were mostly engaged because his Christian relatives were against us shacking up. He wouldn’t let me experiment with shaving my cunt and he didn’t want to do anything kinky and he was 1,000% against hitting me. So I wasn’t particularly sexually satisfied in this relationship. I could time to the minute exactly what three positions he liked to go through for sex–there was no variation. Also almost zero orgasms for me. I woke up one morning and told him that if we get married we will absolutely be divorced by the time I turn 40 so we shouldn’t get married. I moved out about two weeks later.

I was renting a room from an elderly lady who rented out the room because she wanted companionship. The previous tenant was a girl my age in college who was from another country and she had no friends. I was working theatre and out every night whether I had a show or not. During the daytime when I had time to burn I started hanging out on www.match.com. It was there in a stupid truth or dare game that someone asked me what my deepest fantasy was; of course it involved being whipped till I bleed then having someone fuck me nearly unconscious while I am bleeding all over the place.

So of course this dude sends me a private message and asks me if I have ever heard of bdsm. Nope, I hadn’t. He told me to go buy the book SM101. I called every fucking book store in a 30 mile radius before one helpful employee said, “Uhhh I think you should call Leather Masters. I think they are the only place you are going to find that.” So I managed to find Leather Masters and I drove over there. I walked into that store with my eyes as wide as dinner plates and my mouth open in complete horror. I remember shivering and feeling terrified. As I was slowly walking around the store I saw a cabinet with some weird metal things in it. The employee asked if I needed help. I asked him what those metal things were.

They were fucking sounds. He had a great time explaining how to use them. I bought the book and ran out of that store about as fast as I could.

I read the book in one night, masturbating furiously. Not that the book is that exciting but more the growing awareness that there almost certainly were people who would be thrilled to beat me until I bleed and then fuck me while I cry and say no. THAT WAS THE BEST NIGHT EVER. I kept talking to the guy from match.com. He told me to go up to the Power Exchange in San Francisco. I asked why and what would happen there and he told me to go find out.

I brought my fucking sister because I was so scared. In retrospect that is hilarious and rather gross given my weird family history. If you don’t know: PE, as the locals refer to it, was a public sex space that had a dungeon in the basement and various other fun tools/equipment for sex. Folks from the scene were very welcome and encouraged in the time when I was going but I understand in the last few years it has gone hard in the swinger direction. If you didn’t have fetish/super sexy clothes on you had to wear a towel. So my sister is there going, “WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF CRAZY PLACE DID YOU BRING ME. WHY AM I HERE?!?!?!?!?! MY HUSBAND* IS GOING TO KILL ME.”

I told the guy from match.com that I wasn’t sure I was up for that. He said that maybe we should take it slow and I should drive down to his house and we could do a scene in private before I dealt with the public stuff. So I did. I drove six hours to get to his house. Because I had read SM101 of course I had a safe call and I called a friend as soon as I arrived at his house and I read off his address, car license plate number, and his drivers license number before I walked into the house. In retrospect I am proud of myself.

We went in and I figured out that he was a lot older than I thought he was, or at least he looked a lot older? Something. He was at least 30 years my senior and possibly more than 40 years. He wanted to start by giving me a bath and shaving my cunt. I went along with it with reservations.

By the time he finished that and was drying me off and trying to get me to the bed I flipped out. “Uhhhhh I gotta go.” I got dressed in lightening speed. It was very late at night so I called an old friend who lived about an hour north of him. I asked if I could crash at her house for the night. She was very confused because she was not my safe call and she had no idea why I’d be in SoCal at that point. When I told her she screamed at me for about two hours about how lucky I was that I wasn’t dead. I drove home the next day.

Then I went to Hot Topic and bought slutty goth clothes and I went back to PE the next weekend by myself. I ended up fucking one of the employees in the laundry room. Linc was his name. Dad (@Slydexia) yelled at me to come inside the cage because he and his friend needed bottoms. I did not enter the cage for him. Instead I played with this incredibly beautiful woman. She flogged the shit out of me and told me to come kiss her as a thank you the next day at Dore Alley. I absolutely did as she directed and had my mind completely blown by the sight of thousands of hot leathermen hurting each other, pissing on each other, fucking each other on the street in San Francisco. How in the fuck was this real life?

The week after that I went to the Santa Cruz munch and met two highly creepy weirdos. Ok, that wasn’t going to work out. (I knew more about them later. My radar was 100% fucking right.) Then I went to the Palo Alto munch that Wednesday. I was invited to a party the next Saturday. I met my Owner and most of the people who would become my Leather family in the course of that first month I was in the scene.

I grew up in that Leather family. It’s not that we always had good times and there were no difficulties. I have worked through more problems with those people than any of my vanilla friends. When one of us fuck up the others are happy to point it out. It has allowed me, no required me to get my shit together in so many different ways.

I don’t want love that is uncritical and unconditional. I am not an infant. I want people to have standards that I must meet. I want people to require that I treat them well enough. I learned it through watching other people do the same.

I feel like my life is very much the result of luck. If I had not met those people when I did there is the very real possibility I wouldn’t be alive. They modeled sobriety. They modeled making calculated risks. They modeled researching risks. They modeled how to set boundaries and hold people to them. They showed me how to be a healthy person.

Well, at least healthier than I had ever known. It’s all relative–right?

Turns out he wasn’t her husband because the marriage ceremony they had while he was in prison wasn’t legal. He never bothered to divorce his first wife.

My safeword is “Long-term trauma’, bitch

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I keep getting comments from complete strangers, which is still slightly surprising to me. I write about myself and I had extensive and varied trauma as a young person. It comes up as I try to figure out how to handle situations in my life as an adult. I function best, as a person who is autistic and has PTSD, by writing out the things that I am having big feelings about rather than trying to talk about these things in real time. My side of the conversation is too big. I like to play in ways that will upset sensitive people. I encourage you to take care of yourself and not read my writing.

Lately we have been having to have the kinds of serious talks that fucked up people need to have before they go wading into the murky morass. Things like: it is ok to harm me if you are doing it on one axis at a time and it isn’t ok to stack traumas because I can’t process my way out of that fast enough to be appropriate with the kids.

My life is still incredibly structured around my ability to be level through my day to day life. I’m homeschooling my kids and I have over a decade to go before I’m done and that requires a high level of emotional regulation from me. (Not debating this choice here.) But this is the rock around which my life is built.

I have a lot of experience with complex trauma. Lucky me? I am a bit of a tight ass and I define trauma in my personal life as circumstances in which my survival has been in question and ongoing issues where my brain is not capable of telling a situation apart from things that might kill me. Being uncomfortable or stressed out is not a trauma in my personal nomenclature. Brains can be difficult. If something was a threat to your survival at a formative time in your life and it continues happening past the point where it can threaten your survival sometimes your brain struggles to turn off the “Oh shit I am going to die” part.

This is relevant because my father liked to tell me that I exist to get men off. I am the product of rape. Like, those fucked up incest stories? That was literally my childhood. He would tell me, from when I was a toddler, that if I am not pleasing there is no point in him continuing to let me be alive. That means that for the rest of my whole life sex is wrapped up in Do I deserve to be alive? Am I going to fail at getting this man off and then he is going to kill me? Or should I kill myself out of shame. That part was a lot less clear.

Noah is getting older. There are biological factors at play that influence when he can come a lot more than I can be the force that decides his orgasm. But if you tell me that I’m not getting you off that I’m just not quite good enough combined with putting your hand on my neck*? That is a singular layer of trauma for me that I can process and internalise and enjoy the mind-fuckery. I know Noah is actually very happy to be married to me and orgasm or not he is absolutely thrilled to fuck me for the rest of his life. He has demonstrated the absolute commitment he has to me not dying–I can deal with that.

But I cannot cope with that if I am already overwhelmingly upset or feeling suicidal for other reasons. This is part of why I cannot play like this if I am not writing. I have to tell you where my brain is so you can make decisions about what is safe.

This is why I don’t play with safewords. It’s not because I’m so bad ass. It’s not because I think someone should read my mind. It’s because either my play is so light that “Hm that’s kinda pinching” is the same as “red” or because I am doing play so intense that “red” isn’t a word I am going to come up with under pressure. I just won’t. My brain isn’t going to go there. I will be unable to use that as a word to help myself.

In the fourth month of our marriage he raped me. I don’t mean we did a rape scene I mean I was hysterically sobbing because I had spent the day talking to CPS about what my sister was doing to her kids and that was an extremely upsetting situation. I was not fucking ok and I felt like I was about to break into a thousand pieces. I have been raped quite a few times in my life. Every other time my brain has coped by freezing. That day with Noah I was completely unhinged and I fought him. I fought him until we were both bleeding. I lost. That had reverberations for years. I was scared of him and I flinched when he tried to touch me. That was before we had children. There was no reason in the world why I should have stayed.

Except I am pretty sure I could not be married to someone if they will not hurt me like that. I am pretty sure I could not maintain interest in a singular person who was not willing to do that to me.

So yeah, we are talking about the role of rape in our life going forward. I am someone who has spent decades teetering on the edge of committing suicide. It is kinda a family tradition: maternal grandmother, father, brother. It’s just there as an option, always.

I am 8 years younger than my father was when he quit. But hey, nobody is going to send me to prison for raping them as a child so I guess I don’t have his good reason to wuss out.

Anyway. When it comes to raping me that’s a topic of some delicacy. We have talked about the fact that what he wants is not a rape scene on a pre-negotiated day… where is the trauma in that? We are discussing ways to upset me/pick a shitty day that isn’t too shitty. As a recent example of oh-god-no: if he had decided to rape me on the day I got the news about Andrew dying I would not have been ok. I would not bounce back from that in a way that would be acceptable for the parameters of my life. The absolute best case scenario is I would get out of bed 10 or so months later and be maybe ok with trying to avoid dying.

So strategy is important.

But like, I’ve started running again. I haven’t paid the fee yet but right now I’m thinking my self-masochistic act of physical pain for my birthday this year is running another marathon. If he were, say, to wait until I am tired and focused and all I want to be thinking about is the race to absolutely insist and piss me off and hurt me so that I have to feel that while I’m running?

Oh yeah I could still behave how I am supposed to behave in my day to day life. That is a reminder that my body isn’t mine. I have accepted that I like having times when my inconsiderate asshole of a husband lets me feel pain and additional physical burden outside of my usual standard chronic pain because I’m a lucky whore.

I know that there are a lot of feminists who would be extremely unhappy about the fact that I need my marriage to involve explicit sexual violence as the trade for my comfy rich bitch life. I would say that I am a lady of leisure if I ever stopped working. The working won’t stop because it is ingrained into my bones that you work until you die and that rest is for other people. But mixed in with that is constant gratitude that I get to choose my work and I get to choose the scale of my projects with almost no limitations.

Hi newish people. I grew up in really deep poverty. I didn’t have a “permanent address” until I got married. I moved every few months–more than 50 times before I was 18 and then 9 more times in the 7 years of being an adult before I got married. I went through more than a dozen different foster homes and when I was with my mom things were often bad enough that I stole food in order to eat. I mostly crawled out of that poverty thanks to a dog bite settlement. It’s why I am fervently in favour of universal basic income. My lawyer set me up so that the settlement could pay for college. Without it I would not have gone; there was no chance.

So marrying a trust fund baby has been weird. It wasn’t a big trustfund by such standards but he was able to buy a house in his mid 20’s in California in an intense housing market. He was able to go to a good school without loans and he has had a really blessed career in tech.

I get to do what I want. I get to focus on what I want. He lets me control a lot of pieces of our life and I get to decide how money is spent and how it is saved and invested. It blows my tiny little mind that I do the things I do on a daily basis. I was not fucking trained for this shit. I feel wildly out of my depth. I feel incompetent in the extreme even as according to all metrics that can be validated by outside professional sources I am doing extremely well. It feels like a farce. It feels like the house of cards will collapse at any minute.

Now that’s kinda a loophole you can drive a truck through. Because that’s not existentialist trauma. Fucking with me around those insecurities? Oh yeah, that’ll be fine.

Fucking me when I’m sick and I feel terrible and I am not going to enjoy any bit of it at all? I mean… not like cancer sick–don’t be ridiculous. (I’ve already had cancer twice so it’s a reasonable part of the conversation.) But a bad cold? The flu? Oh sure. Mock the fuck out of me. Great time to shove my face in a pillow so you don’t catch anything.

I have heard from other people with PMDD that they too have times of the month, every month, when they don’t have any interest in sex and it is very repellant. For the past almost decade and a half of having small children it’s been very questionable fucking with me when I’m on the low end of that cycle. I’m less stable if you do and the level of stable I have needed has been pretty difficult for me. I am not naturally a stable person. I have no useful training in stability.

Things are changing. I don’t have super little kids anymore. I have support in the day for me to duck in and out for a few minutes so I can take breaks and have time alone in my brain–I have literally never had this like it is now before we moved to Scotland. The way our life is set up now feels like an utter fucking miracle. This is beyond my wildest dreams.

Noah is nervous that this is a short uptick and it won’t continue. That’s a reasonable worry. The little kids part of our life has been hard on both of us. It has been hard to trust that there is a far side that will be fun. (If you do not feel in your bones that you must have children or your life will be incomplete don’t fucking do it. This shit is exhausting and frustrating and steals all your fucking time.)

The thing is: I have been in the bdsm community looking for people to do mean things to me from as soon as it was legal. I was desperately masturbating thinking about it and hurting myself before that. I think that being at a low ebb while I am going through the intensity of early parenting is reasonable. I’m just been fucking surviving. I don’t think that having kids is going to turn me vanilla in the long run of my life. I like it when people are crying way too much. I don’t care if it is me or someone else–if we are fucking someone should be crying. And bleeding at the same time is even better.

I miss you D. I will love you forever and I wish you only happiness.

Just like the growing tightness in my legs feels like carving off a layer of shell I don’t need anymore–a return to who I have been. My legs feel like I have been running. My legs feel like I have been bouncing up and down like I am dancing. I miss dancing so much. I used to dance 5 nights a week doing a wide variety of styles–most of which were extremely energetic. I’d go running at lunchtime.

I want that back. I tried to start running not long after we moved but I think it was too close to the more recent cancer and the house repair has been really demanding. I’m just to the point where it feels like I can.

I feel like that with sex. I feel like that with needing Noah to hurt me. I think there were reasons I could never walk away from the scene. I think there are reasons I started making friends before I was even playing again. I am a shark and I like swimming near other scary creatures.

Also: fucking terrified of the ocean. I am completely convinced I am going to be eaten in the ocean. It is not rational. FUCK MY OLDER SIBLINGS.

Anyway. I think I have followed this train of thought far enough. mwah

= Don’t even come for me about breath play. I didn’t say he choked me. He can’t choke me. I have had a significant number of brain injuries and I am at high risk for stroke. He is deeply invested in keeping me for a long time and that means I can’t be choked anymore. I miss it.

Just keep swimming

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Last night Noah was being a sensitive new age guy and he checked in if the current level of increase in meanness/friction on my cunt is a problem. He said he knows it is a lot compared to what had been happening and he just wants to make sure I’m ok.

I said, “Well I did tell you I’d be ok with you fucking me pretty much whenever and I’m still mostly initiating all of our sex. So mostly I’m thinking that you aren’t fucking me enough…. loser.” (We are having sex pretty much every day lately.)

He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Well! Ok then!” Then he ripped his pajamas off real fast and started poking at my clothes. So I undressed and we, like the fully mature people we are, proceeded to spend about 40 minutes rolling back and forth naked telling stupid jokes and not getting around to having sex.

Finally I said, “This is my downfall. I am too funny. You can’t bear the seriousness of fucking someone as funny as me–it might ruin the mood.”

Really it just felt like we were young again and we had all the time in the world to just enjoy being naked together and of course eventually we will get around to sex.. it’s inevitable. Also inevitable: when we did it was of course very fucked up roleplay about how to manipulate a child into not having the right vocabulary for even reporting sexual abuse. After all, he is just having me pray every night and giving me a relaxing massage.

I met Noah when he was 26, we spent his 27th birthday together. I was 22 when we met. On one hand I felt so very worldly when we met but now I look back on it and I giggle. What does it mean to be worldly anyway? I was in such a rush to gain “experience” as if that would somehow make my life better. In some ways it was a good thing.

I have friends who settled down permanently with the first or second person they ever dated or had sex with. Most of them have told me that they have mixed feelings about the fact that they have little or no sexual experience outside of this primary relationship. They feel like they don’t know as much about what they do or don’t like.

I’m sure there are people who are completely content with their one lifetime partner, but those folks don’t talk to me about it.

I have never had a moment of pause where I have thought “Oh no if only I had more experience with other people.” Sometimes I miss the hunt because I was good at it and it was fun, but that’s not the same thing. Really I’m not even sure if I would hunt the same way going forward in any case. My life is so different and the Jenga tower is somewhat precarious. I don’t have much time to give anyone and the community in Scotland is so small that hunting with my normal voraciousness would very quickly create a challenging situation. Even if you are being honest and up front, not as many people are happy to be part of a truly extensive network as you think.

It’s a rare person who appreciates the sort of woman who can cheerfully pick up 8 new partners in a weekend. Daddy James you are always and forever the best first date of my whole life. I love you so much.

When you are fucking a lot of people you find out very intimately about peoples’ prejudices. I firmly believe that anyone gets to dislike whatever they want. Depending on how you say that people often assume that you end up on the side of disliking something they are on and they freely explain in great detail.

I asked about whether the older people I know remember a time when things were less judgmental because I saw a comment on a buddy’s post from someone I don’t know (who is ironically, younger than me) who said that they are old enough to remember a time when people in the community didn’t judge and they accepted everyone.

People judge whores. People judge women who use the word whore for themself in complicated ways. I remain grateful for the sex workers in my life who were close friends when I was working through some of my really intense trauma who told me that whatever associations other people have with that word are not my problem. My experiences are mine and no one can take them away from me or say that I am not allowed to experience the world as I am. It’s really weird that my biological father gave me that gift. Apparently whore is a title that a man is allowed to gift to a small child and she can keep it absolutely forever no matter what anyone else thinks.

I think about the judgment that people pass because despite the press releases that the bdsm community likes to put out about how people in the bdsm community tend to have slightly higher than average EQ and they are not significantly more traumatized than the normal population…

I am a traumatized motherfucker. Much of what drives me to seek out predatory and vicious partners is not some abstract “I was born this way”; I was shaped by a monster. When I was young and in the scene I would occasionally hear outlandish stories about how the younger you were when you started being inculcated into “slave life” the better you will be for the rest of your life. There was a woman who claimed her family sold her into a bdsm slave family at 14. This was treated like a hot/good thing?

Yet in reality if the core of your sexuality is formed around extreme trauma and abuse and, frankly, brainwashing you make people fucking uncomfortable. The average person (even in the scene) you want to go play with and fuck is not able to handle even being too aware of the extent of extreme abuse that people like me live through. Because yeah I do want you to act that out with me. Yeah. I do want you to be that fucking evil.

My biological father held a gun to my head while raping me. If Noah wanted to do that we would have to do the scene on top of a Princess and the Pea pile of towels to catch the river of squirting I would do.

Because to be clear if you do to me what I like having done to me… you are going to have to sit real hard with the idea of whether or not you are a bad person. You are going to have to be ok doing fucked up shit to someone who has a documented police record of having incredibly fucked up shit done to them. You have to face it head on. You have to embrace it and really own it and be ok with the fact that other people are absolutely going to judge the fuck out of you if they find out what you do.

I am trickling out stories, yo. I know I have a new audience and I know that is pressure. I know that the Scottish people will get to know what I put out there in writing far faster than they will get to know me in person because I don’t leave the house that often. Nobody sees me week after week at a munch to get used to me slowly over time. I am going to be very much on the fringe for a long time, perhaps forever. Will I ever play publicly here? I don’t know.

I don’t particularly enjoy playing in the safe zone that I used to specifically inhabit in public play spaces. Well, I enjoyed it a lot more in the past but I don’t think I could get back to that headspace. I want to play for me now, not for advertising for the maximum number of potential partners. And I am fucked up.

I watch the age players defend that it isn’t about sex. Oh. Well sometimes it is. And sometimes it is about specifically degrading a little and making it very bad for them.

I watch pet play folks get upset about people bringing up bestiality. Oh. Well… I don’t think I could cross the line with an actual animal for all kinds of very good reasons but the stories are fucking hot. Roleplaying it? Fuck yeah. The more humiliating and disgusting the better.

Rand went down a list of things that most people would reject and it was a challenge for me to find a true hard limit on any of it. Much of it I want to be verbal/roleplay–there are no actual children involved in my sex life and there hasn’t been since I was the child and there never will be again.

I remember saying, “No children, no animals, no dead people other than that let’s talk.” But really if you want to roleplay any of those scenarios… ok.

I don’t find bodies off putting. I don’t find bodily functions to be deal breakers. I don’t have many limits or reasons I will tell someone to stop something in the abstract. There are days when I can’t do a certain thing for a transient reason and there are tons of obstacles to my having space and safety for most of them but that’s not the same thing.

When people get very upset about wanting to get rid of all predators in the scene I can’t help but wonder… but do you really want to? If you do then who are people like me going to play with?

Neither Noah nor I would be as good at crossing social more lines and being degrading and violent and vile as we are if we had never gone too far.

I always say that you learn more from mistakes than you do from always doing things right. I have made a lot of mistakes. A tremendous number of mistakes. I am sure that there are at least a couple of people who think of me and feel really bad sometimes. I know Noah has at least one woman who saw him in her nightmares. She came to me to process it because that is exactly the sort of thing that someone would do, right? I told her that I would support her in any way I could. She was entitled to say or do anything she needed to do to communicate to Noah how badly he fucked up. If she wanted him to pay for her therapy that would be completely legitimate. She wrote some very intense letters. I read them with Noah because he needed to understand fully how he fucked up. I am still friends with her and she says things are much better now. She’s happy.

You learn more from mistakes than you do from always doing it right. I know how badly I can hurt someone. Noah knows how badly he can hurt someone. Hell, he knows how badly he can hurt me. He fucked up really badly in the first six months of being married by the choice of when to rape me. It caused an extra layer of trauma that had to be unpacked.

Do you know how hard it makes me come when he hurts me and tells me that he is so glad that he gets to rape me decade after decade? It is literally completely fucked up. This is vanilla-land “You should run, not walk away from this man.”

Instead I am no longer allowed to say “Jesus Christ” because the only God I am allowed to worship is Noah so it has to be his name I say.

“The difference is consent” except when there is no consent and sometimes that is far better.

“We evaluate the risks to make safe choices” except when we totally fucking don’t and we flail and we hurt people and we traumatize them and then we put our finger on that trauma and push down a little harder because the bruise was starting to fade and we can’t have that.

I don’t do safe things. I do things that any reasonable therapist would tell me is a bad fucking idea and I am totally risking cracking my psyche wide open. Yes. The best orgasms live there.

Bdsm is not therapy. Bdsm is a place where fucked up people can do very fucked up things. I treat the bdsm community like the sea and I am a shark looking for a bigger shark. When I encountered stingrays and eels and angler fish I wished them well and kept looking until I found someone who could appreciate the kind of fucked up I am. Someone with just enough training in mental health to be able to properly enjoy fucking with someone who is as damaged as I am. I found a megalodon; just think of all the nice people I am keeping safe by keeping him off the market.

Noah didn’t pick someone who compulsively cannot say no to sex even when I really should because of physical damage by accident. He is a fucked up person. I mean that in the very best of ways. He is brilliant and he can hold many contradictory truths in his mind at the same time. He deeply respects me and he wants me to be a big person in the world taking up space. He is the reason I have most of the self confidence I have to just go do whatever I want. I used to doubt myself so much. I don’t have time anymore. He also wants to hurt me emotionally in ways I won’t shake off. He wants to specifically drill down on damage created by my father.

I can’t wait until he can go back to cutting on me.

In many ways it is much better for everyone that Noah put the choke chain on me. Scotland is a small sea and we are very big sharks.

Running in parallel

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I don’t understand the connection between wanting to have sex and writing. I see the connection between writing and medicating way more clearly. It is fascinating feeling like I have my brain back after 3 years of not feeling connected to myself in this way. This narration feels like more of my true self than any amount of being in a room with me can reveal because I will always do my best to mislead you in person.

I know the difference between being allowed to write what I am thinking and feeling and being allowed to act out how I am feeling or what I am thinking. The world doesn’t care how I feel it cares how I act. But I care what I feel. If you want to have the ability to crawl around in my head and fuck with me then you must care. I could just write to Noah, if I were actually more afraid of the consequences I would probably do that. I am getting comfortable and I’m not sure if that is good or not.

It is weird to me that I now live in a country where well actually the police might care what kind of consensual sex I have with my spouse. There are rules here that were not part of the background noise of being a Californian. I am unlikely to change enough to really be what they wish I was. The thing is, if neither I nor my husband ever complain then nobody actually knows what we are doing to one another so it’s kind of a moot point.

Side note: IT IS NOT A MUTE POINT. NOT EVER. FUCKING FORUM PEOPLE.

I do find that I am putting the more explicit stuff over on that site because it feels a little less like courting danger. I just want to gain citizenship so I can sit over here and garden and mind my business. La la la.

But I can’t. I have literally had my blog used against me in a legal mediation already. I was not a reliable witness about the things that were happening with my roof because of the swinger parties I went to. Super charming. If that, if the threat of getting in even more trouble isn’t enough to shut me up is that pathological?

I believe with my whole heart that I am not doing anything wrong. I am enjoying my sex life with my legal spouse. Hell, I’m not even poly. I do believe I should have the right to sit over here with my pot and my husband and my kids doing our weird things. Obviously the kids are not involved in the sex weirdness. And that is the point. I have a very strict filter between which people are allowed to see what and when. I mean, my children could find my blog–they know it exists. It’s my legal damn name… I’m not being secretive. I have told my children over and over since they were small children that once they read my blog they can’t unknow the things about me that they will learn and I’m pretty sure it will freak them out. Given the questions that I will answer simply and directly my children are smart enough to know that when I say, “Are you sure you want to know that” that they probably don’t.

I will off-handedly give answers that make them want to rinse their ears out with bleach. If I suggest you don’t want to know something… I’m probably not being over cautious. I am not over cautious about generic information that might influence their lives in some way going forward. I believe in boundaries and privacy. I don’t have secrets because if I will spew them on the public internet it doesn’t count as a secret. I have things that I do not tell all people in all settings. Do you understand how much time and money I spent on therapy to learn how to compartmentalise like this? Decades. Personally I have paid many tens of thousands of dollars for therapy and the state of California has probably paid at least a quarter of a million if you count the times I was in institutions.

My children do not overlap with my sex life.

For some reason I still absolutely compulsively need to write about it. This is the exhibitionist part. I think that is something I dramatically underrated about my life in the bay. A lot of what I did in the bdsm and kink communities was massively spurred on by the fact that people were watching. From when I was 18, from the second time I went to the Power Exchange the energetic interaction with the crowd was absolutely integral to the experience of being kinky.

And yet when I went to Sydney I felt really weird about the fact that the only public play spaces were performance spaces on stage in front of a dance club. That felt different for some reason? Why didn’t it just feel like BaGG? People there referred to their play as performance. At the munch I was asked, “How long have you been performing” and I twitched.

Now it seems to me like the difference between “nae bother” and “all good” and “it’s no trouble”. They are just different colloquialisms. I mean, there are nuances of difference between play and perform but most of them are about structural differences in the locations. People moving between the two locations will mostly seamlessly move between the slight differences in behavior.

When I was younger there was this really sharp divide between sex and bdsm with a lot of my friends. My friends were people who liked public bdsm spaces (I’m including house parties) and most of them do not allow sex either through explicit rules or implicit culture. Having sex is mostly off screen. Although, how do you define sex, right?

It’s all muddy in my head right now. It’s like a dam bursting and things are coming through all at once instead of in a neat stream. I don’t think I like the lisdexamfetamine. I have not been able to access this many streams of thought at once since I have been on it. I mean, I think it is useful. If my new provider (I was switched people and I meet the new one in 2 weeks) is ok with me having a much lower dose and using it as needed then I think it would have a ton of utility. But not all day and not every day. It makes me hate sex. It makes me not want to write. It makes me feel flat emotionally and unable to orgasm. I can work like a demon but that’s not all good.

I can feel in my body how I acted when my big kids were small when I use cannabis. It literally feels like my entire body relaxes and I can access all of the lanes of the superhighway that is my brain to track being a patient mother and a creative teacher and a considerate friend and a person dedicated to fitness and a person who is drawn to eating the foods that actually best fuel physical activity instead of numbing emotional and physical pain and a filthy fucking whore.

More than one thing can be true. I have nothing to be ashamed of so why should I act like what I am doing should be a secret? There is a difference between secrets and boundaries and privacy.

I am talking in circles this morning. I can feel that spiral thing happening but I don’t have time to explore it. Breakfast will be on the table in 10 minutes because that is what Noah does. He does it because I asked him to. I owe him the respect of showing up on time.

Energetic adjustment

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Thanks T! This all because of you. 😘

So my boss at work, Rob, is this serious dick. He gets angry when I take initiate on projects in a way he wouldn’t and he undermines me constantly with my subordinates. I snapped in a meeting and told him that he can go fuck himself so he told me that if I want to come back to work on Monday I need to find a way to relax and not be such a bitch. He even knows a massage therapist–apparently going and getting a massage is now a job requirement. The company will even pay for it.

At first it seemed like a normal massage. We were chatting a little about how “everyone needs to learn their place” and how part of that is every person learning what they are best at providing. It seemed like general woo woo shit. He started on my back and he did a decent job. He asked me questions about myself and my personality. It was nice the way he alternated between penetrating questions and penetrating fingers followed by longer soothing strokes. It started getting a little weird after he asked me to roll over on my back and he pulled the cover sheet down all the way to my knees.

Then I noticed that he had no clothes on. What the fuck? He said he was Esalen trained and he needed to be able to “fully access my energy”. That’s some weird shit. Whatever, but then he started getting a little fresh. I told him to stop. I told him that I was married. He said, “Well, you want to keep your job, right? And you do need an energetic adjustment” then he grabbed my head and shoved his cock in my mouth.

I can’t help but get enthusiastic when a cock is in my mouth and he took that moment to simultaneously shove his fingers in my cunt and pinch my nipple really hard. He told me to come and I couldn’t stop the orgasm from rolling through me. He said he thought I was going to be that kind of girl.

Apparently my boss has a type. He hires girls based on them being mouthy and aggressive but what he really wants is someone who knows that the most important thing she should do when she is called into the bosses office is crawl under his desk and start sucking his cock. He doesn’t actually want to discuss what I should be doing–I’m supposed to get the work done. The reason he is so angry with me is because I am not using my one on one time right–I keep making him talk about how I am doing my job and he really doesn’t care.

What he cares about is that I am not yet getting on my knees to thank him for employing me.

Apparently Dave here trains the girls.

He yanked his cock out of my mouth while I was still shivering from the orgasm and he asked me how I was feeling about my place. I asked him how he was feeling about being a rapist.

He laughed and crawled up on the table to thrust his cock into my cunt. He said he feels great about being a rapist. He told me to come again and I did. He leaned on my chest with his forearm and pinched my nipple savagely and said, “And again” and I couldn’t help it.

He pulled out and sat up on his knees and he asked me if I knew my place yet. I told him to fuck off. He started slapping my pussy really hard. I couldn’t help it, I begged him to let me come and he said yes and I could feel the squirting. He looked at his wet hand and grinned and asked me if I was having a good time yet. I could barely squeak out an “uh huh”. He got up then and I wondered if it was over.

No he was off to get his camera and he took a variety of pictures that could end my marriage or potentially make it so I can’t keep my job.

Fuck.

He told me that he knows that I like to say no first before someone uses my pussy because that is my way of flirting–I probably learned it from my daddy. After all, Rob does have a type. I asked him how he knows about my Daddy and he laughed.

He set the camera down and climbed back up between my spread thighs. He kneeled and started slapping my breasts really hard. Of course this made me arch my cunt up really hard as the pressure started building. I had to beg him again to let me come. He shoved his cock into my cunt before saying yes so that he could feel it happen.

He leaned back and pulled my feet up onto his chest so he could press into me much more deeply. He started explaining that what happens next is up to me. I need this job. I can either keep the job and do what is required of me or I can quit. That will mean having to learn exactly how to sexually service Rob without him ever having to say a single word that could incriminate him in court or I can come back to Dave over and over for training. He grabbed my nipple and twisted it so hard it felt like it might come off and said, “I warn you that the training will get much more severe if you don’t learn quickly.” That made me come again, which was truly mortifying because I had to beg him for permission to come. He laughed and taunted me for a minute with brutal thrusts deep into my cunt before saying yes.

Sometimes I wish my Daddy hadn’t been so good at training me that I am not allowed to have an orgasm unless someone gives me permission. I can’t give myself permission. My body just won’t allow me to have that release. I suppose I should just feel grateful that Dave was happy about this surprise part of breaking in a new toy. It’s never good when someone says no and no and no and I have to ride that edge of agony. I imagine that much more severe training would involve a lot more of him saying no.

Oh no.

After that he laughed softly and pulled out. He spun lower half of my body around and started spanking me. I couldn’t stay quiet and I couldn’t stop the dripping from my cunt. It was so good. He talked a lot about how I had been raised right in some ways and not in others. I understood that it was my job to pretend I get to have boundaries because it is really hot when I spread my legs and accept the inevitable rape like the willing whore that I am. He said that my daddy had missed a few crucial points though. Whores are allowed to backtalk their daddies but never their bosses. Not if we want to stay employed. If we want to keep that job we need to open our holes and say thank you and work hard to never need our boss commenting on our actual job roles. I will know I am a good employee when I am so full of come that my boss never has time to discuss my actual job responsibilities. Rob got to use all of his time in exactly the right way and that is the true goal of my job: to please Rob and allow him to do exactly what he wants, when he wants.

I said yes, yes. I will do whatever I have to do. I will do whatever you want. I want to be your whore. I want to be Rob’s whore.

He got off the table again and took more photographs of me splayed out lewdly. He put his cock right up next to my face and took another photograph of me sticking out my tongue just to lick the tip. Then he told me that in addition to the photographs he has also been making an audio recording. He said it is really easy for him to edit it to remove the part about rape and make this whole thing sound like something I set up for myself.

He said he’d love to see my husband’s face when he heard me gasping that I want to be his whore and begging him to let me come.

Then he pulled a vibrator out of a drawer and started using it on my pussy while he went back to alternating slapping my breasts with twisting my nipple and telling me to come. He asked me if I felt like my energy was adequately adjusted. Before I could catch my breath to answer he told me to come again.

I am not sure I have ever come so hard in my life. Every muscle in my left leg from the hip to the toe locked in an agonizing cramp from the intensity of the orgasm.

He pulled back and grinned at me. He looked pretty amused by my involuntary full body spasms. When I had almost caught my breath again he started to move towards me again.

I gasped as loud as I could, “Yes! Yes! I am adjusted!!! I AM ADJUSTED!!!”

He smiled and turned the vibrator off. “Right. You can put your clothes back on. I’ll see you again–next week at the same time work for you?”

I could barely manage a nod before he slapped my pussy one last time before walking out of the room.

I don’t know what I am going to tell my husband.

(PS, I’m using “Behavior Modification” because apparently you can’t tag with rape? How very odd.)

Like a monster uncurling from hibernation

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For most of the time I have had children my sex drive has been utterly wrecked. I have no way of knowing how much is purely biological (for much of history it’s been “normal” for carrying parents to have a new child approximately every four years) as I have started pulling out of the dip when my body is around 4.5 years postpartum both times. Of course I do have a smaller gap in between my oldest kids, but that wasn’t about “whoops I’m pregnant because I was just having sex I wanted”. Naw. Despite my outrageous whoring around I have only ever been pregnant when I intended. I consider myself both A) a stringent user of birth control and B) a completely lucky bitch. [I tell my kids: if you are not ready to be a parent each person participating in sex needs to have birth control in use every single time.] I mean, let’s be real that I was stupid a few times and I just got lucky. But it was a very few times out of a really lot of times of being stringent.

Anyway. Yeah. I think there is a lot of basic biology. Did you know that your body is not 100% postpartum for four years because it takes that long for all of your organs to fully get back into a non-pregnant state? Fucking wild.

There was also a really strong emotional aversion when I was newly a parent that I don’t think was just part of the biological. It took a long time to unpack all of my trauma around sex in a house with children. That was really hard for him and me and getting through it just about wrecked us. I really struggled with it being ok to be touched in any kind of romantic way if a child I was responsible for was even in earshot. I was too deep in abreaction to find any kind of enjoyment there.

So as I was saying I seem to be in an uptick, by which I mean occasionally Noah is all “Yeah….. I literally can’t more.” I feel victorious. It’s reminding me of all the reasons that Noah is my person even though we still have challenges. His cock is fucking amazing. Like, he has the Baby Bear of cocks. Just big enough to hurt when we want it to but it doesn’t have to hurt. Fits nicely in all of the places. Incredible stamina for someone who has been in an almost complete drought for about five years.

Not to mention that he knows exactly how to be mean to me. When we started dating I told him I was looking for an abusive relationship with an on/off switch. He has been really freaking careful to stay in the off position for a long time.

He knows how to dance around my trauma like he is doing a polka on the head of a pin. He trusts me as an authority on a great many topics and he is openly deferential. He also fucks me raw and calls me every filthy name and he loves seeing me cry. He doesn’t use just any filthy names. He knows exactly which parts of my historical trauma will get me off instantly and which parts will get me off the bed and into the bathroom to curl into a ball and sob.

It’s not an adventure until someone is crying!

He knows me at my core in a way no person ever has or ever will. He has spelunked into every twisted corner of my deeply depraved brain. When I no longer have small children hopping into the shower with me on the regular he will go back to carving on me. The absolute hottest sex is the kind where one or both of you is dripping blood onto one another. Taking my blood and wiping it on his cock before putting it inside me is the best fucking feeling. And the taste! chef’s kiss Perfect.

Strange that I don’t like period sex. The friction is just utterly terrible and I end up with jagged awful tearing. Thanks you piece of shit motherfucker who wrecked my cunt before I could even go to fucking primary school. May your name be forgotten.

Anyway, Noah. He has studied me like I am his PhD topic. As my memory degrades he often remembers my stories better than I do. I only believe him when I wrote it down somewhere and I can go check. It was very useful that I wrote so many things down. He has read my entire archive I think 6 times? It isn’t obvious here on Fetlife but I used to blog a lot, including about my kink adventures. My whole archive is in the millions of words. The word count massively went up as I went through college. I can write a 20 page paper (including putting together all the bibliographical information) in about 10 hours once I’ve done the research. I had some stretches where I hit over 100,000 words in my blog in a couple of weeks.

And now my hands are shit. Whoops.

What I like about writing is that it allows me to think through my priorities and go back and forth dithering about what matters.

Noah has supported just about every crazy thing I have ever done. He is the reason I have written books and painted giant murals and created hundreds of square feet of tile mosaics inch by inch. Noah has kissed me goodbye cheerfully every single time I have wanted to run off and have an adventure, whether it was for a few days or weeks or half a year. He holds down the fort and makes sure that things in the house keep going the way I prefer more or less entirely because deferring to my preferences is so automatic at this point.

I met him almost 19 years ago. He was the first person who said, “What happened to you that made you end up like this?” He is the reason I have any coherency in my internal narrative, because he is always my assumed Primary Reader.

He wants to read all of it. No matter how cruel or angry or bitter or nasty I am being. If I keep a separation between my thoughts and my behavior he is happy, and even prefers, to know all the shitty thoughts. My thoughts do not define me; my behavior does. He wants to know how many shitty thoughts I have on the way to manifesting the behavior I do. I haven’t been telling him lately for a whole lot of reasons.

There is this thing about kink. I cannot be a closed box and do this in a healthy way. I tried having an M/s relationship that did not allow for navigating around my trauma. That went pretty poorly and while he was absolutely the best/most healthy relationship of my life at that point I have some deep sadness about some of the permanent harms he caused my body.

So if I want to do this, if I want to let the monster out and fight and lose and hurt and still be ok at the end of it I have to start writing again. He has to know what I am holding on to control of by tip of my fingernails. Following my brain is like trying to binge a new Netflix series every day for a month. It’s really hard to keep all the storylines straight.

He will do it. He will draw fucking diagrams if he has to. He thinks I am worth it. I see the overwhelming magnitude of work he puts into being in a relationship with me. His online organising system is kind of terrifying and he archives everything. He manages his own neurodiversity through a rigid knee jerk response to the system he has in place. He has scripted himself. And he manages me like he manages when to go check the oil in the tank.

It’s kind of overwhelming looking at just how much work he has put into me. He has iterations of the recipes he has refined over the years based on feedback because he wants to cook for my palate. I think he even has lists of gifts he has given me for holidays with how I responded. I’m not fucking kidding when I say I am his PhD.

I may miss the hunt but Noah is my heart and my soul and the only happy family I have ever had.

Did I mention his dick is perfect? And when I tell him that I want him to turn on the abusive switch he barely hesitates. I am enjoying life a lot more recently.

Share widely! Giving away porn (San Francisco, maybe Scotland)

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Hey folks, it might be easier to share a post.

A very dear member of the San Francisco community has passed away. I was asked to take care of dispersing books and toys. I am working on a Google Sheet with a list of the books.

https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1vDqzyDpkkNp8jLGcTpRL-hi3ztTLKSRxesC-kyAK18M/edit?usp=sharing

I got started yesterday but I am far from done. Yesterday I processed books as fast as I could and snapped photographs of spines of more. I have added what I could get from the photographs this morning. I will be going back today to fill in the information I couldn’t get from the pictures. I will take more pictures and try to get all of the book data entered by Thursday night.

I will try to make time to meet up with people on Friday, Saturday, and early Sunday. I fly out on Sunday evening. Any books that haven’t been picked up in San Francisco or claimed by Scots for me to bring home will be taken to Half Price Books early on Sunday.

Act fast! I will not be able to deliver books all over the place. We will have to meet in/near San Francisco as I am racing the clock and I don’t have much time for driving all over.

In my next 20 years

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I realized this week that I had passed a major milestone. Sure, I went to Power Exchange and a few munches and Dore Alley in July but it was that second Saturday in August of 2000 that my life in the scene really began. That was where I met the people I consider my respected elders. That was where I made wonderful friends, many of whom I still know to this day. From the people at that party I went on to meet dozens of incredible people.

I am so lucky. I have been embraced and supported through relationships and life changes and growth. I have had my butt kicked and I have learned lessons and I have been given so much love.

I hope that in my next 20 years I can be worthy of the gifts I have been given. I have so much gratitude in my heart for the education I received at the hands of The Middle Aged Guard. At this point my elders are far flung and off doing a lot of different adventures. Some have passed away but their lessons are things I carry with me every day.

You will always live on in my heart. Thank you so much for everything.
With all my love, Krissy

“Risk Aware” Consensual Kink

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I’m having some feelings about how stupid I was as a young person. I consented to things I shouldn’t have consented to. I was coming from a background of really extreme trauma. My normal meter was so fucked up it politely can be described as not existing.

I made stupid choices like staying in a relationship with someone who broke my arm in the first two months. “It was an accident; he didn’t mean it. I can’t hold him responsible for accidents.”

I made stupid choices. Like choosing to fluid bond with someone who refused to get an STD test for years. When I was diagnosed with HPV I totally felt like it was because I was such a slut and I had slept with so many people. I apologized to him profusely for exposing him. His response? “Oh I knew I had warts.”

He. Knew.

But he didn’t bother to tell me. He didn’t think that was information I needed to know. It was “none of my business to know his private medical information.”

So instead I got to have cancer taken off my cervix with a laser at 21. Cheers.

And now, in the gift that keeps on giving I have a malignant melanoma on my back. In layman’s terms: I have fucking cancer again. Do you know what that partner used to do? Give me sun burns on purpose because it was funny to watch me be in pain that I couldn’t get away from.

Two sunburns in a lifetime greatly increase your risk of skin cancer. I chose to allow him to burn me. I was a stupid motherfucker.

So now I’m 38. I have three kids who are 11, 9, and 1 year old. I get to deal with cancer again. I probably need to change everything about how I live my life. I need to be so absolutely religious about skin exposure it isn’t funny. I will need to go in for full body checks for more cancer for the rest of my life. I will need to change my diet to decrease my risk of cancer.

It isn’t that partner’s “fault” for any of this now is it? I chose to take these risks. I will pay the price.

And he will pay nothing.

Goodness, monsters, and shame

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I know that other people view monsters in a solely negative light but I’ve never been good at doing that. Monsters are always creatures with a different point of view. A friend pointed out that perhaps “alien” might be an easier word to use, but I feel like alien and monster are interchangeable. A monster is a creature who is different from you who seems scary. Many monsters don’t hurt anyone at all… but they are scary anyway.

I can’t begin to count how many people have told me that I am scary.

I am amused to read that it is a common thing for autistic people to feel like they “come from a different planet” which fits more in with the word alien than the word monster. (I mention this because I have been diagnosed as autistic not because I am trying to talk about “those people”. I’m reflecting on the similar language used by folks who have the same diagnosis as me.) Only I’ve seen every Aliens movie and I can tell you with authority that those things are monsters.

Are they evil? I don’t think so. They are creatures who are trying to survive and we look like food. That’s not more evil than the bacon I had in my soup tonight.

Before you tell me I should be vegan let me tell you that many health professionals have told me that I absolutely need meat for optimal health given my constellations of issues. Veganism may work great for lots of folks… but not everyone.

Anyway.

So I’ve reached a point in the evolution of my brain where I just can’t see monsters as inherently evil. I see them as creatures with too much strength and too much ability to hurt other creatures without necessarily intending to.

Intent doesn’t matter.

I wrote yesterday that I haven’t done a major boundary violation in many years. By that I mean that I haven’t had someone say “Don’t do x to me” and then I do it. I have broken rules. I have broken agreements about what I might go do with other people. I have hurt people by accidentally doing something that would have been a boundary if we had negotiated. (I’m a clumsy bastard and I absolutely do things unintentionally sometimes.)

If intent doesn’t matter, how do I justify calling some things mistakes and other things violations?

We are all hypocritical bastards.

What I mean is that when I was young I had a few times when someone told me “Don’t do x” and I went and did x as fast as possible. I stopped doing that. It helps me sleep better at night.

But I struggle with whether I ever have the right to decide that my “softer” fuck ups are mistakes instead of monstrous violations that are evidence that I should be shunned from society for the good of people.

I look around the bdsm community and I see a lot of people who have been perceived as dangerous/bad/evil/worthy of shunning. Many of these people are monsters.

Are they worse than me? Are they better than me? What metrics are being used to judge? Why are we being judged–what’s the end goal?

The only part that matters to me in the long run is whether I find a self that is worthy to be a model for my children.

I really don’t give a shit if you like or approve of me. And yet you are my community and I love and value you so much. Many of you have contributed words of wisdom to my inside voice that I replay on a regular basis. So many of you have taught me that just because I’m a monster that doesn’t mean I have to damage people on accident. I can learn to have my damage be inflicted rarely and only with great purpose.

This community is a lot of where I learned to value the darkest and hardest parts of myself. It’s ok that I want to cut people open and lick their blood. There are folks who think that is hotter than the sun. It’s ok that I want to hit people and make them cry. There are folks who have something deep inside them made whole by such a process.

It’s not wrong to be a monster.

But can a monster be good? Do I have to be good to teach my children to do good? Do I want to teach them that they must be good?

Oh bdsm community. Do we want our teachers to be a certain level of good? What is that level? What level of goodness is demanded/expected/required of “community leaders” or educators or presenters?

We talk a lot about consent here. But how much information must be given in advance to qualify as informed consent and how much responsibility do we all bear for our fuck ups?

It’s kind of funny that in the long run of my life, the bdsm fuck ups where someone blatantly hurt me or violated my consent are not the things that weigh me down. (I say this from the hubris of having my biggest injury as a bottom be a broken bone. Broken bones heal.) I worry more about when I damaged someone else. Being a victim is not as big of a driving force to change my behavior as knowing that I have used my strength to do someone else damage.

How do we learn to be powerful and strong and monstrous and good enough?

I know I shouldn’t let the word good be taken away by assholes who want to define it as passive… but this shit is complicated.

Would it really be so bad to be a monster if one can do it without shame and without hurting people extra? Hurting people sometimes is life. But maybe just hold back on the extra?

How much hurting people is tolerable? How much is abuse?

I don’t think you have the answers either. I’m thinking that I’m still at the stage where asking the question is all I can do. The answers will come long after I need them. Like all the most important parts of life.

M/s and marriage

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After 11 years of marriage I feel pretty safe saying that I have a fucked up view of matrimony. I came into this with a fairly historical/chattel perception of marriage. I was brought up to believe that wives don’t get to say no. Wives are fairly disposable/replaceable.

I know I keep coming back to this and it’s annoying but you keep coming back to the shit you had indoctrinated into your head as a kid too. I was told that once you get married it doesn’t matter what you want, you are a whore now. I meshed that pervasive belief in with my issues around not feeling like I am a creature worthy of defense and I spent 10 years not expressing boundaries I should have expressed.

To be fair… I’m not sure my husband was ready to hear my boundaries during a fair number of those years. It’s complicated.

But I’ve been around the bdsm community so long that the idea of a “no limits slave” is just… bullshit. Liar. Idiot. No That’s not ok.

So why am I so ok with the idea that wives don’t get to have limits? It’s about presentation and perceived tolerance levels. I’ve been expecting a kind of marriage that has a firm basis in historical fact.

If you look at slavery around the world it functions very differently in different places. It’s kind of rare for slave owners to treat slaves like they are to be worked to death then replaced. Slaves are expensive. Especially well educated highly skilled slaves… you just don’t treat them like they are expendable because replacing them is costly and takes time.

For some reason wives feel so much easier to replace. I’m here to bear the children and clean the house–right? That’s all I am?

This is why my husband made the first line of our M/s contract that I have to prevent him from damaging me. He’s trying to find a work around for my self-destructive instincts. It’s tricky.

This is a lot of why polyamory is not a good choice for us. I believe that as a wife I am highly replaceable. If you start dating I am going to perceive that as it is time for me to exit stage left so you can move on to a different and better stage of your life.

Because surely anything is better if I am not around.

I don’t have the right to perceive my husband that way. He likes me a lot and he tries as hard as he can to demonstrate that he likes my company and he wants to keep me for as many decades as he can.

It really isn’t fair that he has to work uphill against my belief that anything would be better without me.

I think it is kind of cool that he is trying to find a way to hack a route around the damage in my brain. If I am incapable of perceiving myself as having value as a wife… he’ll call me whatever he has to call me to get me to stay.

M/s, sexual dysfunction, and healing

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When I showed up in the bdsm scene as a fresh shiny 18 year old I was still reeling heavily from my childhood. My primary childhood rapist had been dead for less than two years. He and my brother killed themselves in a 3 month span when I was 16-17. I had been out of my abusive home of origin for less than a year.

I spent a lot of time cutting myself and I liked to burn myself and I hit my head on concrete. I engaged in extremely risky promiscuous sex. I would let almost anyone who asked politely hit me even if I didn’t think they would be safe.

I entered into my first M/s contract when I was 20. My Owner had been my boyfriend/Dominant for a while. My Owner wasn’t what I would call an emotionally supportive guy. He was not up for talking about my trauma or mental illness much. That was supposed to be kept off screen. Mostly he wasn’t even aware of my self harming because he didn’t want to be.

There were a few aspects of our relationship that were really important for my life and development. I think I have most of the executive functioning I have because he trained me. He taught me a lot about following through and executing on plans. He taught me a lot about financial solvency. He taught me about boundaries and agreements and ONLY saying you will do exactly what you will follow up and do.

I believe with all my heart and soul that my relationship with him was my first significant non-abusive relationship. Even though he spent a lot of time hitting me and objectifying me. He did it in ways we talked about very carefully and he absolutely never crossed a stated boundary. He’s a really good guy and I’m going to be grateful for the rest of my life that I got to spend the 4 out of the first 5 years of being an adult with him. I’m in a much better place now than I could have been without him.

What he couldn’t help me with in any way shape or form was my enormous dissociation problem nor my extreme sexual dysfunction. Mostly he didn’t have sex with me much… I think in part because he isn’t all that motivated by sex and in part because he damaged me internally almost every time we had sex (he had an absolutely enormous cock) and I think that was something he felt bad about but we didn’t really talk about it.

Fast forward to now. I’ve been married for 11 years. About a year ago my husband and I decided it was time for us to move forward with the M/s part of our relationship. When my husband asked me to marry him he asked me to be his wife and to be his slave. I told him I could be his wife but neither of us were ready for M/s together and we needed to figure out a bunch of shit together before we did that.

So we waited 10 years. I like to pretend this was us being responsible and trying to get to know one another. In reality it’s more complicated than that.

My husband doesn’t have a lot in common with my former Owner. He’s intensely interested in helping me emotionally process. He has training as a hypnotherapist and I would say that in the past 11 years we have spent hundreds of hours talking about my various psych problems and my history. He’s the only person who has ever been all that interested in me or in why I am so fucked up. He makes me feel seen and valid and important in a way I haven’t ever felt in my whole life. My husband is awesome.

But sex has continued to be complicated. I’m still very damaged internally. My cunt was shredded over and over throughout my life starting when I was a baby. My cunt isn’t in great shape. Two vaginal births have… strangely helped and hurt at the same time. A lot of scar tissue was broken up in the process of delivery. But I almost died because my cunt was not real able to function the way it was supposed to and I hemorrhaged very badly.

For a lot of our marriage we have both tried very hard to make one another happy. We are in what psychologists like to call a “repair marriage” where we both showed up intensely fucked up and we are trying to consciously help one another become healthier, more whole people. Mostly this is going pretty well. Except when it blows up like a fucking wild fire because we are both damaged people and that shit happens.

For many years I have operated under the assumption that my husband married me in large part because I spent my childhood with my parents actively telling me that marriage meant you were a permanent whore and you never got to say no to sex again.

I have a hard time believing anyone would want me for anything else.

But my cunt is uhhhhh damaged. Severely. That damage is a constant problem and it always has been. Sex that is barely too rough can cause significant re-tearing and sometimes bleeding. And I don’t mean rough sex. I mean if I am .00001 ounces too low in moisture for lubrication.

I’ve spent the vast majority of my life with my cunt burning like fire every minute of the day and night. Because I chase sex like my life depends on it. Because what else am I good for?

Last year I hit a wall with my husband where I couldn’t continue to do what I had been doing with him to manage. I don’t do most of the forms of self harm I used to engage in. I don’t cut myself, I don’t burn myself, I stopped beating my head… the only drug I use is pot and that’s with many doctors telling me that I MUST KEEP USING IT. It’s the most effective medication for my complicated array of mental and physical issues. I need medication. It’s not optional.

So I have worked hard on getting rid of most of my dysfunctional coping methods. That’s good! But what do I do now when I feel completely flooded and unable to cope? Well last year I tried to lean more heavily on my excellent dissociation ability and I asked a bunch of my nice friends to hit me and fuck me a bunch. They did. It was fun and I thank y’all for that.

My husband flipped out. That was… not a way he was ok with me coping and we’ve had a rough year since then processing all the damage I did to our relationship. Damage I did in part because I was trying to figure out how to twist myself into pretzels so I could meet needs of his that were hurting me really badly.

Now we’ve had over a year in a row of a lot of screaming matches. It’s been hella festive and hard. Why did we pick this fucking year to be like, “Fine. It’s M/s now or never?”

Because making optimal choices is not my strong suit.

Frankly having the first rule in our M/s contract be that I have to prevent him from damaging me is… quite the head fuck.

It means I am having to talk very explicitly about the extend of the damage I have sustained over 34ish years of harming my cunt. It means that I have to get very loud and aggressive about I CANNOT JUST BE AVAILABLE FOR SEX WHENEVER YOU WANT IT. THAT IS NOT OK.

Because I can’t. I am not physically not emotionally capable of doing that in a way that is even remotely healthy for me.

I have been struggling to carry the amount of pain I feel for my whole life. I have wanted to die for more than 30 years. I try year by year to reduce how much pain I’m in so it is less of a burden, so I can carry it longer. But it’s very hard.

Before some fucking asshole tells me to see a therapist… I’ve been in therapy for 33+ years. I’ve seen more than 35 counselors/psychologists/psychiatrists. I currently have a large and complex medical team who all talk to one another about my shit. My kids are in therapy. We go in and out of marriage counseling. My husband has seen therapists. We see a family therapist. Keep your obvious unhelpful advice to yourself, m’kay?

Suicidality is a coping method. It’s not an ideal one. It sucks. It hurts me and it hurts everyone around me. But I’m coping as absolutely best as I can. My medical team tells me constantly that the amount of progress I have made and continue to make is just about miraculous. People like me usually just die. I’m doing really well for where I started. Even if I do still feel like a festering pile of shit.

My husband wants to keep me for as long as he can. That means helping me figure out how to be ok with being inside this brain and inside this body because that’s the path my life just has to take.

That means we have to figure out how to have sex without hurting me. As a submissive masochist that’s a very hard thing for me to demand. It feels like a very wrong thing to ask for. It feels like I am bad and selfish and cheating him out of what he deserves for putting up with my stupid self.

But I have to change this. No matter how hard it is. Because this right here is a serious problem.

Some day I have to decide that the health of my cunt matters or all the work I’m doing to try and convince my body that I am safe and I should stop the hypervigilance and constant paranoia about who is going to hurt me next is wasted time and energy.

I don’t have so much time and energy that I can afford to waste it at this point. I’m so tired.

Not to mention how fucking expensive this god damn medical care is. I feel like such a waste of resources.

I like to be hit. But there are a lot of limits around what I can bear and still function.

I like sex. But there are a lot of limits around what I can bear and still be functional.

It is very hard to believe I am worth this much consideration and effort.

But he keeps telling me he wants to keep me.

The right point of entry

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I think it is funny how strong everyone’s opinion is about when is the “right time” to enter the bdsm community. Yet another One Twue Way.

To me this is just like a conversation I have with my kids all the time. They tell me they “can’t” do something and I interrupt and say “yet” every time. Maybe you can’t do that yet, but it doesn’t mean you will never do it. Set the stage in your brain for the idea that maybe things will change.

Maybe you entered the scene at the Exact Right Time… for you.

Maybe that is good enough. It doesn’t have to be the universal right time for life. Maybe there isn’t a universal right time.

I’ve heard arguments for why it is better to wait until you are older and more mature. In my head I think “Ahhh because it is better for 30-something, 40-something, 50-something year old people to make the same stupid mistakes I made at 19? Ok. Sure. Whatever.”

Because when you get into the scene… it doesn’t matter how old you are… folks make some mistakes. The size of mistake varies… and the age of the person is not a big factor in that. I’ve seen older people make some really foolish mistakes because they were new and trying their best and they didn’t understand.

I don’t tell them it is because they are old and foolish the way people tell me that my mistakes were because I was young and foolish. But whatever.

I arrived in the scene before I was 19. I’ve had… rather a lot of 30-something year old women go off on me extensively about how I should have waited until my 30’s to enter the scene.

Err, can you please stop projecting your life path onto other people? I am in my 30’s now and I frankly have other things to do with my time than hang out in the bdsm community the way I did in college. I’m busy. I don’t have spare time. I have a lot of responsibility and not a lot of support and there is no way I could have made that life story work out the way it has worked for other people. That doesn’t mean I think it is wrong for people to be on the life curve they are on…

But I’m grateful I spent my college years in the scene learning about boundaries instead of spending them interacting with other college kids who didn’t know shit and who had very little to teach me.

Some of us are maximizing the lessons we can get out of life and that means we want to accelerate the rate at which we learn some lessons.

I will have more spare time in about 10 years. So much for the window of my 30’s.

I’m glad for the people who feel they spent their 20’s maturing and they are “ready” for more when they are in their 30’s or later and they view bdsm as an upgrade. Sure, whatever works for you.

I’m glad for the people who show up at 18 because they need to learn the lessons they are here to learn. The bdsm community has a lot to teach if you get lucky and find the right people. Fantastically who the “right people” are varies tremendously so not everyone is competing for the attention of the same two people. Yay everyone wins.

What I learned in the bdsm community made me a better teacher, a better neighbor, and a better parent. If I had not learned these skills in my late teens or early 20’s I would not be as good of a person as I am now.

I’m glad I said fuck off to all the people who told me to leave the scene and not benefit from these lessons. I would not be where I am and I like the progress I’ve made.

I’m not saying you should have been in the scene at 18 or you are lesser somehow. That’s bullshit. You were on your path and that’s ok. Just stop acting like your path is better, m’kay?

You just keep going

Do the best you can

Tag Archives: bdsm

Thank cheese for a good day

Everything feels raw like a cheese grater has been at me

Do I even serve?

tap tap tap Is this thing on?

You can’t get to yes without risking no.

The gurus

Expectations from slavery x-post

My first “real scene”.

My safeword is “Long-term trauma’, bitch

Just keep swimming

Running in parallel

Energetic adjustment

Like a monster uncurling from hibernation

Share widely! Giving away porn (San Francisco, maybe Scotland)

In my next 20 years

“Risk Aware” Consensual Kink

Goodness, monsters, and shame

M/s and marriage

M/s, sexual dysfunction, and healing

The right point of entry