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But which past behavior?

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I was reading this article about relationships (vanilla/romantic primarily) and one sentence really made me think.

“‘I often end up saying the strongest predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour.’” The author of the article is sharing what his coworker, a clinical psychologist, usually says to people who are stuck and unable to get out of a bad relationship. Not necessarily abusive bad, just unsatisfying/not meeting your needs sorta bad for the most part.

I had to meet a new psychiatric doctor yesterday. I was nervous because meeting new doctors is a crap shoot. Will they be older men who tell me that all of my testable, long-term health problems are all in my head? Naw, it was a young masculine appearing person who looked like they would fit right in at any party I would throw. I instantly felt comfortable. I was meeting him for the purpose of handing over the management of my ADHD and I needed to explain my history with medication, my other assorted neurological/mental health issues, a VERY brief summary of my physical health history, and about a 20 second primer on my history with assault so that I could explain how I came to cannabis in the first place and please for the love of god don’t tell me to go off it.

In the course of this conversation I came upon the challenge of how to explain that I am both consistent and inconsistent. My “past behavior” is all over the map on a variety of different axis. I managed to complete my bachelors and my teaching credential but I failed out of grad school at the very last minute because I just couldn’t do more of what I had been doing. We’ve lost a lot of money over the years because I fuck things up regularly. I fuck up in every relationship. I am incredibly variable in how intense/defensive/aggressive I am and if you come talk to me on the wrong day or at exactly the wrong minute on an otherwise good day I might react like a complete dick. That’s consistent.

What is also consistent is that I show up when people are having an emergency. I help people fix problems. I am gentle when I really need to be. My kids have figured out a trick. If they tell me, “I need to tell you something and I’m scared to because this is the sort of thing you might get mad over. I need you to not get mad.” Then I take a moment to pause every other single thing going on; I fully focus my mind and my energy on being calm and I say, “Ok I am ready to hear it.” Or I say: “I am not capable of listening until x” where x might be a time or the end of a current activity and then we go through the rest of it like normal. Then we fix whatever is going on.

I know that when they say that they are asking me to put myself aside and just be support. I can’t do that 24/7–it will grind me into dust. It is very high cost to put yourself aside like that. I don’t know how therapists do it. Maybe it helps because they usually aren’t having to do that in their personal lives? Dinno.

Anyway, the reason I put this here instead of my blog is because this idea that past behavior is the strongest indicator of future behavior is both useful and problematic. I started dating Noah when we were 22/26. If you were to look at the first four years of our knowing each other you would think that we would still be doing almost exclusively slightly rough penetrative sex and nothing else. That’s not at all what our relationship is like at this point. Neither of us have the physical energy or the time to have sex 2-4 times a day every day. That’s just not something we can manage in our life. Putting that much energy into sex requires you to not put it into other things (children, work, other hobbies) and we just can’t do that anymore. We made commitments. Commitments to be consistent. Oh, shit.

This is something I’m thinking about as I’m trying to learn how to deal with my body in the late-stage motherhood zone I’m in. I may have up to 10 more years until I pass into being a crone (a phase of life I am absolutely ecstatic about getting to because long story I’m not going to write here) and I need to figure out how to manage my body in the meantime.

I have PMDD along with all of my other things. Basically what that means is that I am exquisitely sensitive to every hormonal variation in my body. I think of my menstrual cycle like riding a dragon. There are times when it is wild and bumpy and I hold on to functionality with my fingernails and there are times when it is placid and easy and there are times when it takes every ounce of self control I have not to go get in trouble. I really like getting in trouble, except when I don’t.

A lot of the PMDD extremes were dulled by the postpartum period. It is amazing to me how much difference there is in inhabiting my body when I am not still reeling from the influences of parasites who would have been happy to kill me. Did you know that embryos/fetuses colonize the host body? There is a theory that it happened that way because it is a way for the first fetus to have influence over the future of the parent that will care for them. My body was not real interested in having another baby for most of the last four years. I don’t want another child but right now my body is telling me that the only important thing in the world is getting pregnant. At other times in my life when I did not want a child but my body said, “Hey let’s make a baby” that’s when I would go get into trouble.

You would think this would be a bonanza for Noah. He isn’t in his 20’s anymore and he’s had a lot of years of consciously dampening his sex drive because we just couldn’t do much about it even at the rare times I was even a tiny bit interested. Mostly I wasn’t interested and the idea was appalling.

So which past behavior should we look at to decide what I am going to do in the future? Yeah, that’s tricky shit. I mean, if I look at how Noah was behaving from 26-35 I should think he isn’t capable of getting up every day like clockwork and making breakfast for the family. He wasn’t a regular sleeper/riser at other points in his life. He chose to learn how to do that.

We go through phases. We go through stages. Noah wooed me by telling me that if you can’t look back on yourself 18 months ago and say, “Wow I really sucked” then you aren’t trying hard enough.

So now we have to figure out how to transition into how to ride out the next phase. We can’t run off for weekends together to break rules together to do wildly-inappropriate-for-children activities for hours and hours. We get a three hour date a week in a space that isn’t perfectly soundproof. We can have sex at night before going to sleep knowing that we need to be really really really quiet because you can hear freaking everything through the walls in this house. It’s a real buzzkill when it starts getting good and you hear a knock on the door and, “I need you; I can’t sleep without you.” Sigh. This is not forever.

Don’t have kids unless you believe you will never be ok without them because this shit is a lot.

There are lessons here I need to learn. Lessons about patience and being consistent enough and forgiveness and love and what it looks like to accept that you have to make mistake after mistake after mistake after mistake if you want to get good at something.

I want to learn what it means to be in a happy family, this is my one shot.

So how do I figure out how to manage the part of the dragon ride where all I want is to make decisions other people would view as “bad”. I’m not in that life phase anymore. I can’t go to a Burner party and do drugs with my friends and hunt for interesting prey. I can’t do a lot of things. I get to behave. I get to be a good role model. This shit is boring, y’all. I’m like a zoo animal. I hurt myself when I get bored.

You know how I have 97 projects going at once… most of which I will finish… eventually… I am not a person who stays bored.

But I have to. I have to figure out how to make furtive sex happen. I need to find a way to inspire Noah to continue on this road to queering our sex. Sex is not dependent on a hard cock. There are a lot of reasons that a 40-something dad who hasn’t been having a lot of sex for a decade and a half is not going to be able to get and stay hard for 3-5 hours a day.

It’s not fair to say that what a person has done is the only thing they will ever do. Our sex life once upon a time was tremendously centered around a hard cock and now it isn’t. If I am going to stay out of trouble then our sex life needs to be a much more diverse experience. That’s not a lot of fun when you have to be almost completely silent.

And I was paged for breakfast

Gendered threats

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I’m seeing lots of posts about whether men or women are more intimidating. (I am going to ignore the glaring issue in binary thinking about gender for a short period of time.)

My kids are now old enough to voice opinions. Not too long ago this sort of conversation happened at dinner. My kids said that their dad is more physically intimidating and when he’s angry they feel a level of physical threat they don’t feel when I am angry. Even though I outweigh him and could probably hurt them as much as he could.

Instead they said I inspire existential terror. It’s not that they are afraid I will hit them; they are afraid I will say things that will make them feel absolutely devastated and like they are the worst person to ever exist.

I mean, that’s kind of the thing–right? Mothers build you up or destroy your sense of self. You learn to project that same sort of expectation/bullshit on other women. I definitely do it. There are a number of women in the scene I’ve had intense relationships with and I put them on that pedestal. They didn’t ask for it. Well, one of them did and then her life got complicated and I was never a priority again. Holy shit that hurt. That felt like a stab through the heart that I am still not fucking over. I can’t be friends with her on Facebook because she talks about her daughter and them spending time together and I feel like I want to die.

But I worry that men might hit me. I worry that men might sexually assault me. I worry that men might rape me.

Both fears seem pretty valid to me.

It’s not about you

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We have played around with hypnosis a couple of times recently. The first time the induction was, in my experience as a bottom to this type of play, not particularly deep given how long it has been since we have played with going under. Given that most of the verbal dialogue was along the line of how we had been playing anyway it made stuff a little more intense but it didn’t feel like being hypnotised

I told him I thought we needed a more intense induction the next time because I didn’t really go down. So a couple of nights later we got to talking about how we were feeling and he mentioned that he kind of misses what we used to do with taking sleeping pills. I said I’d be happy to grab 2 pills and head to bed immediately. I suggested that the going to sleep part might be a good time to practice induction.

He did. One of the things that is interesting to me about hypnosis is how you can remember and not remember it. Like, I know what happened but I could not tell you what he was repeating rhythmically to me. I don’t know exactly what he was suggesting; I just have to trust him.

He asked me how it was for me and I said “It was a better induction, I felt more limp/unable to move around much. I felt like there was a lot of room for more of a goal/story. I know it was very sudden and you didn’t have time to think it out.

I am not sure what/how we should change something to make it easier for you to stay hard.

I also think that if you want me to actually go to sleep for it I will take M first then 3 L instead of 2. I have such a strong metabolism for sedatives. **

We should probably also aim to get started on that as close to 10 as possible.
Perhaps part of doing such play better involve you sending me to prepare for bed earlier so that I am already in bed and sleepy when you arrive.”

What he told me after that when we were lying in bed was quite instructive. He had not particularly wanted to be more hard. He wanted the gentle rubbing–that was for something inside of him. Something young and yearning and almost healing. It made him happy in a quiet way deep inside that it’s ok for him to use an immobilised woman to just rub on the way he has always wanted to. He isn’t bad for wanting it and in this context he isn’t even bad for doing it.

Oh shit, dude. My whiny selfish whore self had been thinking, “Enh it was alright but I didn’t really get fucked enough.” How very embarrassing. I have never been one for denial–people who try to withhold sex/orgasms as a way of making me interested usually find out I just don’t come back. But this is Noah and he gets to do whatever he wants and sometimes not fucking me is better for him.

Oh, shit.

So the thing is: if I want to transition from egalitarian into power imbalanced I have to find a new normal around this. I have to reframe what makes something a successful encounter. I didn’t need to get off. I was there for his use.

If he got to do something he has always wanted to do and he feels like this was a deeply satisfying experience… then it was wildly successful and I need to work on how I feel about it when it is happening and afterwards. I need to take pride in work well done, not feel cranky I didn’t get off. I can masturbate the next day. Well, until he tells me I can’t. Ugh.

Ok. I can work with that.

** For nosey people: my sleep medication usage is necessary for long term health concerns and without the play aspect there are times when I double or triple up. My doctor is aware and is comfortable with the number of pills I ingest on an annual basis.

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.

It’s kind of funny

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How come I can beg him to do all kinds of vile things to me and that’s just fun and games but if he mildly observes that he can hear which vibrator I am using from his room because the flooring is thin… I am all of a sudden totally embarrassed and I feel like I should never masturbate again.

Ridiculous.

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.

On brand

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A very old friend is staying with me. He was my boss from 16-19 and we stayed friends after that. He taught me everything I know about carpentry, electrical work, my theatre rigging skills (which predate my bondage rigging skills), how to paint, and he helped keep my fragile psyche together when a lot of the bigger traumas of my young life were happening. To say I love him is kind of a mild and inadequate way to describe what I feel for him.

He’s been here since July. He will probably stay until his visitor visa expires in January and then he is off to figure out what he wants to do with the next stage of his retirement life. I am providing a bridge between the first stage of retirement where he provided hospice care for his parents into the next part where he has only himself to worry about for the rest of his life and he wants to find a new place to make a community. He can’t afford to go back to California and he doesn’t like most of the rest of the US so he is hoping for somewhere in Europe. Ok.

I am autistic. If you tell me there is a plan… I’m going to be super overly literal about that and bulldoze towards it.

As a result a lot of the time since then has been working on pointing out which behaviors were appropriate in a small shitty Texas town, so you learned them as a child, and they were tolerated in other parts of the US but they will be problematic now. Small example: the first time my youngest kid (not yet primary school aged) pulled off her shirt because she spilled a drink all over herself he melodramatically gasped super loudly and put his hands over his face and exclaimed “Oh my god that is totally inappropriate.” Yeah dude… Europeans are not going to tolerate that obnoxious American/Christian weirdness about bodies. I get it. The first time I saw a kid, who was clearly starting puberty, strip buck naked at the park to play in the wading pool I blinked hard and thought to myself, “We aren’t in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

I feel like I am also providing a low-key “Woke School” experience by pointing out the places where he expresses casual racism/sexism/learned helplessness/passive aggression/toxic masculinity/and of course the perennial favourite: lying about stupid shit because he wants to deny anything that might feel embarrassing. Basically my mantra is: “Ok Boomer, it is past time to get your shit together.”

I’ve gotta say, he has come really far in a short period of time. He is accepting criticism. He thinks about it on his own and comes back to me with refining questions. His behavior is shifting in fairly dramatic ways over time. He is trying. On one hand I have very little patience with explaining this sort of stuff to the vast majority of cis-het white men of his generation but as I told him he put a lot of deposits in the bank of Krissy & G’s relationship and he has a lot of credit to pull from. It’s a little weird feeling like I am making a man in his late 60’s into a malleable lump of clay and shaping him to work better for what he wants in his future. Clearly how he has been working has not resulted in him getting the things he wants in life (since he has not managed to achieve any of his goals in life as per his description of his life) and figuring out how to be more effective going forward.

The other night he said, “I was so grateful when you said I could come here after my parents died. I knew that you would really see me and then pick on me and be mean to me and love me and kick my ass until I was the best version of myself so that I could face what comes next. You are the most incredible friend I’ve had in my entire life.”

It kinda hit me that he essentially described my “brand”. I will look at you and see the good and the bad and think you deserve love no matter what. I will explain what you are doing that is bothering people/preventing you from finding what you want. I will absolutely, MOST DEFINITELY kick your ass if you are doing stupid shit and tell you to knock it off. I will give you a list of skills and behaviors to work on and I will not give undeserved praise… ever. If I give you a compliment you’d better savour that shit because I don’t give them often or for anything undeserved. You’ve gotta work before I praise.

There have been some rocky days since he got here but all in all I am grateful for this time. I’m helping him understand some of the ways that toxic masculinity has fucked him. I’m helping him embrace his soft-boyness and brainstorm ways he can become part of a new community by finding ways to share his many physical and emotional skills and not hide in his room hiding his sadness and pain behind his drinking.

I’m not even trying to work on his alcoholism. I understand when a rock is too big for me to push. Instead I am expressing loving support for the fact that he clearly feels he needs this coping method and his brain is trying to help him survive. Show some compassion for the fact that you have gotten this far with your shoddy, not awesome coping methods and maybe you will feel enough better about yourself over time that you will need it less and it can fade away.

You do not have to be perfect to deserve being loved. You do have to find ways to make sure your jagged edges don’t cut anyone you are trying to get close to, but that’s not the same thing as needing to be perfect.

I have to believe people deserve love even when they aren’t perfect. I am very far from perfect and I will never get closer.

Every couple of days he tells me again that he feels overwhelmed by how generous and loving I am being. That’s a little hard to hear because sometimes I feel like I am being such a bitch by pointing out the shit that sucks. If you point out the problems, that must mean you are the problem. We all have our old, shitty tapes in our heads. I mean… he did offer to pay for my pot the rest of the time he is here because I am so much easier to deal with. That was uhhhh pointed.

Even though I am prickly and difficult I do still show love. I provide food and housing and I make sure no one ever says a negative word about his drinking or smoking even though my whole household is really repulsed by cigarettes. I made him a safe, sheltered place to smoke so he can do what he needs to do. I am not a soft and gentle person but I am caring. I suppose that is what people mean when they say they aren’t nice but they are kind. I am not nice. I do not only say things you want to hear. But I will bend over backwards to provide you with safety and security and space to work through your demons. I will listen to you process all the shit in your life that is holding you back and help you figure out what you need to do to change the arc of your story going forward.

I’m not an easy person to love. But if I love you I will absolutely kick your ass into being the very best version of yourself you can be. You will never be perfect: reaching for perfection means you don’t learn how to be ok with good enough. Good enough is fucking great. I see so much potential in you. I want you to see it too.

Gathering for honoring Andrew Conway

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I would like to meet up with people in San Francisco on Saturday in the late afternoon/evening to collectively grieve and share stories about Andrew Conway. I am not sure where to meet as there is a 96% chance of rain so outside is unlikely to work (unless someone can think of a place outside with good cover?)
Does anyone know of a place that would be good to meet?

I would definitely prefer that it be a sober event as that was such an integral part of Andrew’s life at the end.

The last few years have been filled with so much loss and isolation and fear. I would really appreciate having an opportunity to connect and share our mutual love and respect for someone who was a tremendous force of life. Andrew lived more fiercely and broadly than most other people manage. He touched (not like that) many lives. It would be wonderful to get to see each other’s faces (with masks) and celebrate that we were all blessed to know him. Even when he was a twerp.

I have a public Facebook post as well. I will try to post updates here if I get more comments over there. Please feel free to share it with anyone who might want to see it. I would really appreciate suggestions for where to meet up.

Paula has said she might drop in but she is not sure she is ready to process this with a big group. She gave me her blessing to ask folks to meet up this week even though she may not be up for being present.

Bring all of your Andrew stories. I originally was thinking Golden Gate Park so folks could juggle and crack whips but of course this has to be the weekend San Francisco gets weather.

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.

The ties that bind

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This “community” we have as perverts is wide and shallow and yet so deep. The friends we make here are the witnesses to our lives. We see each other through loves and losses. We feed each other and we laugh. We show up for births and parties and holidays and deaths.

If you hang around very long you start seeing the old timers from your youth retiring or moving into care homes or hospitals and eventually they just go back through the process of becoming part of everything again. The spark that animated the very specific soul flickers then goes out.

I watch folks fuss at the problem of how to make swimming in this shark infested sea safe. I don’t think safety exists here.

I think there is transcendence and beauty and honor and horror here. I am here for it. I am here for as much of it as I can get.

I make friends with younger folks while knowing that I am writing the story of what they will remember when my own flame flickers out.

For now I just hurry so I can bloody my fingers rubbing the skin of one of my favorite sharks before he sinks forever. His wisdom will stay in the world. His love and generosity have already kept countless other souls from giving up. He kept me from giving up. He made sure I could eat and get to work and school. He gave me so much.

This blood in the water is really the least he deserves.

I will keep swimming. I will remember what he taught me. I will pass on anything I can. Sharks aren’t hoarders, they take what they need to live and they pass on the rest.

But I must keep swimming. I am a shark and swimming is how we stay alive.

Monsters Under the Bed

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I wrote this and put it in other places but I think some friends here could use seeing it.

Sometimes you get cocky. You think, “Hey the monsters under my bed haven’t come out for a long time. Maybe I made friends with them and they decided to leave me alone as an act of mercy. Maybe they died of natural causes. Maybe…. one of the many chemical warfare bombs I threw under their killed them. Maybe.”

Then something happens. Maybe you knock a glass off your bedside table and it shatters on the floor. Maybe a support plank in your bed gives way and makes a loud creaking sound when you move. It might be a big sound or it might be a small sound. It really doesn’t matter. There was never much sense behind the monsters coming after you anyway. They have their own agenda.

So you step lightly off your bed expecting to walk peacefully off to the bathroom to brush your teeth.

Even when they came out often you never really learned how to hop off the bed fast enough and far enough away to get away from them. Their arms are so long. They can grab you so hard and pull you so close. Their teeth when they bite you are so sharp–so terribly razor sharp. Their teeth are a bear trap. If you move very much you are going to tear the wound and make yourself bleed out. Instantly your stomach fills with the sharp, acrid, acidic, burning poison of fear.

You are always so terribly terribly afraid that even if the bleeding doesn’t kill you first your body is going to produce so much acid that you will destroy yourself from the inside. You’ve been so close in the past. The acid burned holes in you so that you could barely eat, barely sleep, it burned through the tissues of your body making terrible pain absolutely everywhere.

You will never, ever forget that pain.

So when it starts you have to first go very very still. So still that you calm down all the way to the atoms of your body. So still that it feels like if you are not careful even this paralysis might kill you. You have to slow down enough to figure out how you are going to get help.

You can’t be casual about getting help. If you ask the wrong person they think they can toss you a screwdriver or a metal nail file and tell you to pry it open yourself.

You are stupid. If the only tool that you have to hand is one that will poorly break open the seal and probably slip sideways in the blood and cause you to damage yourself even more terribly… you will use it. You are scared and you are hurting and thinking is almost an impossible task. You are desperate. Thinking requires so much will. So that first decision, “Who can I ask for help?” is maybe the first, last, and only time you will be able to think.

You have to make sure that you carefully only ask for help from people who have the right tools in their toolbox. People who have experience with this kind of atrocity. People who will neither flinch nor minimize the severity of the wound. Probably these are people who climb out of their own beds very carefully because they are currently at a détente with the monsters under their own bed. They know deep in their bones what is at stake if they fuck up.

Make no mistake, that monster wants you dead.

If you choose very carefully and you manage to pick wisely and your dear, wonderful, important friend helps you to get the trap open that doesn’t mean you have to cling to them for all of the healing. They can pack up their tools and head back on their own journey. Someone else will probably be along soon and bandages and medicine are so much easier to get help with.

It’s getting the damn trap open that usually sinks a person. That moment is do or die. That moment decides if you will have more moments. That moment when you go quiet and you pull yourself in and you weigh carefully exactly who you can ask…

It’s everything.

You had better hope you made the right friends. You had better hope they have their toolbag with them when they happen to hear your call.

Sometimes you get lucky. You can limp away. You are reminded that you did not actually kill the monsters. The war is not over. You will have to keep fighting.

But for now you can rest. Rest and heal. Be grateful that you made the right friends. Be ready to help them with their own monsters when the need arises. Because as sure as the sun will rise those monsters are going to keep trying to kill you all.

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

“Only cowards ghost.”

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Someone said that recently in a conversation I was part of. They weren’t trying to talk to me or about me. But I was in the conversation and it was a generalized statement that applied to me so I took issue. Then they told me that I was taking things out of context and I was just triggered.

Ghosting.

I got involved with a dude when I was 19. He was 19 years older than me. We were lovers and play partners and friends until I was 33. During that time period anytime I wanted to set a boundary he didn’t like (marrying someone other than him, wanting to have kids with someone other than him, all kinds of shit) he would tell me why my reasons weren’t valid. He was adamantly pro relationship anarchy poly and he didn’t think I should be artificially limiting our relationship. I argued for a long time. After a while I think I had a lot of sunk cost fallacy in the relationship and I didn’t want to give up on him. Also he liked to say that anytime someone did him dirty they were discriminating against him for being autistic.

Then in a short period of time we had several interactions. First he told me that I needed to “make my children be submissive to him” because he is an adult and they are children so they need to know that they have to obey him. I told him he clearly understands nothing about child psychology and no I am definitely not doing that. Then the Elliot Rodger shooting happened. He said that he totally understood why any autistic man would do that if he were denied sex. (By the way he had spent the previous several years buying guns and going shooting a lot.) Then we had a weird conversation and I said, “Do I need to specifically say that my children are never ever potential sexual partners for you? Do you understand that?” (I mean, he held them within a week of them being born. He was an “uncle”.) He smirked at me and said “We’ll see what they say when they are 18.”

I cut him off. I blocked him on all social media. I blocked him on my phone. I blocked him on email. He was dead to me from that moment further and no I don’t feel like he fucking deserved an explanation.

At a different time, years before that, I went on one date with a dude. He totally ghosted me after that date. I shrugged and went on with my life. A couple of years later he ended up engaged to one of my close friends. During the engagement period before the wedding he took me aside at an event. He told me that he ghosted me because he had just gotten out of a bad relationship and I had a few personality traits like his ex (to be fair, I knew the woman and we do have a lot of surface traits in common) and he was afraid I was going to be crazy and fuck over his life too. So he ran. He said that the way I conducted myself in social situations after that (I gave him space and didn’t try to corner him and demand an explanation) made him realize that he was wrong about me and he was sorry he had treated me that way. We hugged and wished each other all the best and I’ve been sending him and his spouse Christmas cards for over 10 years now. When we see each other we are perfectly cordial.

People ghost for a lot of reasons. I don’t think that any blanket statement can be made for those reasons. If you find yourself in a situation where person after person after person is ghosting you… maybe do some self reflection on your own behavior. I am welcome in the homes of 95% of my ex’s. The vast majority of my ex’s are people that I would welcome into my home for a holiday if they were in a rough spot and needed to be loved that year.

I’m totally comfortable with the fact that I have needed to ghost people. It was a need and I don’t feel bad. It took a lot of years of working on my self respect before I recognized that I don’t owe every fucking guy endless explanations just because he wants them. I owe myself integrity.

I could list all of the reasons it is utterly laughable to say that I am a coward. But frankly, that’s a waste of my time.

I think it is entitled and toxic to demand that everyone explain their feelings and boundaries to you on your time table. And I no longer have time to play games with toxic people.

Update on the cancer

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All of my current biopsy reports say that the cancer was fully removed. Now at 2.5 months post surgery the wound has fully closed (YAY!!!) and I am feeling much more vigorous. I am still on some restrictions for activities, but I’m not fully following that and I’m feeling better.

I’m starting to run again after a four year hiatus (remodeling the bathroom, pregnancy, moving, traveling, cancer) and I’m getting into gardening in my new location. I’m feeling a lot better.

What can you do in life other than try to get up every day and do what you can do.

“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.

16 days…

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16 days and 2 more international trips. First to Bangkok and then on to Inverness. Bangkok is because my partner has a business trip and we are going with him. Inverness is where we get to go home to.

Our visas all came through. We have the legal right to be in the UK for the next 5 years. If we stay in the country for enough days we will have the right to apply for leave to remain (basically a green card). If we stay in the country for enough days during leave to remain we have the right to apply for citizenship.

If Scottish independence succeeds… you bet your buttons that we are applying for citizenship. Hell yeah.

16 days till we get to go home to our big, beautiful house in the Highlands. I am so excited I can barely breathe. Our stuff is on a boat going over there now. (Thanks for the advice about how to label my boxes of porn.)

My wonderful lifelong best friend has been there for 10 years. She is setting aside furniture, dishes, linens, and as many other things as she can spare to help us adjust and find a place.

We are going to be Scottish. I am so excited.

And I have my own bedroom on a separate floor of the house from my kids so I have space for noisy sex. I have a room in the back yard that was sound proofed for a drum kit so I can scream all I want and no one will hear me.

I can’t wait!!

16 days. Just keep swimming. We are in Portland for five more days. I have plans with friends most of those days.

I will miss all the USians. Thank you for the influence you have been on my life. Thank you for your friendship and companionship. Thank you for your teaching and for your love.

Thank you for everything. I will think of you.

Falling in place.

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We got the house we wanted in Scotland. The previous owners are thrilled about how we want to add art to the space. (They cancelled showings with other families to accept our offer.)

And there is a sound proof room at the back of the property. I will finally be able to scream at my house without bothering neighbors or my kids. (They built it for a drum set.)

I am really excited. Next: finishing the visa process. The solicitor we are working with says he has never seen a more likely easy acceptance. Noah’s work history really is staggeringly impressive.

I am meeting nice kinky people so that I have friends other than my life long vanilla best friend.

Before we land in Scotland permanently I am getting to be blessed by touching base with some of the people who have inspired me since I was a teenager. I am in such a fantastic and lucky phase of life.

Did I mention that there is a self contained apartment so people can come visit us and have their own bedroom/living room/kitchen? If I love you and you know it you are always welcome.

We will be in Portland for a while next week. We will need to make a trip to California in August to close accounts and ship our stuff.

This is happening.

Moving on

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It’s time.

I moved to the bay area for the first time when I was 6. I moved in and out over the next ten years. I have lived here consistently since I was 16. Now I’m 36.

We are leaving.

It’s time to taste different air and absorb different sights. It’s time to find out what is next.

I will miss you all. Maybe I will finally be able to write about you when I have the perspective of distance. I hope I will be able to do you justice.

We are opening the house Labor Day weekend for a good bye party . If you are interested in coming, send me a message and I’ll give you my address.

We are going to be permanently gone from the bay area starting in November. Where are we going? We are going to be nomadic for a few years. My partner can work anywhere with an internet connection. We will follow him from conference to conference in various countries all over the world.

Malaysia, Japan, England, possibly Austria, India… we don’t know where all.

We want to try South America: Ecuador, Uruguay.

We want to try Central America: Costa Rica

We will hopefully spend some time in New Zealand and Australia. Definitely Scotland because my long time bestie is there.

I will keep writing and sharing about my life because I do that. If you are curious, just ask for a link.

I hope life treats you kindly and you find joy and happiness. I will miss you. I hope I will get to visit and see you again some day.

We are loosely tied here for a couple more years with medical stuff. But that will mean showing up for a few weeks here and there through the year. If you are interested in knowing when those visits happen, my blog will probably be the most reliable broadcast medium I’ll maintain.