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.
Thanks T! This all because of you. đ
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.)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
This âcommunityâ 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 donât 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 arenât 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.
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, âHey the monsters under my bed havenât 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. MaybeâŚ. one of the many chemical warfare bombs I threw under their killed them. Maybe.â
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 doesnât 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 sharpâso 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 doesnât kill you first your body is going to produce so much acid that you will destroy yourself from the inside. Youâve 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 canât 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, âWho can I ask for help?â 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 dĂŠtente 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 doesnât 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.
Itâs 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 askâŚ
Itâs 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.
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
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
I had my first therapy session in a while. I haven’t been driving for health reasons and this session was via technology. Yay technology.
Most of the session centered around something having to do with my kids but it has to do with my identity in this community too. One of my children is struggling to deal with shame. Ah shame, my old nemesis.
My therapist told me that until I view myself as a good person who makes mistakes instead of as a monster who sometimes does the right thing… I can’t help my kid.
Given the stuff I’ve been reading on fetlife lately about redemption and making up for mistakes and when are you allowed back into the fold and to do which behaviors… this all feels connected in my head.
I’ve done wrong and I’ve hurt people in my life. I have done everything in my power to make amends. I’ve tried to help my victims and I’ve tried to help the victims of other people. I’ve tried to not hurt more people, with varying degrees of success. I haven’t had a big flagrant boundary violation in well over a decade, approaching two decades. I did learn from my mistakes.
But at what point do the mistakes of the past no longer define you? How many fuck ups are necessary to make you a monster forever?
What kind of fuck ups can be waved away as “just a mistake”?
I don’t know.
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.
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.
Mostly I keep my crazy ranting on my blog. I figure the few people who want to know my wackiness follow me over there and writing on a more public site is… I don’t know… forcing my insanity down peoples throats. But the thing is, the stuff I have to work on changing next is stuff that is rooted in my sexuality. That’s a journey that has been highly shaped by folks who hang out here. So once in a while my insanity will leak out a bit here.
I’ve worked pretty hard on changing my perception of myself over the years. I no longer believe I am worthless. I have substituted the belief that I am an incredibly effective tool. I know how to do a lot of different kinds of work and when I show up to do work… I get a lot done. I have developed quite a bit of pride in how effectively I can get work done over a broad swath of types of work. I’m not a one trick pony.
My family wanted me to perceive myself as stupid but all of the GATE testing when I was a kid and grown ups going “Holy crap this kid is SMART” means that their attempts to make me think I was stupid just kind of failed. I’m brilliant and I’m comfortable with acknowledging that. The rate at which I read complicated non-fiction books helps me not ever succumb to the belief that I might be stupid. But I have to keep working consciously on expanding what I know or I would start chanting this at myself. I view smart as something that has to be constantly worked on or it doesn’t count.
I could go through a long list of specifically triggering things I’ve worked on, but the problem that keeps coming up and I just can’t fucking deal with it in a rational way… is what I was born to be.
Let me explain. My father raped my mother when she knew she was fertile and she didn’t want to have more kids. He wanted to make another kid to rape. He was already raping the children they had. Like a true pedophile, gender wasn’t that important to my father.
So from when I was a tiny baby the story I was told about my existence is that I was made so that men would have more holes to use and how I felt about that really didn’t matter.
This is the problem I keep coming back to. This is the core belief I have not been able to shake or move or change in years of trying. This is what I am here for. It doesn’t really matter if it feels good to me or if I like it or if I want it. That’s why I am here. It is literally why I was made.
I don’t know how to alter these wires in my brain so that I stop giving a shit what my father’s intentions were and start feeling like I get to define what I am here for.
This piece is just sticky as hell and I have not figured out how to change it. This is what brings me to my knees over and over sobbing and feeling like I need to die to get away from the terrible burden of being responsible for taking more and more and more pain inside my body.
Even when my partners (my husband most of all) have tried to figure out how to fuck me without hurting me we always run up against this strong limitation that I can’t really talk in the moment about sex hurting my cunt. I dissociate away from that so fast I am literally physically incapable of talking when it happens. Even though I’ve done decades of work on trying to fix this.
I’ve fixed a lot of pieces of this. But this spot still persists and I have not yet figured out how to rewire this in my brain.
I can write about it when it’s not happening. I can barely speak out loud about this topic without melting down into tears or screaming swear words like FUCK YOU FOR HURTING ME. Which is not all that productive.
I continue to be impressed with my husband’s persistence in wanting to help me deal with my laundry list of problems.
I sabotage efforts to make sex not hurt me. Because I have this internal motivation that I have to be providing a lot of sex, even if it is damaging me and I have to initiate even when I’m in pain and….
I know I create a lot of this problem with my utter unwillingness to act like pain in my cunt is worthy of acknowledgment in the moment. There were a few times when I was very young when I mentioned that it hurt to partners and the response was a solid wall of “So?” and I just completely lost the ability.
The kinds of 25 year olds who like to fuck 12 year olds really don’t care.
This internal belief, that fucking is literally why I exist, is why I push so hard for sex with so many people. I have an internal programming that dictates that I must ask for sex. Because this is why I exist. To give this experience to people who want it.
This has gotten more complicated as my partner has gone through a shift from actively wanting polyamory when we met to very actively wanting mainly monogamy with very rare occasions of group sex.
Fitting into the expectations that are currently held for me takes a lot of work. I’ve adapted as best I can. It’s not always easy. But the good I get from being part of this family is so breathtaking. I get to belong somewhere. People care when I’m crying. People care about me in this house. I am important to them. It’s worth a lot of pain and suffering to try and deal with more layers of my mental illness to try and stay here for more of this.
Recently I went through a multiple month period where I genuinely didn’t want to die. That is the longest I can remember feeling like that in my entire life. I have always wanted to die. That has been the drumbeat chasing me through life for just about 30 years now. “I should die because this hurts too fucking much.” I want more of the not-wanting-to-die feeling. And I have to change this belief to get there.
This is tricky because I partially married my husband because he has the highest sex drive of anyone I ever seriously dated. He’s been the only one who wanted to keep up with what I wanted to initiate.
But a lot of what I initiate hurts me. And then there are waves of consequences.
This is so unfair.
It is desperately unfair to my husband and frankly it isn’t fucking fair to me either. It is fucking shitty being in my head and in my body. It isn’t anyone’s fault at this point that it sucks so much to be inside of me… but it’s a fact.
One of my buddies idly mused that I get a lot of self esteem from my interactions with my children.
Children are the only people I know how to interact with without feeling like I am failing in not offering sex. That’s the only time I feel like it is completely appropriate for me to not be offering sex. It’s safe in a way nothing and no adult ever is.
I don’t ask everyone for sex all the time for a variety of reasons (I’m pretty sure you don’t want to be asked, I’m pretty sure my husband would flip out, etc) but I have had to grow up and work on my boundaries to get to this point. It took a fair bit of maturing before I understood that my father was lying and not everyone wanted that from me.
Thanks to all the folks who have skillfully and tactfully turned me down over the years. I’m glad you didn’t follow that up with refusing to know me because I was so rude/tactless/gross/insert word of choice.
I’ve tried to grow up as fast as I have been able. I’m a lot closer to my goal of “grown upness” than I actually believed I would make it to… but I’m not there yet. I’m hoping I manage around the time my 9 year old makes it to adulthood.
What am I here for?
That’s this huge existential question, right? I’m super partial to the work of Viktor Frankl, a psychotherapist who went through the Holocaust. He wrote the book Man’s Search For Meaning. His general hypothesis is that folks can survive any horror in life if they have something they believe in and it doesn’t matter what it is. It could be “I want to see my wife/husband again”. That kind of belief is enough. If you believe that your love for someone else is your reason for continuing to be alive then you can make it enough to see you through anything.
I can’t control why I was made. I can’t control the intentions behind my makers.
But why do I stay alive?
Maybe that needs to be the focus of the next stage of work. I can’t change what I was made for or whether I did my best to live up to that for the first few decades of my life.
But why now?
I feel really guilty that a lot of why I’m staying alive at this point is a science experiment. Will I be a good enough mother that my children will want to know me when they are adults? Am I capable of treating them in a way that will cause them to want to know me?
I feel guilty about this because I feel like I “should” pick something that is more oriented towards my husband and… that’s different. It’s really complicated that I already feel like I have failed at being a good wife and I feel like there is no walking back from that. He’s not leaving because I’m better than nothing but I will never make it to good. I can’t hang my hat on that in this life.
Ok, so “I am bad” and “I am a monster” are strongly tied in with what is causing me these eternal problems.
It is hard because my husband is having a hard time with how much the shift into being a mother has derailed a lot of the hypersexuality and a lot of my strong need to be hit so much. I’m boring now.
I feel like I am bad for even trying to work towards a future where my cunt will hurt less because that will mean I am not meeting his expectations for how often he wants to get laid.
And the cycle continues.