Wednesday, November 28, 2012

sometimes I'd rather sleep and pretend I don't exist.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Taming the Beast

Once and a while I royally fuck everything up. Usually it's a combination of too much to drink coupled with un-dealt-with masochism. The latter will be the cause of problems likely for the rest of my life. It sits there, heavy in my mind and soul, taunting me.

Thus I found myself having quite the horrible experience the other day. I had kept my male friend up all night, apparently, alternately being horrible and sweet, drunk out of my mind, and I don't remember a thing of it. I had been drinking down at the hotel bar with some man, who bought me a couple drinks. I went up to his room with him to smoke cigarettes and hang out, gave him a backrub and I know he thought he was gonna get him some, but I got bored and left. Traded him out for the cute guy at the reception desk. Italian brought up in Ireland, pretty charming mix, I must say. Ended up letting him get me a glass (or two?) of wine and this equates to the total amount that I drank, which should not have been enough to lay me out like it did. I wonder if my cute Italian didn't slip something in my drink, because I got this feeling while I was up in his room, smoking and hanging out, like I needed to get out of there asap and back to my room. Sure, I was acting like a scank, but I like to think I keep things pretty under control. The Irish have affectively made me feel extremely attractive, which is nice, but this situation was not.

I don't remember even getting back to my room where my travel companion was apparently worried and had no idea where I'd been, and I was incoherent and belligerent and scaring the crap out of him. What I do remember is waking up in the morning being told to pack my shit and that he was going to drop me off at the aiport and we were parting ways, he did not want me traveling with him anymore. I, of course, break apart, confused and hung over and cry begging him not to do this, that I'm sorry, etc etc etc. I've rarely begged honestly for anything, and just like in the past, I was denied.

Mind you, this man labels himself Gorean. Begging is a huge thing in Gor and should have been better received. On my knees crying, hysterically pleading with him to not react this way, to forgive me, that I would be nothing but pleasant.


He leaves me in the room to pack up my things. My mantra while doing so is, "you are nothing, you are worthless" because I feel as such, and just as I was feeling good about myself in general, I had to go and get fucked up and fuck up my whole little vacation. Worthless. Nothing. Horrible. Vile. Pathetic. Worhtless. Nothing. Ugly. Disgusting..... worthless, nothing....

And by the time I get downstairs I am resolute and have exhausted myself. I leave the building, passing him and stand outside, light a cigarette, and feel the cold stone of the building slipping down my sweatered back, the concrete meeting my ass and I've decided not to go with him a moment longer. I would never beg for anything and I wouldn't be returning to the states. I would find a hostile. I would find a way to make money. I would disappear into Europe.

He hands me down 150 euro to get me home and I tell him I'm not coming with him. He considers this a moment and responds by suggesting that I come with him and we end our sexual relationship or any physical contact or romances of any sort. I say okay, and get in the car.

This decision has come back to my mind many times over. A very big part of me wished I had rejected it and gone on with my plan to disappear. I suppose I made the right choice, but who really knows.

I do know, that after that- after begging with everything I had, being denied and then offered an out to my exile from him and his trip, infuriates me. I bared my soul to him and he turned his back on me only to pretty much be like, oh hey- I changed my mind, get in the car. But never accepting my apology, not talking to me about it until the next night. Two days of misery. Trying to tell myself that I am not a worthless piece of shit. But I swear, I will never beg like that again. I will never.

It's so sad to me that this happened. I am not excusing my behavior but he knows I'm a masochist. He talked to me and talked to me but hasn't learned about my needs. He will fuck me but not beat me. I feel insane, I feel like there's something wrong with me, and he makes me feel like there might actually be- not that I'm just saying it because I feel like I am among a small percent of people who knowinly enjoy physical pain.

This morning, still reeling with my unmet desires and failure as a slave, failure as a person, failure as a friend... I asked him to spank me.

I do not ask for these things. I've never asked for it. But I felt like I was going to take a knife to my skin and feel the depressing searing pain of dragging it across my flesh. He is not sadistic at all. He says, no, he can't. I ask him why, to which he replies I don't know. I am sad, my eyes fighting tears, curled up in my sweater and half under the blankets, having avoided going down into public for breakfast. I explain to him that I will cut if he doesn't. I wont do it in front of him and he wont know about it, but I will do it and I really don't want to. I'm asking for help, you can help me, I told him, you can help me deal with this, even if you don't understand. I do. I need this. Please. I am calm, I don't know if this is going to work and I have flashbacks of begging him two mornings before and being rejected. I'm terrified of what it'll mean if he doesn't do this for me. It's been a long time coming. My glass has been overflowing for weeks.

He agrees, albiet resistantly. I pull off my sweater and bra and crawl across his lap and he laid into me.

Crying, wiggling... and then that moment where the pain goes over that edge of resisting and I feel my body calming and all I can do is gasp towards the floor, blinking blindly against my tears and feeling the wash of relief.

I could have taken more, but he stopped shortly after. Which is fine, I got what I needed, if only it's ever a temporary fix. He tells me I am so much more intense about my desires than he is. That he is confused, troubled by doing this. His cock is not hard. I ask him if I can try to fix that. He says no and I ask him why, he's afraid. Of liking it or not liking it, he can't even make up his mind. My tearstained face smiles lightly, "let me try... please? I bet I can make it work just fine." And he agrees. And I do. And it does.

He is happy the whole day and I keep my sadness and conflict inside. I wish to be understood and I so rarely feel like I am. Particularly this part of me, which seems to get me in so much trouble. The combination of being a fairly normal american looking girl, understanding men's desires and being masochistic is a dangerous mix. It leaves me pleasing a lot of people, one way or another (mostly men) and never feeling taken care of or truly appreciated.

I am not tamed, I am not controlled. I am a wild beast snarling at anything that comes close, then turning around and acting a sweet pet until I am lashing out again, aching to feel that control, to have someone catch me, chain me, tame me.

I wonder if this is a real thing for me, that I wish to be tamed. Or if it is true that wild beasts can never be truly tamed, and all I really desire is to destroy anything good in my life. Because god knows, I'm great at that. I'd prefer to think that it is a challenge to anyone trying to get close to me, or trying to have my attention for longer than what I think might be appropriate for arms-length dealings. I fancy myself testing men's reserves and strength. Testing them, wanting to know if they have a stronger will than mine. I have yet to find one, or at least one who is willing to come up against me, head to head.

Well.... Maybe I have..... I guess only time will tell.

Friday, November 23, 2012


This idea of begging for something can seriously blow me. The few times I've truly, really, begged for something- I've been denied, every fucking time. So why does it seem to be such a common and popular thing, when most men (people, actually) will deny you the things that you desperately want, tears and all, even to often, later, grant them? Or to grant them if you show a lack of interest?

This whole concept to me drives me insane. Fuck begging, I will never let myself feel that way ever again.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012


I am constantly feeling guilty. Guilty about some small thing I did or said, guilty for drinking, guilty for fucking or flirting. I can find something in most days to feel guilty about, and I'm not entirely sure why that is. I think it might be from conditioning from a previous relationship, but I'm not all convinced. Could also be partly from my upbringing and a part of my personality desiring to be perfect. Probably all three, and then some. I do know it's connected to my masochism, my need to feel cleansed of these feelings. Which isn't the only reason I ever crave the sting of pain. There's pretty much any reason I could come up with for that, but it is often based around feeling guilt. It can be quite frustrating, not having anyone but myself to answer to about it. Adjusting behavior to be more of myself and not of how I was moulded some years ago. 

I don't want to feel guilty for things that I enjoy, to feel like I'm constantly doing something wrong. But maybe I am doing something wrong, and the guilt is simply there to remind me that I'm misbehaving. But misbehaving to whom? Myself?

Hmm... things to think on 

Saturday, November 3, 2012

Hate side of Love

It sucks how much my emotions have the capability of hanging on the attention of one (or two) individuals. Usually this isn't the case, but when it happens it's quite all-consuming, self-centered, horrible. 

I went from having one of the happiest moments, to being crushed by feeling insignificant. 

This is perhaps the main reason I hate BDSM relationships.

Friday, November 2, 2012

Kneeling on Rice - A Super Afterthought

Looking at my blog I see that my rice-kneeling experience is my among my most viewed entries- though, I must say, even that is a small number. But still, I have a desire to clarify.

I make it sound as if I was triggering my longing for him as being why I cried.

The reality is that Juliet asked me, why do you not cry?

and I searched within myself to find the answers.


Rebellion was the answer. So torn was I over the fact that I wasn't with him that I was willing to stretch out and deny him his desire for as long as I could.

Well, I certainly suffered that rebellion.

It was and it wasn't my longing for him that made me cry. I think a bigger part of it was my realizing some things:

a) I loved him, I wanted him, I needed him.
b) No matter my stubbornness, I was his
c) (and perhaps most importantly) I didn't forget to call him Sir, I did it on purpose to be punished and feel him- physically, mentally, emotionally. I was searching for that severe connection.

These things have a way of back firing, but I needed it to fill the void that he left with not meeting me. The only thing I ever asked of him.

Heart Sisters

Let me tell you about the only person (besides, family) I've ever truly loved.

Let's call Her Suzie.

I am standing in the rain, under the awning of a bodega in Dumbo, Brooklyn. She is late and I'm on my third cigarette, determined to look nonchalant as I meet her. I wonder vaguely, as I always do, if I'll know it's her. You see, I meet people off the internet quite frequently, though this one has me in quite the knots. She is beautiful, and I'm not sure if more on the outside or in, and that's what makes me so nervous. Anxious, more like.

I see her just as she's advancing on me, as I've not been looking up and down the streets but leaning against the wall, intent on the rain and the gutters and the cobblestone and my shoes- anything but to be looking for her. She's wearing tall boots with square heals and toes, leggings, loose shirt, long pea coat... hat, umbrella. All black. I feel her coming and her smile when I raise my eyes to meet her's is radiant, and she barely stops to link arms with me and then we're on down the sidewalk, matching strides and sharing her black umbrella.

Of course, I have no idea what I was wearing, but I am too cool for an umbrella.

Fast forward hours later. After coffee and guacamole and much talking, we come back to find my car is gone.

Did I park too close to that fire hydrant on purpose?

She invites me to spend the night with her. We walk and get a bottle of wine. Eat icecream in the cold. I  open the bottle with a screw found in the cubby-hole of a room she's staying in. We are quite entertained by my dedication and I have yet to really live it down, though we barely speak of those days anymore.

It is easy. We talk of our pasts, we talk of our futures. We talk of love and loss. I take my most favorite picture of her that night and we sleep with arms draped over eachother and wake in eachother's eyes. It is innocent, but more than friendly.

On our way to pick my car up from the pound we talked a lot, nor did we ever really stop talking, actually - but I remember talking about the Universe and Desire. That speaking of your want from it, will yield those same results. That words and intent have power.

I remember feeling I wanted her in my life forever, whatever that meant...