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

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.

Nothing.

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.

Begging

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.

Guilt

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 

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.

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.

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...

Her Price is Steel

"Her Price is Steel" by Marcus Ranum

So I've been lightly interested in Gor for some years. Mostly it's the intensity, the rules and seriousness. But a few months ago I worked with Marcus for the first time, and he gave me the first three books in the series. Long story short I didn't read them, though the second book found it's way back into my hands recently. Against my desire to skip ahead a book, I started reading it anyway. Within a few chapters of Outlaws of Gor, our protagonist finds himself in a situation of rescuing a beautiful girl from slavers who have been hunting her. He claims her as his to them, and tells them that they can have her if they pay her price. "And her price?" they ask, "Her price is steel" he responds as he draws his sword.

Now, it's easy to look at me and what I'm saying and be like, shit, you're a fuckin nerd, do you hear what you're talking about? But what girl hasn't secretly dreamt of a time and space where men actually defended women. What part of collars and chains and slavery and muscles and power and sex and blood isn't fucking hot? That statement is saying, this girl is  mine and if you want her, you'll have to kill me. That's some dedication. That's some serious kind of love and masculinity.

It's fantasy love. It's perfect love.

I love possesion. I love the words "you're mine" or "she's mine". There's so much power and safety in them.

I want to belong. And that includes to a person.

Well, in my ideal fantasy world, I do. I have yet to come across a man who could (or wanted) to deal with me, tame me. He probably doesn't exist and it's more like I have to tame myself and build myself into that woman that that kind of man would actually want.

But whatever, the point is, BDSM is a beautiful thing.

"Pole Dance" by Marcus Ranum

Today I've been made to take a hard look at my personality flaws.

You see, I have this horrible habit of goading people (particularly men of power or strength) into anger. I want to see and feel the effects, I want to pull out of them a sadistic nature that is in all of us, no matter how small it might be. I want to feel a person's wrath, that carnal passion that is perhaps the most pure and true... I like pain and humiliation. But perhaps this is more a problem of not knowing how to love men properly. Daddy issues. Abandonment issues. Sexual issues... Pride issues. And God knows, serious Authority Issues.

There's this girl that I was chatting with, and twice she's stuck out to me such simple comments. One was asking me what I'm afraid of, the other was by telling me that I'll never get what I want by hiding.

Afraid is obvious to me. I'm afraid to let men into my soft, loving side. I know it's big, that side, and so thoughtful and caring. Even when I hide it, I am aware of everyone's needs around me. I pay attention to details and I listen and remember. I'm afraid of not being loved, I'm afraid of being left and of fucking it all up, like I'm so good at doing.

Better to leave than be left. Better to hurt than be hurt.

But really, the only person I'm hurting is myself.

And hiding. I thought on this a while. I live a life fairly free of BDSM, it's my dark secret. Though men can sense the crazy on me. They somehow know that I'm a freak in the bedroom. But I don't just want rough sex, I want the whole experience. I want to be safe, and wild within that safety. Free to be what I am in the eyes of Someone who sees me. A Master. A lover. A true Man. But how can I ever find what I'm looking for if I'm hiding? Which I am. Practically my only interactions with anyone in the Lifestyle are online, which even that has only been surface level. I don't go to any sort of lifestyle events, stay active on any forums, search out anyone.

In my modeling I've taken to making slave inspired images. Where I get to make this art based around my comfort and desire over collars, chains and rope. Perhaps it's time to stop hiding it. Perhaps it's time to stop fearing judgement which is clearly only complicating my life.

I know that my dark streak isn't going anywhere. But that doesn't mean that it has to be evil, that it has to be based out of anger. There are healthy ways to do these things, and I know it, so why do I keep perpetuating the cycle?

It's time to start acting like the woman I want to see myself as, rather than the child I've been.

I found something that might be the answer to all my problems.

Whitewater rafting.

Alright, it might not be the answer to ALL of my problems, but it certainly will help for a while, at least. I went rafting for the first time last weekend and by the time it was all over my whole body hurt like a motherfucker and I was exhausted and excited and happy. My muscles hurt for days after and I immediately cut back on smoking... for a bit.

I've been looking for some physical activity that I could do to burn some energy and work out my body, but that was also fun at the same time. I guess I've found it. I mean I hope I have. I'm going to look into getting trained to be a guide but who knows. At the very least I will be going back to photograph them and go down the river. All the guides are cool people... and I found one I have a crush on.

So at some point I tell him, listen, we gotta take things slow, we don't know eachother very well and for all we know there are things about one another that the other can't handle. We all have issues, and I'm no exception... Then when prompted as to what those things were, I told him I was masochistic, which I had mentioned before. He says he is too! He beats himself up with rafting and kayaking and all sorts of stuff all the time. I laughed because it's valid but it's not the same as what I was talking about, but I let it go. Is it that different? What's the difference, that I've almost idolized my masochism? That I think about it in a sexual and kinky way? Perhaps if I had never found BDSM, I would be doing shit just like him. Not sleeping and plowing through booze and adventures.

I wonder how long I can keep this up, I wonder how long rafting and physical exertion will suffice.

I mean it more than was sufficient, it was amazing. I wanted to cry and skip with joy at the same time. I've never felt better in my whole life.

I'm Sad

Im sitting here, mad and upset about men and how they treat me. I think to myself, "No wonder so many people are gay, men and women aren't relating to eachother". I'm thinking this because of so many communication mishaps and barriers. I'm thinking this because I'm mad and upset. Over and over men disappoint me. I find myself looking for female companionship. Which makes me ask a lot of questions. Particularly; "Am I gay?" Also, "Why do I hate men?" I find that as I sit here, my distraught (and now, stoned) mind turning over and over. I run back to the thoughts of my sexuality, my interest in BDSM, my scars... My decision that "women's rights has fucked us". But I don't think it's that. I also turn over my ideas of being gay, and my attraction to women. A lot of girls are bisexual or bicurious and I hate the terms. It reminds me of plastic looking girls giggling and making out at some house party while holding a Smirnoff and boys oo and aw and gauk and egg them on.

Ultimately I come to the realization that men have become disrespectful. They have the control. They take what they can get, and they do it scrappy because that's the only way they know how. Women have learned to play some sort of game, and some are good at it, but I'm not. I think we're in a world of topping from the bottom.

I don't know what I do. I get mad. No, I get sad... and then I get mad because I'm sad and I don't want to show it.

I'm sad that I don't know how to "properly deal with men". Mostly I don't think I should have to. I think men should be more sensitive to women. And I'm not talking about being a pussy, I'm talking about paying attention.

Which is why I think I like BDSM so much. I like the idea of a Master, a Dom, a Sadist. These Top Men type, the best of them, they pay attention with great detail. They are in tune. And they wield that power knowingly...

This used to be a normal thing. Men did manly things. They hunted and killed. They protected their land and people. They knew who they were, and for that matter, so did women. Now all of our roles are fucked up and I can't fucking handle it half the time. I don't feel like anyone sees me. My ability to give a person what they want has made me into people I am not. But is that even true? Aren't you a product of what you do?

But men are supposed to run the world.

There's a balance to maintain.

I often feel lost.

of Love and Pain

What is it I'm trying to say? What is it I'm looking for, in this semi secret place I have built for me, lost amongst the rest of the interent. Safe place to write and speak, I fear judgment. I fear. I fear judgment and I want you to love me. My soul is pounding at my heart, screaming at my skin which traps me too close in, the monster inside has been fed a dose and now howls for more, more. Normally kept in a state of starvation, too weak to move, but it is restless, I am restless, and there is only one thing that will tame us.

Pain.

I want to cry at what that means. I am sitting here full of inspiration, anticipation and something else that I think might be Love. The well of love in me is deep and fairly untouched, mostly because it is so woven with these dark desires.

There are those who do not understand the deep connection of love and pain. So many experience only one or the other. And too many "in the lifestyle" do not hold on to their passion of being in love. They decreed themselves incapable or unworthy of real love, and search through S&M to fill that void. I desire both together, or neither at all. In fact, I cannot separate the two. All my pain is sweet and all my love is hard.

I've been told I'm a dreamer by many people.

So what.

The Laugh

I was a little drunk, meeting up with D. And pissed off at the stories I have heard. But I'll admit, I think I wanted to stir shit up. Perhaps just my own shit. I've been bored lately, frustrated with my lack of true connection to people. Conversations lacking the depth I want, my skin and soul untouched for so long. And, god, I cannot stand the thought of just sleeping with someone, it's so unsatisfying. I need any man I fuck to know some things about me. A) I'm somewhat a masochist B) I'm smart, emotional, and my head's all full of shit. Anyway, D doesn't really know any of this shit, though I know he was stirring the pot himself, one way or another. But the point is, is that at one point I had some things to say to him, and they were coupled with  me slapping him in the face a few times. I was baiting, exactly how I know is not the right way to go about these things (but it can be so fun), and of course he rose to it. One crack across the face and I think I felt more free in that moment than I have in a long time. I laughed and walked away, satisfied in some way with the game I had played. There's a crosswalk we were waiting for and I stop there long enough to rub my cheek and grumble an "ow!" towards him and he laughed. Good lord, there's not much better than a Sadist's laugh at my pain.

Safe, Sane and Consensual

It stirs again.

Normally my little bug, my darkness, my whatever-you-call-it, it's calmly contained deep down inside. Or as far deep as I can keep it. Most of the time, I am content with my little battle with myself. Most men cannot reach and wield that power properly, and yes, I do think of it as power. How do you ever explain that feeling? How can I, at least, seeing as I don't know what anyone else feels.

Most of the time, I can contain myself. But all it takes is running into a fucking sadist to spin my shit up. It's like lightning. It's like boiling. I feel the chaos tickling the edges of my skin, my head and very especially my heart. It's like a multiplied addiction weighing on my chest, incapable of being satisfied. It's like being hopelessly in love, with your lover halfway across the world.

I met a new sadist. D. D has a reputation for being a monster, and while I haven't decided to disagree, I think he's less guilty than some would have him be. First of all, I know from first hand experience the power I have with men. Particularly men who lean towards a sadistic streak. Tempting that part of a man is dangerous and alluring. Most of the time it's not a healthy manner of going about getting your fix but yet here I sit, desiring to set him on fire and see if I get burned. And usually I do, and the point is never to be burned, but to ignite together.

Safe, Sane and Consensual.

I feel like I want to talk right to him, here, but it's not about that, it's not even about him. It's about me. And a lot of other things. First and foremost the issue of people catering to these afflictions without the proper knowledge and understanding of the physiological, emotional, mental part of it all. It's not just fun and games. It doesn't leave you in the bedroom.

I am of the understanding and belief that any sexual encounter leaves an imprint of the other person in your soul. The stronger the sexual experience, the stronger the imprint. And there's nothing stronger than a sadomasochistic experience. Embracing pain and pleasure together heightens everything. It's cleansing. It's complicated... And some people just can't live without it.

There are too many people who move about their sadism or masochism a bit blindly, unaware of the affects it not only has on themselves, but to their counterparts and playmates. Baiting a Top and having it work is the folly of both characters. It's a game, and a nasty one. One that doesn't have to exist. That's the game of amateurs and desperates.

The reality is that anyone plagued by these afflictions (because it is painful to bear) is wielding deep and fucked up desires, and the key is to hone them into something healthy and loving, built on trust and communication.

Without it, we're just animals. And I like to think the perfect sexuality is the one that's ultimately spiritual. Call me crazy.

Relationship Pyrotechnics

How can I justify or apologize for the searing passionate jealousy I feel, risen up by the irrational complications I've set upon myself caused by this fucking man? A friend once called my destructive tendencies towards those I started feeling for "relationship pyrotechnics". I had laughed at the time, but I'm not laughing anymore.

He is emotionally unavailable. Emotionally fucking gone, stone and going through the motions. In his art, it's all chaos and some dark humor and sex. No amount of tits and pussy will make him feel anything. No amount of money will buy him happiness.

All I wanted was to be in his heart. I fucked up, I got mad. I let the evilness of jealousy seed itself and fester, my heart growing dark with every word to another woman, every smile to a text.

So drunk and angry, I don't remember what I said or what I did. He tells me I pissed in his guitar case. And even though I don't remember it, I know what I was feeling. The metallic taste of vengeance and rebellion like blood on my lips, though it is me who bleeds, but without relief of touch or pain.

When I left, he came in to hug me and kiss me on the mouth, but I turned my face and loosely draped one arm around him, letting my lips barely touch his jaw, trying not to breathe the sweet sent of his sweat. I only glanced at him, but I think he smiled as if there was anything to be smiling about. He probably fucked that girl. He probably fucked that girl and now all I can think about is any girl he's fucking or may have fucked or might fuck, I just see blood and hear screams, envisioning me sweaty and out of breath and standing over their agonizing bodies, and in my head I punched him as hard as I could in the face before getting into the cab.

What right do I have to this anger? What right, when I am the one who fucked it up.

The reality is, I just wanted to cry and magically stop time to stay in his arms for a while.

Another potential great thing, ruined by Relationship Pyrotechnics.

Thinking...

It's in the back of my head, haunting me, rising up here and there... Masochism. What a disastrous evil affliction to have. I only know one person who can cater to it, and he wont barely talk to me. I want to feel nothing... he made me feel nothing, once. And in that moment he lifted my face with a soft touch and told me I was beautiful, and I felt beautiful, and real, and whole.