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.