Annabelle Leigh

Nothing kinky today folks.

I am sad. Profoundly, deeply, heartbroken.

First, let me give you some back story:

I was raised by a single mother, and we always lived in apartments or rentals. Ergo, I was never allowed to have a dog — Wellllllll, she did get me a dog when I was 4 years old, a white poodle that I aptly named Brownie. Brownie was evil incarnate. She did not want to be cuddled by a four year old, and she’d poop on my toys in revenge. She ran away constantly and my ma would have to bail her out of doggy jail. Eventually my ma just let her stay gone. She was some old lady’s poodle, not appropriate for a cuddly four year old girl.

When I was in 8th grade, our landlord allowed cats but not dogs, so we got a pair of cats from the same litter. Super awesome cats. But they were cats. Killer and PJ were their names, and they were fluffy gray balls of kitty love. Killer was a killer and PJ was a huge furry lazy lump of cuddle. Killer would hunt at night, and bring me gifts in my bed. Like live Blue Jays.
Blue Jays are mean.
And loud.
Killer was shot by a neighbor with a pellet gun, and she ran off and died somewhere. I couldn’t find her.
PJ died … probably of old age, but I harbor some resentment that my Step-dad kicked him a little too hard.

After Killer died, I decided no more pets. I tried having more cats, but I just couldn’t get attached. It wasn’t the same. Killer was a once in a lifetime cat. Super clean. Never peed or pooped in the house. Mouser. The few cats I had after her were NASTY. They ended up on a friend’s farm.

My mother gave my daughter a puppy on her 8th birthday. I had my reservations. Since the fiasco with weird and wild cats in my early 20’s I decided I did NOT want animals in my house.

But, I gave in. Basically because the photos she sent me were so GODDAMN cute!

Teeny tiny puppy: Half chihuahua and half yorkshire terrier. Six ounces of golden love.

We brought her home when she was 8 weeks old, newly weaned from her mommy. She weighed less than a pound, and she had the most adorable punk rock mohawk EVAR.

My daughter named her Annabelle … and I finished it with Leigh after the Poem by Edgar Allen Poe (yes, I am aware that it’s spelled differently, I did it on purpose).

She was such a loving little angel. Potty trained super easy. She was so so smart! I kept a small laundry basket of her toys in the living room, and she could identify all of them.

“Go get your pig!” She’d bring me her pig, which by that point was just a fabric shape of a pig, she had already protected the family from the vicious threat of Pig by disemboweling him, and eating the squeaker.

At night, “Put your toys away!” and she would put her toys back in her basket.

I probably could have taught her to pour me a  glass of wine if she was big enough.

She could “high five”, “do a little dance” … she was so cute!

I love her just as much as I love my daughter.

Well, maybe not that much, she is a dog after all.

Anyway, she’s eight years old now … or she was. A little over a week ago she began throwing up.

I fed her plain rice, because I thought her stomach was just irritated.

The throwing up became more and more frequent, and then she started urinating blood, and had bloody diarrhea … All of this happened so fast!

She lost too much weight, my fat little Annabelle was looking more like a greyhound.

I had to wait till payday to take her to the vet.
I know, I should have savings for such contingencies, but my life is not at that point anymore.

She threw up 4 times in the vet’s office.

They did some blood work … and … well. I could spend all the money in the world, and she may have a 4% chance of survival.

They let my daughter and I hold her while they administered the meds. We petted her in all her favorite spots and told her how good she is. Was. We told her how much we love her, and my daughter’s tears fell on Annabelle.

I didn’t want her to be alone.

She is now buried on a friend’s farm with lots of other doggies and horses. She isn’t alone, and I can finally breathe a sigh of relief that she isn’t suffering.

But fuck. I miss my doggie. She was a comfort to me in so many times of loneliness and grief.

All she wanted in the world, was cuddles from me or my daughter. And to me scratched in her favorite spot on her chest.

It should be noted that pretty much everyone else in the world hated her. She was a combination of the two most annoying breeds known to man. 

She was loyal, and vicious to strangers (when she was young, Himself trained her a bit and she mellowed out). 

She pooped in Himself’s closet. She was not His … she was mine. Vindictive pooper. 

But, he misses her now that she’s gone. 

The End of the Year is Nigh …

And I have decided, since I turned 40 last month, that 2016 is MY year. I work 3 jobs, I pay my bills.

It is time to get shit done. On myself.

So goals for this coming year (and change) …

• New glasses. Preferably several pairs. For several outfits.
• Tattooed eyebrows, A/K/A cosmetic tattooing.
  • I’m a ginger, and I’m tired of drawing on my goddamn eyebrows.
• Tummy tuck procedure.
  • I’m not fat, I just had a huuuuuuge baby. 15 years ago. I’m done with this shit and I plan on getting it fixed. It’s just crazy expensive, and I don’t spend money on myself.
• Invest in quality BDSM gear
  • We went to a play party on Halloween and the host had a completely kitted out dungeon in his basement. It was awesome. Gives me goals.

Triggers — Reposted from KCB Blog

Tags

BDSM Poseurs, Fetlife Sucks So Bad These Days, Fuck this dude, Posers, Predatory Dom/Switch, Trigger

Triggers

Smoking … writing … smoking … writing … drink a beer … smoke … write

 

I love myself, and I work hard at it. I am a person and we have to work to earn the love of those we love … therefore I work hard to earn my own love. I am flawed, and I especially love the flaws in others. I need to love my own.

Does that make sense?

And I’ve earned it.

I think I’ve written before on my extreme closeted nature. Bad experiences with Vanillas who thought that being with someone like me would be hot … but homeboys couldn’t hang and I always…

Always

Always

Always

Ended up freaking them out.

This includes my former husband.

Eventually I’d want them to go to far.

They would flip out.

Think I’m a weird perv.

Or worse … express concern for me like I’m some sort of broken doll.

If you are interested in the specifics, you can read all about that in my Blog, the link is in my profile.

~~~

His Honor and I have been doing everything we can to find lifestyle community here. That includes responding to people who reach out to us on Fetlife.

So … a couple of weeks ago a little homeboy here in this town reached out to me and this is what he said:

MrNiceGuy81: You are so pretty how are you doing today? I just moved to [city redacted] maybe we can be friends:) we have alot in common!

[Note: This douche changed his name, it was originally some sort of 420 elementary bulshit]

Normally, maybe I’d ignore. But, sometimes we just get desperate to kick it with people like us in this shitty suburb. So … I wrote back.

I am very wordy (if you haven’t noticed by now) and so I will summarize: Talk to my Master, he is linked on my profile. We’d like to kick it with you, we have gatherings periodically … blah blah blah.

You know what got me? “Maybe we can be friends.”

I ignored my instincts to shuffle him off to poserland with his shitty grammar and ability to string together a coherent sentence.

So he writes back:

MrNiceGuy: I am kind of new and discovering this new lifestyle. Can u talk to your master or have anyone to train me? I make a good slave i am willing to try anything and i love having women sit on my face and fuk me degrade me. [sic all phrasing]

Well well well, Himself is a trainer. Former Pro-Dom and all. He wants to be my slave? We have been discussing the possibility of me owning my own secondary.

SO I FUCKING WROTE BACK! (All of these things happened with the discretion of my Master, please note.) I also ignored the fact that he wouldn’t talk to Judgment.

I will nutshell this again, but I told him: I do not fuck around. Don’t waste my time. If you want to be mentored and trained by us, you have to do as we say. There are dangerous things that can happen to slaves in this lifestyle.

I have been wary of this dude, he lists himself as a Master but then tells me that he made the profile before he understood what everything meant. He tells me he’s a switch.

Now.

In all honesty, a switch would be a perfect secondary to our dynamic, because Judge could train me to dom and I could train it to sub and it could all be a happy circle. But this dude is clueless.

So we ask him, why he contacted me (us)? What is his goal? Where does he see himself going with this? Blabbity blabbity I am bitter.

MrNiceGuy81: Hmm my end goal? I dont know. I want to make this a part of my lifestyle and have erotic encounters and meet good friends and have a good time. It is hard to find someone to punish me and sit on my face and cum all over me or do things others may call taboo.i am game for anything. I can be dom or sub.

Do u know anyone interested in training me ? I am a good slave i will do anything !

“Anything? So you will write me a 40 page paper with peer reviewed cites on our lifestyle, dynamics and what it means in the greater context of our culture?”

I thought that, Judgment told me not to write it.

I told him to educate himself and meet people IRL.

Duh.
It’s the same fucking thing I tell every newb because that’s how I was trained … and I was trained very, very well.

He says to me that he’s not a total newb, that he’s had “encounters”. He just wants someone to play with.

Red Flag Red Flag Red Flag

“Well who the hell hasn’t?” Is what I was thinking.

Well, so then. I invited him to come out to lunch with us … and from there maybe go to a kink party with us after we vetted him (Seriously, I’m not going to be responsible for bringing some sort of creep into another person’s play party. You wanna get freaky? This is how it’s going to be.)

MrNiceGuy81: Vetted lol? I could care less about meeting a bunch of old pervs at a munch i just want an attractive woman to play with. Im not interested in fitting in or being part of any inner circle group…but we could def go out and get something to eat and meet up sometime

WWWWWEEEEELLLLLLLL then.

Fuck you very MUCH you fucking ingrate. You fucking shitstain. You should have been an abortion. I hope you die alone you fucking imbecile and while you are at it learn how to fucking write a coherent sentence you goddamn retarded halfwit.

I really wanted to say that.

I showed it to the Judge and he told me not to respond, that he’s a troll and he probably read 50 Shades of Grey.

I really want to respond to him though. I so much want to .

I blocked him from my account.

But I really want to tell him that he’s a poser and he’s going to hurt someone, I want to warn every sub within a 100 mile radius that this fucktard is out there, and he will tie you up and beat you and not know what the fuck he is doing.

And he will call you …

A perv.

TRIGGER

 

There it is.

On Fetlife, where I thought I was safe to be me.

Another Landmine. [See where I get my name now?]

Jesus Christ, it is echoing through my skull.

Perv

Pervert

Perv

Sick

Gross

I know he didn’t literally call me a perv. I know he thinks I’m just a hot chick who is down to get freaky from time to time.

But I want to hunt this kid down and make him cry.

I want him to hurt, just like the jockstrap vanilla assholes that called me a freak made me cry.

I wrote this, but deleted because Judgment ordered me to cease and desist:

“Pervs.

Classy.

Well then. Have fun with your life, topping from the bottom … or reading 50 Shades of Grey or where ever else you have heard about this …

It isn’t about fitting in, you fucking shitstain. You should have been an abortion you fucking imbecile.

It’s about not suffocating someone to death or causing permanent nerve damage. We group up because what we do is dangerous.

Jesus Christ, we have enough to deal with without fucktards like you making our life a fucking joke.

Go find a vanilla, and slap her around a bit and get your jollies but stay the fuck away from my life.

You are a poser, and a danger. And I have healed and nursed people that were victims of your kind all too often.

You think people like me are easy? We are not, we are hard. And when you say “I am a good slave” … no you aren’t … “I’ll do anything” obviously not.

You are a liar and a waste of humanity.

I hope you die alone.”

Weird Things I Used to Do…

Tags

Bdsm, I've always been this way ..., Me-n-Bestie, Tortureland Barbie, Whips and Chains

Here’s a little somethin’ I’ve been cogitating on for a few days:

I used to do some weird shit when I was young.

You know how all little kids play ‘doctor’ and all that? Honestly, I don’t think it was much of an “exploration” thing that kids do … I was fascinated by the power dynamic, now that I think about it.

I mean, I was four years old.
I had this decorative pin, shaped like a Jack-O-Lantern, and we would pretend to give each other shots with it.
Except, I really really really wanted to poke the neighbor boy with that pin.
He wouldn’t hold still, even when I told him it wouldn’t hurt.
It was … I don’t know … I was weird.

Then, when I was six years old, Superman II came out. Probably the last decent Superman … anything … to be released.

OH! How I loved that movie. Saw it in the theater, several times. This was the early 80’s, we didn’t even have VHS yet.
Watched it every time it came on TV (regular broadcast TV, YOU KIDS GET OFFA MY LAWN!).

Lois Lane? — Yawn
Superman? — Ugh, Mary Sue
Zod? — “KNEEL BEFORE ZOD!” shivers — What’s this? What’s all this?

And who is this Bad Bitch that can kick Superman’s ass?

OHHH Shit son! Thigh high boots, arm slits, that awesome 80’s blush. 

I wanted to be HER! I wanted to be Ursa from the Phantom Zone. Oh my God, she was so cool.

And badass.
A true Murder-Hoe

Because, she was a Bad Bitch, but she knew her place.
“Kneel before Zod.”

I used to drag out my mom’s boots and clothes, and pretend to be her. There is a picture of me when I was about seven–that my mother has since destroyed because I look like a Goddamn seven year old Dominatrix … I had no idea, I wanted to be Ursa … Hippy parents.

She thought I needed to be free to express myself, I guess.

Anyway, onwards!!!

Seventh grade — 13 years old.

My Best Friend, is still my best friend today. Our birthday’s are three days apart, and once we figured that out, we have been soulmates ever since.

And we still played with Barbies … At thirteen years old … in Middle School …

We were (were???) weird.

Anyway, I had a bunch of broken necklaces and stuff, so we decided to make my entire bedroom into …

Tortureland Barbie

We made these awesome catsuits out of electrical tape, and chained them to my walls.

We shaved some of their hair, and colored it in with magic markers…we did all kinds of shit to our Barbies.
And Ken was a fucking douchebag pussy by the way — He always got his ass kicked, because we’d steal her brother’s GI Joe’s and fuck our Barbies.

I left it like that until my mother and I moved out of that house … so, for over a year.

Kind of like this, if you know … we weren’t thirteen and we knew what we were doing. Ours wasn’t nearly this sophisticated: 

[Our other friends did make fun of us for playing with Barbies still, but the tortureland aspect was so METAL that we got a pass on that.]

At the time, I didn’t register any kind of BDSM aspect to it.

I just liked it.

My Best Friend has made motions toward this lifestyle on and off for years, but she’s never really come out to me.

She gave me a bullwhip for my Fourteenth Birthday. I still have it somewhere.

[Sadly, she has a fetish gear collection that I am completely envious of … she spends a lot of time on eBay and she won’t share.
And as far as I know, she doesn’t … um … use it.]

I don’t know, she’s not an open book when it comes to this stuff.

At any rate, this trip down memory lane was sparked because I was cleaning out closets and I stumbled across Himself’s collection of Bondage Barbies … HAHAHA!

He showed them to me when we first met, and that’s when I knew … He used them for practice before he met his first slave.

Alas, Tortureland Barbie is long gone, electrical tape adhesive ate away at the plastic. But Himself still has his Bondage Barbies, and I treasure them and keep them stored away in our own toybox.

Because we are weird.

… You know, I find it interesting that my mother was surprised when I came out to her … 

Nerdery and BDSM … Duplicate from my KCB blog

Tags

B&D and D&D, Bdsm, gamers, nerds, Nerds and BDSM

Have you guys ever noticed that nerdy things and BDSM tend to go hand in hand?
Let me be more specific:
I tend to have a lot (a LOT) of things in common with people in the lifestyle, that are not BDSM related.
[I should clarify, that I identify as a nerd. I still play video games, we host a board/card gaming night almost every weekend, and I make every hobby a nerdy intellectual douchefest. Beer, for instance … I have to study and research it, and enjoy it from an anthropological and chemical engineering perspective. The term, ‘casual’ does not apply to me — I even nerdify BDSM.]
So a few weeks ago, My Master (Himself, Judgment, The Judge), went to game night at a friend’s house — I did not go, my house was full of teenage girls and I’m not insane enough to allow them free rein.
And he texts me: “Holy shit! There are some kinky motherfuckers here!”
Interesting, I have known some of these people for nearly 3 years … and due to the fact that we have been living in the closet since we moved here, we haven’t made any inroads into the scene here (except a rather cliqued up munch …).
Honestly, I had a feeling. One of Himself’s friends gestured toward a leather gauntlet that we purchased at the Renaissance Festival (another BDSM/nerd crossover) with the BDSM triskele symbol engraved on it … “You know what that means?”
“Of course.” Is all he replied.
I guess my collar wasn’t big enough of a give away.
And that dude DID know what the symbol meant.

Interesting.
But, alas, we have been shut away for so long … neither of us felt comfortable digging any deeper.
Until the game night.
And of course it was a time when I wasn’t there!
I tend to have a lot fewer filters where this stuff is involved, probably because I lived in lock-down for so long.
Anyway, long story short: Himself came out to the original dude, and he told the Judge that two other guys that are regulars at our nerdy game nights are also lifestyle and one of the dude’s has a girlfriend that is lifestyle.
Now, I don’t know what they identify as, but I have found a proliferation of kinky people inside nerd culture.
Or maybe it’s nerds in BDSM culture.
Regardless, I find that more people like me live here … be it music, hobbies, books, tv shows, all the lovely nerdy things that I was ashamed of in the 80’s.
Have a great holiday weekend alla my kinky nerdy people!

This is Why I Haven’t Posted In a While …

Tags

BDD, Bdsm, GAD, MDD, OCD

I am struggling with some issues lately.

Mainly my issues with BDD — or Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Body Dysmorphia … whatever.

Apparently it is an OCD, a compulsion to pick apart my appearance till all I can see is a collection of flaws, rather than the sum of my parts.

It’s so fricking ridiculous, I am going be forty years old in less than a month.

Or maybe that is the issue.

FORTY!

Jesus Christ.

I try not to care. I really do, but I care. I care a lot. I am very vain.

Anyway, how does this tie (heh, see what I did there?) into my BDSM life?

Well, I’ll tell you: When we are doing stuff, I kind of leave my head and hover around like an observer. And if I think I’m looking particularly fat or ugly, it takes me out of the moment, and then I start fretting over my weight or appearance.

It’s not always my weight, but most of the time it is.

I’m fucking short, and I’ve always been … built? Curvy? Built like a brick shithouse? I don’t know … what’s the opposite of delicate and willowy?

Stocky? Yuck.

Even when I was 7 years old I wanted to be skinny, with my collar bones showing. It takes monumental effort for that to happen.

I generally can get pretty thin … for a while … maybe a year or two. Sometimes three, but then I gain right back up.

See, I’m Five feet tall. According to the BMI chart, I’m never supposed to weigh more than 127lbs.
I have to restrict my diet to <800 calories, and run 5K every other day to maintain that weight (and I looked pretty bad, I didn’t intentionally get that thin, but more on that later).

And if I stop … that 25lbs comes right back.

It’s like some sort of hideous second law of thermodynamics or something.

I rarely stay any heavier than I am now, and I can’t maintain being smaller.

Fuck this.

Mom-body is what I call it.

Not fat, not thin. Just … frumpy.

And I have huge boobs, and no it’s not a stealth brag.

You know what 34DD boobs look like on a 5′ frame?
Unless I wear form fitting clothes, I look like an apple, because my boobs take up all the space in my upper body.

Let’s talk about form fitting clothes for a while.

At 5′ tall, I had an 8 1/2 lb baby girl. I love her with everything that I am, but that child literally tore me in half.
I’ve never been the same.
My abs don’t go together right, and I had to have surgery to get her out of there, so it looks like a melted candle, and the tissue is all weird and destroyed.

I want a tummy tuck for my birthday.

I have a big nose.

My hands are tiny, and look like cabbage patch kid hands.

My feet are tiny and look like hobbit feet. (I hear that a lot)

I have enormous curly orange hair, that will not be controlled despite 20 years of professional training on how to control other people’s hair. (That part, I actually have learned to love, but loathing my hair is one of my earliest memories).

Now, I’m going to close this posting by stating that intellectually speaking: I know I am gorgeous.

Take all of these weird and strange parts of my body and the sum is greater than the parts.

Outy bellybutton
Left handed
Curly hair
Short
Huge nose
Ginger
Tattoos
Gauged ears
Weirdness, that has never left me no matter what I do.

My mother tells me that I am an exotic bird of paradise. That’s why people tend to want to possess me.

But right now, all I can see are the flawed parts.

I gotta get my head straight.

How does one get over it?

I’ve never figured it out.

Oh My God, I am not Broken — And Neither Are YOU!! A Non-BDSM Rant

Tags

Fuck Social Networking and Their Memes, Mental Health, No BDSM Today Folks, Not Broken, Rant, Ranting

Facebook, Pinterest, Twitter and Instagram are pissing me off today.

Sorry no BDSM cogitations on this entry. I’m feeling ranty.

When I was Fifteen years old, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. I had been cutting and burning myself for about a year, and then at the end of my Freshman year of High School, I tried to kill myself (for the third time, actually. My first suicide attempt was in 6th grade).

The difference was, I got caught. And my mother loves me. And I was lucky and got with a really good therapist and psychiatrist.

I was put on anti-depressants, and by the time I reached age 18 I found that I was forgetting to take my meds more and more often. I had developed tools to cope with the weird fake thoughts that my brain made. The meds gave me a lens through which I could look at the world as it was, rather than as my brain chemistry made me think it was.

Looking back, I suffered from debilitating anxiety disorder (I wasn’t diagnosed with GAD until I was 35, and working on my senior thesis paper). I was always terribly shy and awkward and scared of everything. Ever since I can remember.
Back in the 70’s and 80’s, they just called it “being shy”.

Again, I developed tools to cope: Shy? Become a hairdresser, can’t be shy doing that job.
Don’t like something about my personality? Fix it. Jump into the deep end, and force myself into that uncomfortableness, because I cannot let these chemicals beat me.
Agoraphobia? Force myself to attend the second biggest college campus in my state.
Hate crowds? Force myself to attend lectures with 1000 other people. Force myself to travel, dealing with airports.

Not that those things fixed me, per se: I’m still terribly shy, still hate crowds, still have agoraphobia … but the difference is this — I have empirical evidence that these things won’t kill me.
It may kick up my IBS, and make my stomach churn. I may eat a hole in my stomach lining.

But these things won’t kill me.

And that kids, is the worse case scenario, right?

This is why I get so fucking angry when people keep mewling on about how they are ‘broken’.

Nope, sorry. You are not broken.

Humans are amazingly resilient.

MDD and GAD? Your brain chemistry is all fucked up. Just like about 80% of American population.
Maybe you aren’t doing something you are supposed to be doing, but you aren’t fucking broken.
Broken equals defeat, and I cannot have respect for anyone who wallows in their own defeat.

You aren’t a special snowflake.

Now, here I will go into the Nature vs. Nurture debate, but if you view this through a lens of cultural and biological evolution, Humans did not evolve to sit in an office for 10 hours a day under florescent lighting.

We actually evolved to run down our prey (according to some evolutionary biologists, and physical anthropologists) and to live in small groups of 150 or less.

So, your biology cannot cope with living around thousands of people and lack of sunlight?
Humans are diurnal, that’s why you feel like shit.

It’s a biological artifact, it’s why some people are more prone to obesity, type 2 diabetes, certain cancers (debatable … but it’s been hypothesized) ad nauseum.

So Pinterest Tweeting, IG superstar, no you are not broken.

You were raised by an asshole, and you aren’t doing what you are supposed to be doing.
None of us are.

Well, with a few exceptions.

Go to your local university and ask any professor of Evo. Biology or Anthropology if the !Kung tribesmen, or Papua New Guinea Highlanders or Maasai or uncontacted Amazonian people suffer from MDD and GAD.

Statistically, they probably do, but I bet the numbers are much much smaller.
They are doing what humans evolved to do: Hunting/Gathering (those that do suffer from mental disorders are usually shunned or accused of witchcraft. Sometimes venerated. It would be an interesting field study, but that wasn’t my concentration, so I’ll let someone else do the legwork on it).

Being sedentary accounts for 0.001% of our entire human species’ existence.

Evolutionarily speaking, that is just a blink of an eyeball.
A veritable eyelash on the grand clock of our species.

Again, if one more person infers that I am “Broken” because I have a chemical imbalance in my brain, I’ma break their face.

Then they can be depressed about the blood running out their nose.

I’m just kidding. I do not condone violence, unless it Himself beating me.

Conclusion and the Aftermath

Tags

Bdsm, BDSM M/s total power exchange, Roofies will unleash the subconscious upon the world

I should probably link the previous entries so that this one will make sense but I’m lazy, and my wrists are hurting from typing so much.

As mentioned, I was done with the Judge’s head games. I had my own life to live, and I was going to find myself again, after giving so much to him.

I went out with my friends, and woke up the next morning completely hung over.

My phone was chirping that I had missed calls, but I didn’t know where it was.

For whatever reason, I figured I just came straight home and passed out with my clothes still on …

Nope, T-shirt and boxer shorts … what tha fuuuuuuck?

Phone is insistently chirping.
More than one missed call then.

Where the hell is it?

I roll off the bed, and stick my head out into the hallway.

There is a trail of my clothes from the night before leading to the bathroom.
One shoe on the stairs.
One shoe in the hallway.

My phone is on the floor in the hallway.
Merrily chirping away.

And starts ringing.

“Mom”

Not quite there yet, I’ll call her back later.

“35 missed calls”

What the shit mang?

I scroll through, several from my mother, another couple from Judgment.

Hmmm. Judgment called?

Looked like about an hour before.

I took a deep breath and put on my biggirl panties. Time to lay it out and if he doesn’t like it, fuck him.

“Hello.”
“I’m just going to say one thing, and then I’ll be done and you can do with it what you will: I cannot function in a vacuum, you want me to be your slave? Fine, but you have  to be my Master. I know things have been shitty and hard for you, but you know what? I’m going through hell right now, and my happiness, like it or not is tied to yours. It is my job to help you, but you have to let me. If that’s not what you want then …” I didn’t say it, but the implication was there: Let me go … I’m not strong enough to break away on my own …

“Okay.”

And just like that … things were back to normal. Well, normalish.

At that point I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, but as soon as I was off the phone with him, I called my mother back. She was terrified.

It seems as if I called her in the middle of the night and screamed at her incoherently for three hours. The stress and anxiety of four years of college all culminated on top of me at that one point.
She told me I just kept repeating over and over “I can’t do this anymore, Landmine is done! Landmine is done…”

She thought that I had literally broken with reality…maybe I snapped and lost my mind. 

My roommate at the time also came downstairs to check on me and I was crawling on the floor screaming.
Apparently I had fallen down the stairs into the basement and lost one of my shoes. She tried to help me, but I wouldn’t let her.

Eventually I hung up on my mother, so she called my roommate. Neither one of them had any idea what was wrong with me, or what to do with me. 

I guess I just crawled into bed and passed out. 

That night is still full of mysteries for me. I have no memories of calling my mom, or falling down the stairs. I don’t remember taking my makeup off or changing out of my clothes. I don’t remember screaming or crying or anything else.

Here’s some honesty: I do drink, and I drank quite a bit back then, but I have never blacked out that thoroughly. Ever.

I looked through my purse, and I had only spent $5 at the bars … enough for one drink, which I remember buying.

I don’t remember anyone else buying me a drink, and we were careful about watching each other’s drinks anyway, we lived in a college town. I had been roofied before.

The last clear memory I had was finishing off “Dumb N”s pineapple and vodka.

A few days later, we pieced the night back together: She was way more wasted than she should have been as well. I think she was the target, and we each only got half a dose.
Which is why I didn’t spend the night throwing up bloody foam … because that’s what happened the first time I was roofied.

To this day, I find the holes in my memory one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.

~~~

It took me years to get over the fear that he would vanish on me again. Even after we moved in together.

I started a new class. Another Spanish class. At this point, it had become my nemesis, I had never ever let anything beat me. I had renewed vigor! I would learn it! I would beat my brain into submission!

One day as I was leaving class, I checked my phone.

Missed call from Judgment.

Zing of pleasure and adrenaline. All was right with the world again.

Scroll back back back back back back back … need to clean this history … back back back

Phone call to Judgment [night of blackout]; call lasted 10 minutes … FEAR

What the hell???

No memories of calling him, and he never said anything about it.
Never mentioned that I called him, incoherent or otherwise … what the hell did I say?
Did I call him crying making an ass of myself????

Shit.

So I call him back, and oh so casually ask him what I said.

Awkward silence … then an awkward laugh, “Nothing really. Just called.”

“Was I …” deep breath, “my mom told me I was out of my mind, was I screaming at you?”

He laughed, “No, you just called. Don’t worry about it.”

I put two and two together: Something I said to him that night made him come back to me. Something I said broke the silence … but to this day … I have no Earthly idea what it was. He refuses to tell me, says that it’s private between him and the Me that called Him that night.

Anyway, as soon as my class was over, he flew me out to see him and I stayed with him for a week, resting. And that was Four years ago today.

And now we are a family … a weird, mixed race, BDSM family … but a family nonetheless

It worked out in the end, but that was a scary time for me.

Act III : Landmine Gets Roofied

Tags

Bdsm, clubbing in a college town, Roofies

A friend of mine had a birthday, and a couple of my coworkers called to get me to go out for it.

I had just finished my finals, I got a C in my Spanish class (which at this point was a relief. I thought I was flunking), and I was starting another interim class the next Monday.

In other words, I needed to go out and let my hair down.

And I hadn’t heard from the Judge since 4th of July, and he called me drunk and told me … well, He told me to call him John Rambo and then he said he wanted me to move in with him … then he fell asleep on me when I tried to question what the hell he thought he was doing.
This was the only actual contact I’d had with him for a month.

I felt like it was a mind game.
He was stringing me along, just to keep me around while he was shopping for another slave.
Or something.
I didn’t know.

But, I was done.
With that shit.

I wrote all about it.

I never told him. I was going to just stop answering his cryptic texts, and fade into the past with what dignity I could muster up.
After all, I had my own lifestyle friends that could support me and guide me through this.

I didn’t need his shit eating me up inside.

Oh, I was sad.
But I finally got mad.

So I drank some wine, and got all dressed up. And, friends, I looked HOT.

I mean, I always looked hot, but I fully intended to let whatever happen … happen.

“The best way to get over one man, is to get under another…”

Sex for me is a tool. And I use it. I have no shame.

So my friends came to pick me up.
Let me amend this: This wasn’t my regular group of friends, it was really two of my coworkers and another girl that I didn’t know very well.
Ergo, the ‘girl code’ was not necessarily in full effect.

I’ll admit, I was a bit tipsy from the wine, but I was in no way drunk.

And we go to the club.

And dance my ass off.

I was out of control, but in a good way.
See, I’m white … but I don’t dance like it.

Anyway, eventually I’m grinding on one dude, and his friend is grinding on my ass. And it’s hot. Very hot.
And I’m digging it, because I feel pretty again.
I feel I have value, after I had been thrown away.
I had power, and I could use it.

And use it, I did.

We danced for quite a while, I don’t remember drinking much.

Until …

My friend “N” or “Dumb N” as we called her behind her back (girl was not all there, very nice but missing some brain cells), said to me: “Ugh, you want the rest of this? I can’t finish it.”

It was half of a vodka and pineapple.

A few minutes later, everyone decides to leave, and “N” is holding my hand and stumbles and drags me down on the ground.

From here, my memory gets spotty.

I remember crawling a little way, and maybe a bouncer kicking us out for being too drunk.

I remember being in the car, and the two dudes I was dancing with trying to get my number.
I remember trying to give it to them, but my friends were like, “NO! She has a boyfriend!”
I remember saying “No I don’t! He doesn’t talk to me anymore. I’m single!”

I have a vague recollection of the girls dropping me off at my house, and asking them if they wanted to sit on my porch swing with me.

And then nothing.

Parte B: Enter the Month from Hell

Tags

Anxiety, Bdsm, Burnout, College, Darkness, Silence, The Dark Place, The Judge Ignores Landmine

I am a shameless perfectionist. I push and push and push until I collapse.

At that point in my life, I had a 3.89 GPA and that little .11 points off my GPA was eating at my soul. (I got a B in an ill-fated English History course that I took because it looked interesting. I did not read the course description fully … it was dual credit for History Majors/Graduate Students … I was neither. I was a Freshman. Thank the gods for decent advisors in my department.)

The reason I include the above is to illustrate where I was mentally by this time.

I was a good student. I was a good hairdresser. I was a good mother. I paid my bills. I had my shit together.
But the problem with being a perfectionist, is that everything in one’s life is very precarious.

When one spins 10 plates on 10 sticks, an additional plate could make the whole thing come crashing down.
This is why I was hesitant to get into any sort of relationship in the first place.

But the Judge (that fucker) wheedled his way inside my walls. Made me love him. Made my life bearable. Made the plate spinning not seem so hard, because I had something to look forward to.

Until I didn’t.

I knew I was getting close to a pretty hardcore burnout, which is why I was taking summer classes.  I was just ready to be done.
I don’t know if that was a mistake or not, but the decisions I made that summer kind of set me up for the next year … good or bad? That remains to be seen.

The point is, I push myself too hard.

So Judgment called me at work on a Saturday morning … and then I didn’t hear from him again for a week.
No bigs, I thought to myself, he warned me he would go dark periodically. Also, it gives me time to work on Spanish. Which was a terrible struggle for me.
He’d send me a text:

“so sleepy”

I’d respond, but get nothing for a several more days.

Eventually his text messages were getting further and further apart.

He’d call and talk to me for a less than a minute, and abruptly say, “You bore me. Good bye.”
And hang up.

But I hung on.

I was understanding and patient for an astonishing amount of time.

Probably because I was so busy, in addition to the fact that when I’m in the dark place … I don’t want people bugging me.
I don’t want to talk.
I don’t want to do anything.
I just want to white knuckle my way through it.

He told me he was struggling with a bunch of personal shit.

And I was understanding.

I gave him space, and did my own thing.

I’d go out with my friends, and send him photos.

But, he’d never respond.

So I’d give up hope.

Then he’d send me a text, and I’d soar!!!! Happy days!!!!

Then nothing.

He’d call, but I’d be busy at work or with something else, and he’d not answer when I called back.

This went on until July 9th. [For reference, I put up with this shit from May 28th to July 9th, nearly 6 weeks!]

It was eating at me.
I had given over a part of myself to this man, that no one had ever had access to.
I’m a person that doesn’t trust, and I trusted him.
I let him tie me up and beat me, and then he vanished.

As a person who struggled with self actualization and BDSM, I literally couldn’t allow myself to accept the fact that he really had vanished.

I continued to hope.

I continued to be patient.

I lost about 15 pounds that I could not afford to lose.

I started crying randomly.
I didn’t cry. Not then. Not ever.

I got a D on a Spanish exam.

I came home and absolutely lost my shit.

I collapsed on my bedroom floor and screamed for hours.

You see, my house of cards was beginning to collapse.

I wasn’t good enough at Spanish.
I wasn’t good enough to keep my marriage going.
I wasn’t good enough to keep my Master’s regard.
I wasn’t good enough.
I wasn’t good.
I wasn’t.

I started drinking wine every night, just to deal with the rising tide of anxiety.
I literally could not look at Spanish or hear it, without having a full on panic attack.
Incidentally, this is the point in my life when the panic attacks started.

My friends were there for me.
At one point I hadn’t heard from him for two weeks.
My friends were like, “I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but if he hasn’t called you in two weeks …” Sympathetic looks.

Yeah. He’s just not into you.

But what about all that shit he said? He made ME call HIM Master! I didn’t pursue him, he came after me! He broke down MY walls! I tried and tried to keep him at arms length. I tried.
I tried.

I was writing in my journal every few hours by that point. Writing him letters that I would never send. Screaming in my head.

Feeling foolish.

I was convinced that I had been some sort of toy or challenge.

Get the emotionally stunted girl to open up, and once she does … bugger off.

Power trip?

I questioned myself constantly.

I was powerless. Rudderless.

He had broken me down over the course of just a few months, and I was just a squashy pathetic being.

Fuck this. 

I’d write to him. Curse him out. Apologize. Curse myself out.

I felt so stupid and naive, to have believed that anyone would have wanted this with me.

No one ever did.

I was the gross pervert. Always.

To be continued…