And my one solace: Dita Von Teese is three years older than me.
If she can be fabulous, so can I.
25 Thursday Jun 2015
Posted The Fires of BDSM (NSFW)
inAnd my one solace: Dita Von Teese is three years older than me.
If she can be fabulous, so can I.
12 Friday Jun 2015
Posted The Fires of BDSM (NSFW)
inTags
Anxiety, Bdsm, Depression, Eating Sins, tpe, Xanax and Subspace
Five Tips for Empaths to Prevent Anxiety and Depression:
I wrote here the other day, that I stumbled across this article that a (vanilla) friend of mine posted on Facebook. I generally scoff at hippy woo-woo articles, but in this case I think the hippy accidentally stumbled onto something – At least, in my experience, subs/slaves/bottoms tend to wrap their own sense of happiness and well being into that of their Other.
I know for me, there is a direct correlation into Himself’s happiness and my own. And it doesn’t end with Him (although I am better now). I’ve always been like this, taken others’ moods or ‘energies’ into myself.
My mother is like this too; we jokingly refer to ourselves as sin-eaters. We are the shoulder to cry on, and we will end up eating ourselves alive with worry, while the people we care for are able to unburden themselves and go on … I don’t mean for that to sound as negative as it seems.
[And he’ll kill me for telling you this, but Himself is the same way, so maybe it is a lifestyle thing, rather than an s-type thing? I have been known to accuse him of lacking empathy, but I think that (as the article states) he so acutely feels for others, that he has built massive walls for his own protection.]
At any rate, it’s still been gnawing at me and I thought I’d do some old school analysis of this article and see if it exactly correlates …
“We have to be willing to actually live our lives, and that starts by being brave enough to feel.” The author says that first way to do this is to create motion and to mix up daily routine of your life.Can’t get much motiony than BDSM: Jumping around, dancing, cleaning, serving, doing any task that takes one out of one’s own head.
Pain is catharsis for me, so is screaming. So are orgasms. So I guess, it’s all one big ball of catharsis. Actually, I have always identified my masochistic tendencies as cathartic. Subspace is a calm place.
I’ve been writing in a journal regularly since I was 14 years old, but even if I hadn’t, one of Judgment’s very first tasks that he assigned to me, as my Mentor was to write in a journal daily, I gather that this is quite common. (For what it’s worth, I end up talking to The Muse (the s-type part of my personality. we have entire conversations. I think I’ve written about it here before. And yes, I know she’s not a real person outside of myself.))
This is a form of service to my Master and myself. Although, he is just like this and he cleans just as often if not more than I do. If our house is in chaos, our lives are in chaos. (Or in my case vice-versa, but whatever.)
I think s-types are much better at this than vanillas, because our relationships (ideally) have to be more laid out on the table. A good Master knows when to push and when to coax, when to use positive or negative reinforcement. Ideally, we need to be more open about our needs purely because … survival. Although, I fail at asking for help.
So, here is my theory: Bondage and pain always alleviate my anxiety. I’m more centered and at peace with myself when we are actively ‘doing stuff’. I get antsy and depressed and anxious when we go too long between ‘happy funtimes’.
My psychiatrist also prescribed me some Xanax for generalized anxiety, and I honestly feel like Xanax makes me feel exactly like subspace.
Huh. Maybe it’s because we are Empaths. From the planet Betazed. We can get careers as useless eye candy on the Startship Enterprise and consistently state the obvious in any situation.
09 Tuesday Jun 2015
Posted The Fires of BDSM (NSFW)
inTags
Bdsm, bondage, domdrop, domination, domspace, drifting, flying high, masochism, sadism, subdrop, Submission, subspace
My thanks go out to Enigmatic Amor for inspiring me to write this entry, from her post here.
~Subspace~
Before I entered into this journey, I educated myself. I knew about subspace, although I had never experienced it myself.
The random fumblings that I entered into with various partners did not allow for that amount of trust or release of control on my part.
I could not let go.
The first time I spaced was with my Master, on the phone.
It was a call and response:
“What are you?”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“Yes you do, let it go. What are you?”
“Submissive, Sir.”
He was not my Master yet. He was a friend, a Mentor and a voice on the phone.
We met on bondage.com, a shithole of a website. I don’t know how we got so lucky because I had some weird freaks contacting me on there.
Call and response.
I spaced almost immediately.
At first my hands were shaking so bad I could hear the phone clanking against my earrings (2 gauge weights, really. Very pretty. Shaped like swans, I miss them. Teenage daughters will lose your stuff.)
“Let go, just drift. What are you?”
“Submissive, Sir.”
“Yes, good girl.”
ZAP!
That did it right there, didn’t it? “Good Girl” the trigger for most s-types. Well, sorry I’m not trying to be sexist here. “Good Girl, Good Boy, Good Pet”.
Drifting
Drifting
Drifting
“You can let go. I’ll catch you. I’m not going anywhere. You are safe, with me.”
I let go. I let the control go. I no longer had to white knuckle myself through my life. My worries and anxieties fell away like shed skin.
I felt myself expand into the universe.
I closed my eyes and could see my cerebral cortex all lit up like a Christmas Tree.
I felt like there was a coil of copper wrapped around my spinal cord, plugged from my brainstem down into my lower back.
~Aftercare~
Because of the nature of our relationship in the beginning, the long-distance and the training and the fact that we were not a couple/item/Master-slave — He could not do the regular aftercare that you read about in manuals or guides.
Of course he’d talk me down, but the time zone differences and the 1500 mile distance made true aftercare impossible.
I learned to care for myself.
Here is what I learned:
1.) I need chocolate and/or a glass of wine. Just one glass! More than that, and I’ll get drunk and that creates sub-drop.
2.) I get really really cold, and I need to lie down under blankets.
3.) I CANNOT drive. Once, in the beginning, I had no chocolate or cigarettes. I ran out to get some … and ended up driving around randomly because I kept forgetting what I was doing. It was just as irresponsible as if I had been drinking. It took me an hour to go three minutes down the street from my house.
4.) I get scared if I do not do my routine: Himself talking me down, a bit of chocolate, maybe a glass of wine, blanket and Netflix and a couple of cigarettes.
[Yes, I smoke. Yes it’s nasty. Yes, He has tried to make me quit. Yes, I’m ashamed that I can’t. And yes, I have a vaporizer. It isn’t the same.]
So that was the routine: Get home from work, get on phone/skype, tie myself up/fuck myself if I was lucky, get spaced out of my mind, clean everything up (still on the phone), fix myself a snack and a glass of wine, smoke a cigarette, get comfy in bed with some Netflix (still on the phone) and listen to Himself fall asleep.
Listen to him breathe.
It was an hour earlier at my house than it was at his. He worked early hours and I worked late.
Even now, after living together for three years, I tend toward my old routine of self-care, because that is what I had … programmed (???) myself to do.
Eventually, I’ll grab a blanket and curl up next to him, and get all needy and lovey, but those first moments … that is when I remind The Muse that I love her. And that I’m sorry for locking her in a box.
~Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men: Sub-Drop~
No one had ever mentioned this in anything I had read [Granted, I hadn’t been visiting message boards or personal blogs because of ‘history’ with my ex.] even mentioned sub-drop.
So, I wasn’t expecting it when it hit me.
Luckily, I had already been active on Fetlife for a while and I was able to recognize it for what it was.
This is what sub-drop is for me (experiences vary and many people don’t drop at all): Terrible sense of loss, sometimes hopelessness. Mild to severe depression, depending on my cycle. Incredible neediness, I’m almost terrified to leave Judgment’s side if I’m particularly bad. I feel emotionally raw and exposed, like a naked molerat (he hates it when I say that, lol).
…anxiety …
Now, some newbs and some vanillas and even some Old Guard will ask, “If the drop is so terrible, why do this to yourself in the first place?”
That is a very good question Hypothetical person! I’m glad you asked.
The connection I feel to my Master and my Self and the universe is so incredibly intense during subspace. I am a control freak, and it is the one time in my life when I can truly let gooooooo. And it must be mentioned, that the hormones released during edge-play can be addictive; I mean, they are the same chemicals released by cocaine and heroin. Well, similar anyway.
That’s also why cutters get addicted to cutting, at least according my kid’s shrink.
I also go very deep into subspace very quickly, and I think my sub-drops might be a bit more intense as a result.
Anyway, 99% of the battle is awareness, and if I am prepared, and I drop … then I start feeling all emo and maudlin … well, there’s the answer. I’m droppy. I better eat some chocolate and write write write write. Exercise and sunshine.
Coffee, if it’s not too late.
Find that moment of grace and thank the Universe that such a beautiful Man came into my life.
[Addendum: There is also a phenomenon known as Dom-space and Dom-drop. I keep an eye out for Judgment as well, because he thinks he’s invincible. He acknowledges that he goes to Dom-space but I’m just now getting him to admit that he needs special care an attention after our times together as well. Plus, taking care of him helps to allay the sub-drop.]
08 Monday Jun 2015
Posted The Fires of BDSM (NSFW)
inTags
Bdsm, Betrayal, Closet Case, Fake Online Doms, lies, Naivete, Predators, Secrets, Trust
This blog is all about my personal journey out of the closet, and back to loving myself for who I am. I’ll not belabor the point too much, because it sounds way emo and I try not to spend more than a few moments out of every day in self-loathing.
I thought it might be a good thing at this point, to expose why I was so consumed with self-loathing and shame in the first place.
I’ve already said I’d had bad experiences with vanilla partners thinking I was a gross pervert, but there is one particular moment in my life when I went from a vague sort of, shame and dirty feelings to outright self-hatred and living in the closet full time.
I was about 27 years old, and my daughter was two. My ex-husband was going to school full time while I worked to support him in his endeavors. We had just moved to a new city, and wonder of wonders! I was loving my life.
Previously I found myself in a horrible small town of inbred rednecks. Those people judged me harshly just for existing, not to mention my BDSM proclivities. I lived there for seven years, and it was an absolute unrelenting nightmare.
Well, the first year or two were alright, but anyone with a brain got the hell out of there as quickly as they could.
Anyway, as I said: I was relatively young and good looking (I forgot I was hot by that point, I was consumed with being a mother and wife), and found myself with friends and a life again.
One day, my ex was at school and I had the day off from work. My daughter was down for a nap and I was fiddling around online.
Some random dude, sent me a message on Yahoo messenger from out of nowhere and just said ‘hi’.
Remember those days? Random strangers sending you a message: “u wanna cyber?”
yuck
Anyway, instead of clicking the X button like I usually did, I decided to string this dude along. Just out of boredom really.
He said he started talking to me because he liked my profile (??? I hadn’t updated that profile for ages, I had some lyrics from the NYHC band Sick Of It All on there). He found it intriguing.
He stimulated my music nerd.
We started talking about music.
I don’t know why or how he picked up on my sub-type nature. I suspect it was that song, even though it’s not about Lifestyle … or maybe he was just a predator looking for prey.
To this day, I just don’t know.
So anyway, we talk for quite a while. I didn’t find him creepy or annoying like most random internet Yahoo Messenger weirdos.
And he lived in a city about an hour away from mine.
He went to the same college that I would eventually end up graduating from.
Blah blah blah.
What started off as me randomly thinking I’d humiliate a creep by stringing him along kind of, by the end of the week, ended up becoming a budding friendship type situation.
It was anonymous. I could tell him things.
Let me back up here for a moment and explain that for years I had been stumbling across my ex-husbands online paramours. It bothered me at first, but then I just let it go. His original argument: “It’s not real anyway, I wouldn’t care if you did it.”
Fair enough.
As long as he kept it away from my daughter, I let it go.
After a couple of days of talking to this dude, things began to heat up a bit. Exchanging fantasies and such.
Still, I told myself — just friendly chat. It’s nothing I wouldn’t talk to my girl friends about.
But I certainly didn’t let my ex know what I was doing.
There was some part of me that felt guilty, and that little part of me was getting off on feeling guilty … and getting off on keeping it from him.
Revenge.
Suddenly shit spun out of my control.
This happens periodically when The Muse takes the steering wheel.
I had never in my life, posted a picture of myself in a compromising position. To this day I take great pains to protect my anonymity. I was even more paranoid back then. I had a very public job, where reputation is all you have. That was my bread and butter.
I called this guy Master.
I let him order me to do things, like jerk off in the bathroom at work.
I called this stranger, Master after talking to him for a week. On yahoo messenger. After seeing two pictures of him — which were probably not him.
And he was married. With kids. So we were both doing that.
Anyway, one day I decided to skive off work.
I told my husband I had a terrible headache and asked him to take my daughter to daycare for me.
Oh, I didn’t mention that this guy would only talk to me between the hours 8 AM – 5 PM? Yeah … this dude was “domming” me while at work. A real class act.
I was so starved for this life, that I called in sick.
I never did that.
I never do that now!
Red Flag
We shall call him D because his name was David. Or at least he said it was.
Ugh, even now I’m feeling waves of shame and humiliation for calling this guy Master after such a short period of time.
I was so naive … and desperate …
He talked me into hooking up my webcam, and I talked to him for a while. Of course, he couldn’t hook up his own webcam. I never ever saw any moving images of this person.
I thought at first that I could use him to get the whole BDSM thing out of my system and continue to live a “normal” marriage outside of that.
I didn’t go looking for it.
IT found me.
One thing led to another, and I ended up using all kinds of home made bondage devices on myself at the behest of this person. Clothespins mostly.
I fucked myself with a dildo on camera.
I sent him pictures of my titties, but NEVER my face.
All of these things were out of character for me.
I never did those things with my husband … despite him begging me.
I was flying high on the … well, those of you who had a first time with a Dom, you know. It’s like a hit of heroin and cocaine at the same time.
Finally, someone understood me.
Finally, I could be myself.
Finally, someone who wouldn’t back down in disgust when I needed them to stand up.
I stayed in bed after that, all evening until the next morning. Jerking off, and thinking about what I had done.
He got off on the betrayal.
He told me that.
I got off on finally letting The Muse have free rein.
But the next day.
THE NEXT DAY.
THE VERY NEXT DAY …
My life fell apart.
I was cooking dinner, and my ex was at the computer,
“Who is davidNo.1?” That wasn’t his real username, but I can’t remember what it was now.
Oh … shiiiiiit, “It’s a person who saw some of my writing online, and started talking to me about it.”
“Huh.”
Silence.
Why did I lie? He already told me he wouldn’t care if I jerked off online with random strangers like he did on a constant basis.
I lied because I knew it was bullshit. Too late now. Gotta ride this lie down. And I am no good at it. Lies are hard work, and I am fundamentally lazy.
So a couple of days pass, and I didn’t think about any of it at all. I continued to talk to “D”. I continued to care for my daughter, who was coming up on her third birthday.
I continued to go to work and be a wife and support my husband while he was in school.
~My Day Off: Or, The Shit Hit The Fan~
I was sitting at the computer waiting for “D” to message me with some dumb task or other.
Yahoo messenger lights up, and a message pops up … my heart skips a beat because I’m excited to talk to “My Master” …
“You fucking lying whore.”
Oh. Shit.
It was my husband.
You see, at some point, he installed a key logger onto the computer and stole all of my passwords. Rifled through everything I had and went back and retrieved every bit of dialogue between “D” and I.
Well, fuck.
I don’t even remember what happened after that. It was a stream of profanity and insults. He copy and pasted every word I said to this guy and threw it back into my face.
He came home for lunch and informed me that I am a disgusting piece of shit.
A pervert.
A freak.
“I can have you locked up for that.”
“I am going to take your daughter and you will never EVER see her again.”
“Fucking whore”
“Dumb Bitch”
“Fucking CUNT”
“I am going to tell EVERYONE what a fucking pervert you are.”
“I am going to tell your family, I’m going into your work and I’m going to tell all those bitches you work with. I’m going to tell all of your clients.”
“Don’t believe me? I’ve already talked to someone. The things you do are illegal, and I can have you locked up for trying to harm yourself or others. You fucking sick bitch.”
I tried to contact “D”, but it was in vain. My ex apparently catfished him. Pretended to be me and drew him out and then told him that he traced his IP address and was going to Out him and have him arrested as well.
Dude was goooooone gone gone.
This started in one day … but it went on for months. Not a day went by, where he didn’t remind me of what a fucking sick freak I was.
That episode damaged me.
I mean, my ex and I had our issues … but that … that really hurt me bad in ways that no one ever in my life had hurt me.
And the really shitty thing was: He was right.
I looked it up too.
In my state, if one is a danger to themselves or others, all it takes is two adult signatures to have them locked up indefinitely.
What is a danger to ones’ self you ask?
Well, back in 2003 when this happened, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th Edition (DSMIV), listed Masochism as a mental disorder. Legally I was a danger to myself.
And by extension: To my daughter.
I started to believe this shit.
I mean, I struggled with who I was anyway. I was already on shaky ground anyway. But this.
Well. This pretty much sealed my fate.
I could not lose my daughter.
Could not.
Would not.
Every night thereafter, I would visualize this perfect human version of myself. The Muse. I would visualize her.
I would kiss her gently on the forehead and fold her up in a wooden trunk.
I would wrap the trunk in chains over and over and over again. Locks upon locks upon locks.
Jacob Marley and the chains he forged in life.
I forged the chains and locked her up.
I dropped her in the blackest part of the ocean, and watched her sink.
You would be amazed how effective guided visualization and meditation can be.
And it cuts both ways.
I need to take a break here, and smoke a cigarette. Because I have only ever related this story in its entirety to one other person. I’m having an anxiety attack.
Things were pretty terrible in my marriage from that point on. And the ironic thing is: My marriage was not really that bad before that.
In fact, I was fairly content.
Which was the problem.
The Muse doesn’t like content. She’s not vanilla. She wasn’t happy, but I was trying so hard to be normal that I ignored her.
In hindsight, I think I was pretty lucky that I ended up getting caught. I imagine that “D” for douche was catfishing me … but there were some serious red flags that I was too naive to pick up on.
Maybe he was just a bored suburban drone, looking for a kinky girl to jerk off to in the shower. But he was beginning to broach the subject of me going to visit him in his city.
I honestly don’t think I would have risked it … but would She? Would The Muse have taken over in her sub-frenzy and thrown my better judgment out the window?
Was he a predatory Dom?
Even if he wasn’t, so many things could have gone so wrong.
It it quite obvious to me now that either he was a fake, an amateur, a poseur … or a predator.
It’s quite chilling to think about.
Even though I lived every moment of my life from then on deep in this horror show of a closet, I began to research.
Real research, not just “The Story of O” or “The Sleeping Beauty Trilogy” or any number of BDSM erotica that I consumed at an alarming rate.
I began to learn what it is for real.
Despite being a self-loathing closet case I began to learn about myself and my nature, because The Muse still talked to me from time to time.
Whispering from the bottom of the ocean.
She needed to breathe, and she needed to be free.
Well, that wouldn’t happen for another six years, but that is a story for another time.
05 Friday Jun 2015
Posted The Fires of BDSM (NSFW)
inThat’s what I have always called it anyway, and I think it directly correlates to my slave nature.
I’ve been contemplating this for quite some time, because Himself is under so much stress and pressure right now. He is fundamentally unhappy with where he is, physically in space and in his career.
Guess what?
I can’t fix it, and it makes me miserable. It’s my job to care for him, make sure he’s healthy and happy and on the right path.
But I cannot help him with this and it eats me up. So, what do I do? I take it into myself. I poke, prod, nudge, yell, scream, cry … Until he will at least open up and vent a little.
And then it is on my shoulders. I’m riddled with anxiety and fear and sadness and disappointment and dissatisfaction with the path my life has taken — but at least he feels a little better.
A friend of mine posted this article on Facebook: 5 Tips for Empaths to Prevent Anxiety and Depression
Well, that’s interesting.
Caveat: I haven’t polled every single submissive, slave, little, pet, etc. in the world — but one thing I have noticed that I have in common with most a-types that I do know is this:
Our happiness is directly tied into that of our M-type. There is an acute connection there, that I found hard to explain to myself for the longest time after I met my Master.
I have always been this way. My mother is not in any way, shape or form a submissive woman, but she has always been this way too. We are the shoulder to cry on, we are the sympathetic ear … We internalize it and have an IBS flair up. We jokingly refer to ourselves as Sin-Eaters.
Ultimately, after a friend, family, SO unloads their burden, they can walk away happy and free.
This article articulates to me exactly why I need BDSM in my life. Every one of the bullet points hits an aspect of BDSM that fulfills me and keeps me in an even keel.
Huh. Imagine that, a woo-woo hippy article accidentally described exactly what it is to be in this lifestyle.