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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.