I’m a writer – normally someone who hones her craft and indulges the perfectionist – but I’m trying more and more to live presently and wildly with abandon. So no deliberate editing – no narrative or “logic” – this is it. A collection of thoughts as I attempt to get at the core of the things I have been wrestling with. I write as I would say it – so here I am vulnerable and beg your patience and tolerance.
I “Dear Johned” most of the boys I had been playing with / talking to because they made me feel like a whore. And not the good fun kind. But the kind that exists as a body that is fucked with not much more in it at the end of the day. Most telling was that only one or two of them responded to say that they were sad or disappointed. Many told me I was a bitch or a tease and that I had wasted their time and other such pleasant feedback. Good enough to fuck but not enough to earn politeness. A reflection of them yes, but also indicative of the kind of person I was tolerating in my life. Healthy… hah.
I realised a while ago that I don’t think I have ever had sex that I would put in the “making love” box. I’m 38 and I don’t think I can recall a sexual encounter that hasn’t involved pain. Consensual most of the time for sure, but all the same. I understand (I’m not naïve) that “love” is a crock of shit and that sex with that as a focus is mostly marketing and bullshit. But perhaps that is the defensive cynic in me. But the act of falling asleep on somoene’s shoulder. Or waking up to someone else breathing next to me, rather than cuming then putting their clothes on and leaving… gods what I wouldn’t give for that.
This scared the shit out of me. And it made me feel really really sad.
I know that I am capable of tenderness. I demonstrate it every day deliberately and with intention with my daughter. I am close to my friends and family and I work really hard to support them with all the love and intensity I have in my heart to give. And for most of my life I have done this without the need / expectation of reciprocity.
Maybe I didn’t realize that I was missing it until I realised that it was missing?
I started fucking people as a way of connecting with people. Because I needed adult company and I actually enjoy sex when it isn’t being used as a weapon. And for a while, it worked. I enjoyed myself and honed some skills and met some cool people. I got to rediscover what I like, what I don’t like all that kind of thing – my mid life sexual awakening. And I did really well at the not getting emotionally involved. When you come out of an abusive relationship, this is normal. I have enough training and insight (I make a dreadful psych patient / client) to be able to rationalize my behavior and my choices.
But after a while it stopped being easy. I don’t want relationships with these men (boys) because I know that I’m using them – and the bitch in me thinks really really poorly of them.
My self loathing, fuck it runs deep and dark.
So I have kinky sex (socially acceptable form of self harm, tick). I keep distance and use pain to dissociate. I’m lucky that my body takes a fair bit. Not so much with the brain, but here we are. And it does the right responses that people like. I take a while to mark up. I heal fast. I get aroused. And in a desperate attempt to please, I’ll let people pretty much do anything they want because then that means they’ll like me, right? (yeah… I know).
I let people do things to me that if my little girl told me someone was doing to her I’d lose it.
Do I like it? Some of it, yes. I think there is a genuine enjoyment of some things – of the power exchange, of the surrender and the abdication of self. I love restraint – there is a safety in it. Even in the discomfort of it, there is a sensation of being held.
What I’m getting stuck on is have I convinced myself to like it because that’s all I can get. I can’t get someone to actually hold me, so it’s a poor man’s substitute. I wear corsetry to work under my clothes because it feels like a hug. And when you haven’t been held or hugged by another human who isn’t 3ft, sometimes you just have to go with what you have.
What happens here is the aspect of me that needs control shuts everything down. Right at this moment as I write this I’m fighting every instinct not to delete it. Not to go back and sugar coat it. Not to apologise for wasting your time.
She tells me to shut the fuck up and to stop complaining. To stop over thinking and just get over it. That this life, this current state of being is what I deserve so there’s not point doing anything about it. Push it back down and stop wasting people’s time.
That’s my training. I’ve done slave training, sub work all that stuff. But at my core, shut the fuck up is my training.
And for the first time in my life I’m trying to challenge that. Hence the mess you’ve stumbled in to. The apologist, the people pleaser who wants everyone to be happy and ok and not bothered by her is humiliated and embarrassed by this.
But I’m done working for everyone else.
I can sustain that life. I know it well. But it doesn’t make me happy. And if I can’t show R how to find happiness then what the fuck am I good for?
And I am realistic too. I know that the boys I play with aren’t going to make me happy. I’m not looking for the intensity of a relationship – I’m not ready and I don’t have space in my life for that. I think that is something I’m fairly sure about. Which is me – I deliberately pick people I feel like I can manipulate, but in terms of common interests, kink and sex is usually the base line.
But I would like to explore tenderness. I would like to know what it feels like to be held (physically, mentally – all of the spheres) without waiting for the catch. And I’m so fucking embarrassed and ashamed to say this. As I write this I just picture you rolling your eyes and thinking “fuck I don’t have time for this”. And I would totally understand. I’d completely support you saying yup… too much. Not your job. Of the things you have time for – dealing with this random person from the internet… I’d back away and leave too.
My camera man friend who made the cut (lol) tells me that I need to be more emotionally available – yeah.. I wonder if he understands that this is what that looks like… hah.
But I go out on a limb because you asked.
And all of this above isn’t my trying to elicit “more” from you. I know you have a partner – that’s what makes you safely distant enough. It isn’t coincidence at all that the other men I covet are attached. I want to be clear – you’re not my therapist or savior. I don’t need / want rescue – no matter how much I seem to be craving that at the moment. What I really value in you is that you cut through much of my rubbish well. That takes integrity and an inner robustness that I admire.
But at the crux of this for you and I – I want to play. I like the challenge and the rawness and the nakedness you demand. I like that sometimes, after you leave, I allow myself to be a little bit proud of “getting through?” I kind of like that you appear not to give a fuck about me when we play (it sits beautifully with the aspect of me that agrees.) I worry that now I’m too damaged to do that safely. When I tell you that I don’t feel safe in my consent it is that I feel kamikaze. That I’ll push and push for more pain like a junkie – but that I’m not actually there; all that is there is endorphins and the pain slut. So that enjoyment we both get from the power exchange – it isn’t genuine for me? This is the bit I think I need to be able to discuss in person.
I enjoy submitting to you / for you. I like it because I chose it – I give you myself willingly – but the contradiction and the struggle is the degradation aspect maybe? I’m not using it in the “scene” – rather I’m using it to fuel my own little inner destructionist. Which is completely unfair and not ok for you – I don’t have your consent for that?
So yes. It is rounding midnight and I’m going to force myself to bed. I will continue to meditate and practice mindfulness. These are the skills I draw on. Building my strength from the inside is important. I have enough insight to do good and healthy things.
But here I am – joking and flippant, but you could bind me to the table, legs spread wide open beating me with a cane and still I wouldn’t feel as vulnerable as I do right now, sending this off.
Thank you. For tolerating my mess. And as a side note – I have managed to get 1500 words and not one of them is an apology. That’s a big step.