quiet

I’m no longer surprised that I have this reflexive compulsion to obey The Dominant Guy. That was a given since we first met.   What does continue to surprise me is the depth of how far that compulsion goes, and how I sincerely obey before I have even processed what he wants.   Submitting when you are…

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When submission is a dry biscuit.

  So…long-distance relationships are teh lame. We can agree they are not really all that ideal. Some times are easier than others. And there is a terrible amount of pressure on the time you can eke out to be together virtually, because by the time you have the bandwidth to talk, goddammit, it had better be connected,…

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Relocation…? Bonus.

SO, OK.   Um…its like…it feels like…   It feels like I’m smashing my head up against a hard rubber wall is what it feels like.   I spent some time during one of my classes at the Folsom Fringe event calmly muzzling my increasingly agitated Dæmon, Bubbles. There was a discussion going on about…

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The cauterized heart.

Relax. Its a cake.

I was nonplussed to find myself trailing along…again…trying to keep up with The  DominantGuy which is a challenge on a slow day and OMFG! WTF!! SMH… on a busy day. And I turned around and he’d vanished, again. And I’m standing there, feeling at loose ends. Waiting. Again.   Much of being in service is…

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Moving the bar on “healthy.”

I’m unplugging today, the way I often do when I feel like I’m about to short short-circuit on emotional shit.  It is post Folsom weekend.  The Dominant Guy and his wife are headed back home, and I barely held it together through the weekend as I fretted about not seeing him for an extended period of time. I’m in…

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Feeling safe in feeling human.

As a submissive – someone who prefers relationships where there is a mutually beneficial unequal power dynamic – I have done quite a bit of self-exploration around my needs and desires. And as someone who seeks out a master / slave relationship – a relationship where one human secedes power and control over themselves on…

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Epiphany. [Courtesy the Sunday Times]

After being shoved into a Very, Very. Bad. Place emotionally following a conversation sparked by the death of Amy Winehouse, I’ve been floundering on some core issues. I had to wince to see so many people’s callous opinions, and to hear people opine that addicts just made “bad choices: ” that we chose to let ourselves…

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Nothing to see here…

I’ve been here & in service & writing & working for a little over a week now.   I haven’t had much in the way of time for personal writing.     More to the point, I am in the midst of this crazy-ass root-level emotional liquefaction that has left me gasping a bit for…

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“…to be brave.”

I’m writing words none of you will read.   I’m phrasing an inner monologue I don’t want anyone to hear.   I’m voicing fears I do not want to face and, in bad moments? Resent having to share at all.   I’m editing a document that is supposed to facilitate one of the more critical…

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I see what you did there.

I suppose I should know better...but why fight it when relinquishing control is so delicious?

I hate it when someone says “We have to talk.”   It doesn’t matter what comes after that. My hamsterbrain jumps right onto that Wheel of Misfortune and starts furiously scrambling. This is a reflex I have had for as long as I can remember. And it doesn’t fucking matter who says it or what…

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