I Had A Dream

I had a dream. And it shook me. Stripped me to my core. Left me bare, vulnerable and fragile for days.

I don’t normally dream. My slumber is silent as the dead of night. Thankfully so. But not so that night.

That night I was reminded of how delicate I am…can be, at times. I was reminded of my fears and my bare, raw, broken pieces that lie scattered in a stagnant pool of my own filth.

I was reminded of her. And her hatred. And her domineering ways that I desperately tried to live up to. I tried to mold myself to meet her needs. But instead I disgusted her and crushed me. I thought I’d never return.

Yet here I am.

But something is missing.

It isn’t her. It isn’t you. It doesn’t justify her. It doesn’t make me love you less. But it is out there. It calls to me in the silence. Brushes my skin. Whispers in the dark. Forever beckoning, haunting, yearning as I myself yearn. I clench my eyes tight.

I struggle to free myself from the cravings. Flood myself with adventure, freedom, captivity, connection, deprivation, pain… delicious releasing pain. But still it lingers.

I was struck by it again last night. In a dim, crowded room, almond blackish eyes to wide blues. The softness, the acceptance, the shared struggles and secrets written across the ribbons of connection, I found myself mesmerized and staring. A third pair of eyes, also blackish, caught me watching. She wore a flower in her hair and a birthday button that said ‘5’ and her tiny hands held those of the women on either side of her. She brought those hands together under her chin and rested her perfect cheek on the entwined fingers. All the while she held my gaze, called my bluff, and tears spilled over my lids.

I had a dream.

Advertisements

I Never Wanted This

I never wanted this. Not again. After all these years. Pieces maybe… definitely, but not this in all its entirety. I was adamant, loud and stubborn about it.

Not.

This.

Ever.

I wanted freedom and independence. I needed to fly. I wanted only to be his toy, her dirty little secret, his pet, her dress-up doll, a weekend escape at his whim. Never a primary. Never this responsibility.

Too many years I spent hoarded in his cupboard like the good china, taken out only for show, or stuffed in her closet like a set of stained sheets. I needed out, I encumbered, independent, whole. I needed to remember – remember who I was meant to be. I vowed never to go back.

I never wanted this.

And then there was you.

And this is who you are.

Those things, those dark and depraved things I’ve never uttered – the ones I’ve never – haven’t for decades – given breath of life. But here in the dark with his hand on my throat and growls against my ear I am safe. I clench my eyes shut and search for the words – the words that slip the clasp on Pandora’s box. He whispers to me while he claims not just my body and he coaxes the demons from their depths. His hands are strong and pin me and pain me each thrust and terror slipping me further.

Tears slide from the corners of my eyes to run and flood my ears. I see the white of his grin in the dim light and feel his freedom. For he has secrets too. And this is one. An oh so painful gift yet I have it in my arms. I remember the day he first shared it, gathering the bravery he showed me. And the lid on my box came ajar. My slick skin, sweat sticky like ink onto parchment, the words appeared. Every sick and twisted piece of my past that tumbled topsy turvy off my tongue landed softly in his embrace. No judgement, no pity, no envy, anger or disdain. Only acceptance. Interest. And surprisingly, pride. Oh and a little bit of ‘Would you like to do that again?’

With each visit to his confessional the bricks fell away one by one. My cold dead heart inside an igloo. Someone lit a candle. The ground once again summoned my knees and my fingers bore wine. The sweet memories swept over me and became my reality once more.

I never wanted this.

The time will come, I tell myself, when one secret is the wedge that comes between us. One day the zoo of stuffies on my pillow will be flung to the floor in exasperation. My need for pain will become tiresome. I will be too demanding, needy, too independent, too confusing.

Yet still he embraces me.

He writes his name in the dusting of glitter that floats in my wake and he smiles. Bruises and bite marks dot my thighs. I feel him stuff my bunny safely in my arms after I’ve drifted off to sleep-a Disney movie droning in the background. Black marker humiliation is scrawled over my pale skin. Rope marks, princess socks, welts from wax, dots and trickles of blood, ribbons and bows. His heels rest upon the small of my back as I balance a dish of ice cream for him. He holds my hand, and my hair, my

lollipop, the ropes that bind me, my leash, my bouncy ball, and my marionette strings. He holds my heart.

I belong here and to him. All of me. In every way. Every bit of me who never wanted this.

The Conference

My first kink conference. The classes and the play, the apprehension and the thrill. I was gifted so much more than I could have ever hoped.

I sit here with wet eyes and take in each one. Mistresses and Masters, Dominants, subs and slaves, a little, hardcore kinksters, some yet undecided. We appear as any other large group crammed into too tight a space. There is robust laughter and story telling, knowing glances and high fives, playful conspiring between the s-types with the knowledge there will be consequences later during play. And in abundance there are the prideful gazes of owners.

We are energized but respectful of the patrons nearby. If one were to listen closely they would hear of preferred weights of floggers, clever uses of kitchen utensils, hemp vs jute, latex vs rubber. Ideas flowing.

Sugar cubes drop into scalding beverages that are tended and tasted with care, napkins placed lovingly on laps, hair tugs, pressure on pinkies. Those living on the right side of the slash scramble to fill water glasses but instead find their own mischievously filled. They struggle with being tended to and unable to serve. Raised eyebrows and pointed stares, the games begin, like playful bratty children looking to get one another in trouble. Bonds building.

You’d not be able to tell the ones who just met from the ones with years of history. The talk is rich with experience and passion. Teaching and learning flows through the mix as veterans and newbies open their hearts and their minds and welcome one other.

I fidget and struggle with being stuck in my seat and unable to flit about the table to talk to each guest individually. I tune into separate conversations, each one ripe with intrigue. These faces warm my heart in an unimaginable way. I cast my gaze around the table, my heart stretched to capacity.

‘Life is good, isn’t it?’ Comes a voice from directly in front of me, those laughing, knowing eyes. ‘Yes ma’am. So very.’ Caught, she misses nothing I’m beginning to realize, I respond, eyes dropping to the table and grin unabashedly. Startled but so overwhelmed by the love and acceptance around me I can’t help but ride the giddy wave. She feels it too. And she’s riding her own wave. We live deeply rooted on opposite sides of the slash, worlds apart yet hand in hand in our journeys. The adoration for the lifestyle is palpable in the air.

I’ve grown to love this community immensely. The raw intensity of friendships is staggering.

It is here I find a safe haven to be and embrace all of what I am. Here is where I can slip chameleon-like from one state seamlessly to another without judgement or ridicule. I can own my brutal cutthroat business woman, my supportive and empowering advocate, the daughter who now parents, the mother who turns to her children for information, learning and a different perspective, the giggly child flopping in the mud, the hostess ensuring the comfort of my guests, the bunny in ropes, the scream at the end of a whip, the servant bearing beverages, the table supporting them, and the wanton slut bound and brutalized, begging for it to stop, begging for more, begging…

I can prance in my Pikachu slippers, pigtails and ribbons, am recognized by my cowboy boots, can pet a plastic pony at a gathering or lust after a leather clad and bridled human one. I can chase a toy on all fours, stand tall and unmoving, coax your shyness to share and bring you to bursting with laughter.

I can do and be this because of you. Because of my community and my friends. We have created a world in which individualization is key to survival. Where our differences are held in high regard. Where communication is welcome and expected.

I thank each and every one of you for sharing with me a place in your worlds. And I urge you to continue. Continue to example, to breathe, to coach and mentor. Continue to grow this community with love and nourishment, responsibility and ethics. Continue to find yourselves and in turn create a space in which others may also thrive.

It is with gratitude and love that I bare my heart to you.

Going back Home

Headed back home to what never was. Where sidewalk chalk lays crumbled in puddles and cherry trees, gnarled branches never climbed, hang heavy with rotting fruit. A murder of crows circles. A foam ball, you know the ones, half blue, half red with a white stripe round the middle, its chunks still rest barely visible under the meticulously trimmed cedar hedge… even now… decades later. The earth around the pieces clearly disturbed as though they were moved for the trimming. Exposed for all to see. A reminder. Taunting… I never lived in this house, but part of me died here.

Home.

Home is where I met the man who would forever change me and where I left the man who never saved me. Where I kissed the girl who started it all and loved a friend who held me during the falls. I’ll see her today. Hold her close. Share her space and her breath. Lives intertwined by fate, circumstance and love.

I’m going back today. I do occasionally, once or twice a year. There are ugly patches in the days leading up to each trip. For these I apologize to those affected. I do try. I try to still the tremors and calm the apprehension. Raw and heated, frayed nerves and static in my brain… I try. Therapy helped. I have improved. Can you only imagine…

My last trip, March, I took a deep breath, an Ativan (just joking… wish I was) and a bristle broom and swept away the cobwebs. I overturned the stones and sent the insects scurrying. I walked around the lake, Westwood Lake, that I dove into that December. I tossed pebbles while I sat on the boat launch where I regretfully emerged. I found and took photos of 11 of the 17 schools. Most had been renovated, wooden playgrounds replaced by shiny primary coloured plastic. A green house, the Pleasant Valley house (the irony is just registering as I type this… please wait while I take a short stroll) identical to all those on the block, with a white rabbit buried in the back yard and an attic fit for hanging… so found the lady next door.

Another house, across from ND, a back porch, a mickey of Silent Sam that rattled down the rotting stairs as my raw, rocking knees sent it toppling. I never saw my Rainbow Brite purse or grape Lipsmacker again after that night.

A house out in Cedar…

a room with no door…

a wood pile…

the damp rubble of concrete under the walkway at Swy-a-Lana Lagoon…

the barn at the Chase River house with the rooster who chased me down the path. His neck rung by my protector, bare hands, blood and feathers. Those same hands that had also rung mine… all behind the market that is no more.

And then I turn thirteen.

As I write I gaze out the ferry window. Beautiful sunshine and a strangely calm sea that mocks the storm behind my eyes. My hair hides my pulsing collar on my jugular and my typing fingers mask the tremble. Sunglasses would help but instead I work on the contented, relaxed face I’ve mastered -to most. I’m irritable and tense and trying not to be a bitch. I blame the jitters on the upcoming excitement of the weekend and offer my affection. I should talk, I know, but the tears and fears are safely held at bay behind the fragile dam of silence.

Soon I’ll be with new friends and reacquainted with old ones. I’m back and fully immersed in a lifestyle I left behind 25 years ago in the place where it first grasped hold on my soul. With excitement and trepidation dry eyes and eyes glazed with tears I wonder where I would have been had I stayed. Three lifetimes ago I left this place in a frenzy of fear and pain and judgment. And now I go back.

Deep breath.

Now What Was I Saying?

Now what was I saying?

Oh, right, nothing… for weeks.

You know how people tell you not to work so hard and take too much on because you’ll get run down and eventually it will take its toll on your body? Yup. I’m afraid I’ve heard it. Over and over. Didn’t listen. And it happened. And it pissed me off. So here I lie, 3am (sound familiar?), and wide awake. I’m riding a bit of a Codeine high (ah my old friend) so who knows where this will lead. Come along…

After this little rant I’ll post a couple of pieces that I uploaded elsewhere. They explain the beginning of my recent fall. Too much stress, too much play, not enough sleep. And of course, too much work.

So, 3am. Hello again. Why do you plague me? Or are you a blessing? Since I’ve been sick I’ve started several writing pieces but never had the stamina to hold a pencil for more than a few minutes. There are so many things brewing inside my head. I fear they will dissipate as this fever fades and I’ll never recapture them.

I’ve had no voice for a full 3 days now and have been sleeping 12 hours every night (thank you again, Codeine). I’ve only been this sick once in over 10 years. Coincidently, I’ve never been this creatively inspired over the past 10 years either. Fever perhaps? Hopefully something fun comes of it.

Thanks to everyone for sticking around.

Indulge… the compulsion.

Another addition to the Indulge challenge (dare) put forth by my dear friend here at Afterwards.

In this series you will find me Indulging myself by putting delicious items in my, as so eloquently stated by my dear friend above, cake hole. 🎂

Delicious is in the mouth of the beholder.

You will find my first piece here:

Indulge… Your Sweet Tooth 

 

When the writing consumes and you’re glued to the floor

The flood in your ears you don’t hear the door

Can’t make it stop but the cramp in your hand

Compulsions and greed they won’t understand

The words come so fast and you grasp at the air

Too slow they escape with tears and despair.

You sweat and you shake at the middle you bend

The meaning is lost and you can’t find the

Indulge… Your Sweet tooth

This is the beginning of a little series of Indulging pieces. What started out as some playful banter between myself and a fellow respected and creative blogger has turned into a challenge of sorts.

No, they won’t all be Haiku.

My thoughts… Be careful what you wish for.

Slippery sweetness

Slithers in slick sticky streams

Strangled soft suckling

Weak

I am weak in ways you do not know

I am strong in ways I’ll never show

I’m bold and brave where other flee

Or molehills shake me to my knees

Although I walk and lift my chin

I am not proud of every sin

They weigh and wallow deep inside

And try to strip me of my pride

Secrets beat within the drum

Pin me not beneath your thumb

I may resist and I may stray

Come find me cloaked within the fray

There are pieces that are

solely mine

Others yours for just a dime

Twisted tattered disarray

It’s all that I have left today

Alas, know that my love is true

It may not be enough for you

Mischief managed for a bit

But not for long, I do not sit

Amongst the fear, ‘longside the pain

I’ll never let them learn my name

For I am weak and I am strong

But both cannot be held for long.

Praise

Praise weighs heavy on my pride. Praise, compliments, acknowledgments. Like stones and arrows, hurled and thrown, they batter and pierce my frail armour.

I did not grow up with such trivialities. Survival was adequate acknowledgement.

Why is praise so difficult? Why can’t I say thank you, feel the appreciation and move on? Why the self deprecating internal rant? It’s not true. You’re never good enough. If only you were better, prettier, stronger, more competitive, faster… if only… Oh I know why.

But wait…

Praise. I revel in praise of my submission, my service, my skill and adoration of bottoming. It’s prideful, really. I rock this arena. Submission is as natural as my breath. My service skills I hone finely and I am acutely aware of every move of my body when in this realm. My instinct is to please and be pleasing. The reactions of the One I serve tell all and fill me with warmth. I’m a badass bottom. I take care of my body and I know myself. I have searched my soul for my desires and limits and my boundaries of pushing those limits. I am a fierce communicator and thrive on feedback and learning opportunities. I crave the secrets within my top and don my cap of each of his whim and fantasy. Here I can accept this praise because of the devotion and effort I put forth. Hard work, trials and tribulations, passion, light and strength have pushed me here and I bask in its praise. Good girl? Damn straight.

Where else can I accept praise? This is a short list. Raising kind and accepting children, caring for aging parents, care of my community, fierce loyalty and protection of my besties. These I am passionate about and devote my heart. Deserved praise.

And my job. I am so very good at what I do. And I crave and receive praise in this arena. It’s addictive, euphoric. Superiors, peers, staff, praise fuels my passion which leads to more hard work and creativity which leads to… you guessed it, praise.

So why do I struggle stilI? I thought I had this area covered with confidence until the time came to write a letter credentialing myself. Crickets chirped. Not a single adequate skill or attribute came to mind. I scribbled in pencil like I do, ‘responsible, reliable, *yawn* team player…’ and blushed to myself. I know what I am and who I am here. But I cannot bring myself to put it to paper, could not say these things out loud. And broke into a sweat. Procrastination. It’s been weeks since my VP asked… ASKED ME to write her this letter. THE golden opportunity of my career and I’m caving. Twice she’s said to me ‘Dear, your letter has not crossed my desk’, once in an embrace and whispered in my ear. Unheard of. You’d think this motivating. But instead the me inside my brain ran frantically in circles three times screaming and straight to my blanket fort where I buried myself under a protective layer of battered stuffies and cowered.

Perhaps I’m a poser. Perhaps I’m not as good as I thought, not as strong… maybe I don’t know my business like I thought, maybe my staff and peers don’t respect me like I thought, maybe my margin is not the highest in western Canada, my payroll not leveredged with finesse, my relationships with buyers not respected, maybe the others are better than me, maybe the numbers lie…

And the mocking. Oh the mocking. I can see them now, back in Ottawa, laughing at me, at my audacity… *she* thought she was qualified? Does she not know? What makes her think…?

Pause

Breathe

But there’s more…

My body. Compliments on my body stab me in that tender place under my rib cage. And I fight the internal struggle… it needs work here and there, it’s just a good bra, I should not have licked the icing off that cake… and… it’s pretty good for my age, it holds rope nicely, bruises beautifully, pleases my partner… and… I’m not just a body! Look at ME… the me inside the body, stop objectifying me (please don’t stop… put your feet up), I am more than my body… and yet…. look at me in this pretty dress…

Writing… for those who read me and follow my blog you’ll know the childhood struggle here. You’ve seen the Truth. It carried forth into my adult life and is layered in shame. Therapy for me is perseverance. Writing fuels my life and makes my brain actually tingle … no lie… like the slow build of a lazy orgasm. Adrenaline. Pencil to paper old school writing. I’ll never stop no matter the criticism or the pain. I cannot. Some gets posted, some blogged, some savoured and stashed just for me. But praise? *shudder* Just words from my brain. Nothing eloquent nor creative… diarrhea typed out as my brain generates. Part sentences, deliberate spelling errors and double entendres. Annoying alliteration and punctuation… and the shame. Some pieces I don’t reread for weeks after posting as they send me into tremors of fear, embarrassment. Mortification. But still I write.

Accepting praise with grace and poise, hearing the intentions and sucking them dry, manipulating the energy and twisting it to serve in my acceptance, these are my goals. I want to be whole. What does that mean?

I am messy and weak and little and prideful and strong, irritating, nurturing…I am broken in all the right places, healed beautifully crooked and scarred, genuine and manipulative, empowering and loving, cunning and creative, terrifyingly toxic and nourishing.

Some days. In some ways. This is me.

And I Love me. And I’m getting better at seeing that.