I’m Not A Reluctant Masochist!

I’m just a very confused one.

If I were to list my relationship with pain a la FetLife, it would say “It’s complicated with”. No lie, it’s more screwed up than a Jerry Springer trailer trash reunion.

Makes your brain itch, doesn't it?

I enjoy certain kinds of pain. Take me to task with a heavy flogger and I’m blissing on the punches. Slap my cunt and I’m wetting myself. Choke me, slap me…we are going to need a puppy pad for the bed. For these activities, I am a masochist. Oh hells yeah. The more, the better. 🙂 I’m a greedy one, apparently.

It’s when we start talking about canes, stingy pains and electricity that we start wading into downright “don’t wanna” territory. Unfortunately, “don’t wanna” only applies to half of my brain – the logical half, which is often overruled by the “lacking survival tactics” half.

I hate stingy pain. Really really. It makes me want to rise up and do very nasty things back to whoever is hitting me. Crops, mean sticks, hand paddling, hard paddles…anything that leaves bad welts is going to require that I be bound if you want to do it. I have ripped my hand out of a rope tie to try and get at N as He went after me with a heavy paddle.

What part of hitting me with that seemed like a good idea?!

But it is the stingy pain, the unbearable “I will fucking kill you if I can get out of this!” pain that gets me where I want to be after a heavy session…the tired, grateful, calm and owned feeling, a sense of acceptance and completeness, something that can reach into my soul and soothe the rankles. A good flogging doesn’t do that. Face slapping (as we have done it so far) doesn’t do it. Choking/smothering can do it if we do it face to face and He whispers those nasty loving things into my ears as I’m starting to fade away…

*ahem* Where was I?

Oh, right. I don’t know what it says about me, or my personality, as a slave that a good sound thrashing brings me inline with my desire to be a slave to Him better than any pep talk or shaming. But I know it has a definite effect on me, because when we go for months without any kind of S/m activity I get resentful and lonely. I miss the feeling of being smaller, of being broken, of being aware of just how badly He could fuck me up, knowing that it is because He chooses not to that I’m still the whole and healthy being typing away right now.

It lets me brush my fingers against mortality, against tainted love, against deadly desires. That moment of exhilaration where He balances us on the brink of sadismgonewrong and pulls me back from the edge.

I think we all know what happens at the bottom...

Maybe I am a risktaker after all. Wouldn’t everyone else who knows me vanilla-wise be shocked. The steady plodding Taurean, a risktaker? Naw!

All I know is the more I talk to Kaya, and the more N reads what I talk to Kaya about, the worse off I’ll be. For better and for worse!

 

The Strange Revelations of Being Owned

Yesterday I had written a long, 800+ word post about the subject I’m going to tackle again in this post. And then the fucking computer ate the whole fucking thing, so I flipped it the bird and stomped off in a huff. So here goes.

One thing I have discovered about myself as of late is that I have a dangerous PMS cycle. I’m good for 2-3 months, a little bit of bloating and fatigue, mild irritability, but nothing real shocking. Then we hit the BAD MONTH and I’m sitting on my hands so’s I don’t strangle the Boss Man, eating small children and fluffy cute animals alike (dipped in chocolate, natch), demanding human sacrifice and  generally struggling to not burst into flames. To avoid being caught unaware of the impending doom, I started charting so I could see it coming in advance and evacuate a 5 mile radius in time. The upshot is that I haven’t murdered anyone. The downside is that when I am off my cycle, it becomes an immediately noticed event, by N and I alike. This last cycle I started out two days late. No problem. Three days – N is giving me questioning glances and enjoying fucking my brains out to encourage commencement of my anemia. Five days- He’s getting that anxious look and I am irritably fending off interrogation about my feminine status. Seven days, and I am starting to get worried. I’ve not been a full fucking week late before.  I started worrying about the state of His vasectomy. Everyone and their goddamned grandma has a story about So-n-So’s cousin/best friend/sister’s roommate’s uncle and how they have X number of kids after their vasectomy failed. (My favorite is “I know a girl who has her tubes tied and her husband got his snipped and they have two more kids!”) They are compelled to tell you these stories once they find out that you have made taken the “final” step in regards to birth control. Apparently it’s supposed to help you feel secure about your sterilization. I dunno.

Saves ya money this way *and* you get that fuzzy DIY feeling.

It was on the night of the eighth day that I started to think ahead if I was pregnant. And it was an unpleasant navel gazing session for sure. I was alone in a hotel room in Bismarck, three and a half hours away from Nick, realizing that I am so far beyond where I thought I was property-wise that I’m desperately scrambling for at least ONE landmark.

If I were to become pregnant again, I’d want an abortion almost as soon as I found out. That’s just the straight truth. (I hope that those of you reading who are “pro-life” don’t hate me after reading this.) My last pregnancy was hard towards the end, and all three labors were absolute hell. I have three kids that still require fairly intensive parenting and I am up to my eyebrows in crazy just trying to deal with them. I don’t think I could handle any more. Not without some magic pills. We did what we could to make sure that didn’t happen again, so I think we covered the bases and have every right to have a serious issue with an unexpected pregnancy.

That wasn’t the revelation. The revelation was realizing that I wouldn’t get my abortion. No. N would make me carry the pregnancy to term, knowingly using my psyche against me the whole way through. He knows that I would start off resentful of Him and the baby, but when I saw the heartbeat for the first time I’d relent a little. Feel it move for the first time, and I’d thaw a little more. See the baby bouncing around on an ultrasound, I’d repent of my hard-hearted ways, and by the time I gave birth and held the child in my arms, the last little rind of ice around my heart will have fully melted and I would be hooked. He’s seen it happen with my third pregnancy (although I didn’t desire an abortion then). I’d find a way to make everything work, and add another on to the brood. There’s always room in my heart.

When I realized this, I felt angry, betrayed, resentful and indignant. I was upset that He would veto me on someting so personal and individual as reproductive rights. How dare He treat me like a broodmare or heifer! Like…property!

Oh. >.<

Woof.

I talked to Him about it, and said that I had figured out that I wouldn’t be able to get an abortion. He nodded perfunctorily, like He knew all along and was just waiting for the slower people to catch up. Again with the brief flame up of indignity, but it didn’t last long. Can a person be angered by their apathy?

I don’t know when He jedi-tricked me out of being able to make my own reproductive right decisions. I know, I know, that whole “rights” thing and all, but seriously? I’m the one who would be pregnant, I am the one who would be nursing, I’m the one who would be raising the child in the first few years of it’s life. And yet, somehow, I can’t even find it in me to give the argument the most cursory try. I just accepted it with a little gall and moved on. It barely fazed me.

What else am I just going to roll over and take? What other little line was erased when I wasn’t looking? What hidden part of me was slowly converted while I was off playing Suzie Homemaker for Him?

Where am I?

Restless Insecurity

Things have been going okay here. No sudden meltdowns on my end, no baffling withdrawals on His. i’m still trying to feel around in my head, trying to sort out all the mixed signals i’m getting from my own brain. Emotional eating has resurfaced, but i haven’t been able to identify why. This is hugely frustrating to me. If i can’t even identify any anxiety or resentment, i can’t neutralize it and end the emotional eating.

i know something in my head is off. Everything seems slightly off-kilter now. i used to have a grand ol’ time pointing out cute chicks for Him to ogle. Now, i see Him appraise one and i squelch a sudden urge to drag her by her hair to the parking lot and rearrange her face, then come in and claw my name on His forehead so He can’t forget who He is with.  i’m not generally one for jealously and violent insecurity. Hell, i’ve shared partners in the past without much in the way of issues. So what is it now, that makes me getting all tetchy and anxious when He appreciates other girls? Why can’t i appreciate what i have with Him? Part of me thinks it’s territorial. i’ve struggled long and hard to find comfort and peace at His feet, and i don’t want to have to give it up or even share it with some new plaything. Which is darkly hilarious, given my penchant for threesomes and the fading hope of finding a sister for me. Another part of my rage regarding Him seeing other girls is the fact that i often don’t feel fully nourished or cared for at the moment, a hazard of the job of living with Him. It would infuriate me to be left at home, hungry for Him and lonely beyond belief, thinking of Him charming another girl, touching her like He used to touch me… but even more than the infuriating, i would be crushed. Possibly beyond much repair.

Why can’t i take Him at His word?

Part of me wonders if it isn’t residue from the complete uncunting i had a while ago. He did minimal repairs, and i appear to be up and running fine, but there is a little part of me that doesn’t wholly want to submit to Him again. This niggling part of my brain that finds glee in running amok, whispering sweet nothings in my ear like “What happens when you are too old to serve Him?” or “How’s He going to want you once the kids are grown?” or my ever favorite “Just wait until He finds a lil hawt thing with perky tits and a defined waist that *likes* being facefucked…won’t you feel stupid for handing yourself on a silver platter?!”

i didn’t have trust issues a year ago. i didn’t come uncunted like this a year ago. i didn’t want to hit Him over the head with a Corel serving platter a year ago. So what changed? Was it being isolated by neccessity, with only a complete airhead as my only r/l friend? Having had to squash my desires and some of my wants for so long that i’m disillusioned? Having had my life vanilla-fied to the point of whitewash?

i find myself avoiding talking to Him about these things lately. For once, i’m not doing it out of some fear of exposure on my part. i’m avoiding it because He’s stressed, He’s tired, and feels more than a bit like a failure. i don’t want to be a part of His worries. i don’t want to make Him feel like more of a failure, which is certainly how He’d interpret it if i went to Him tonight and blurted my fears out.

What’s more, i hate myself on many levels for limiting Him with my stupid emotional bullshit. Of course He should be able to ogle any woman He wants. He should also be able to do it without having to slip xanax in my soda afterward. i hate that i sound like an ungrateful whiny bitch. i hate myself for not being able to live with what i have.

i hate myself for having so many flaws and not enough stamina to fix them.

i have a two track mind right now…something i perfected in elementary school. On the surface, i’m fairly at ease, i’m coping well, i smile and laugh, i love and appreciate life.  Go any deeper and you’ll find a deep and murky river, full of fear and resentment, pain and aching love, confusion and longing and an absurd need to protect Him from myself.

It’s draining the river and putting up dams and baffles that is the exhausting work.

Tangled Tora (06-15-2010)

There’s been quite the flurry of communication in this house as we further explore some of the outside stressors that are taking their toll on our sanity. One of the topics that came up was His continuing interest in swapping with another friendly couple or with a female, preferably bisexual, but not necessarily required.

That topic, of swapping, always leads to interesting reactions on my part, because it is absolutely loaded with implications, fears, insecurities and nightmares for me. It makes even the most mundane comments from Him make me tremble with suppressed rage or sob quietly in the bathroom.  It’s quite the fucking mental minefield, for sure.

The more direct consequences of the swapping I’ll discuss later on in a different set of posts. This post will be a multi-post series on how an open-bedroom policy has an affect on how I serve Him in the O/p relationship.

Being His slave is my life. It sounds awful, and even now a part of me involuntarily grimaced at typing that, but it is. This house, the kids, Him – it’s all I know how to do. It’s all I have done for the past 5 years. Consequently, much, if not all, of my perception of self-worth is directly related to my being His slave, and doing it well. This is fine for 90% of the time, when there isn’t much that challenges my perception. It’s that 10% of the time where I start to examine things, I start to panic, I start to get uppity in fear and self-preservation.

Part of the 10% is when He expresses His desire to bang other women. On the surface, I’m all good about it. Theoretically, I can understand the drive, the hunger to know another body in a purely sexual way. Emotionally, a part of me starts to shut down. Because in the scenarios He’s described, the girl would be sleeping in the bed with Him, getting up in the morning and eating breakfast with Him, looking at my house, my stuff, touching my things…

(I realize how absurd it is for a slave to be bitching about someone else touching her stuff. I am fully aware that in the basest sense, I own nothing, nothing is mine. I am referring to “mine” as thing normally allotted to me, that I have forged important connections with, like the house, which I have spent a great deal of time trying to make not only livable but lovable; the bed, which is my refuge from the world; and most of all, my service to Him.)

…and I imagine myself laying next to the other half of the swapping couple, wondering if she’s spooning with Him the way I often ask to, if she’s falling asleep listening to Him breath His dream breaths like I do, if she’s making Him breakfast with the love I try to…

Can’t imagine why I am not jumping at the chance to swap.

I fear being replaced. I’ve had nightmares about it. Imagining the girl doing everything that I use to define my worth to Him is enough to make my hands shake. I fear being abandoned after narrowing the focus of my life down to pinpoint accuracy of life with Him.

This inner turmoil brings on large amounts of self-doubt and self-hatred. I hate that I am not able to take my Owner’s word as gospel when He says I am not replaceable and that He’ll never leave me. I hate that I place limits, even if unwillingly, on His future actions because I am not strong enough to get over myself.  I hate myself for not being able to place His desire, His wants, over my inability to get a grip on life as a slave.

I just want to move on to acceptance. I don’t want to have to push through all the pain and fears, the old hurts and new terrors, to make it to the fabled El Dorado of kinkdom: gracious and calm slavery. Especially since this is something I have to do without much assistance from Him. He can’t kick my ass through it. I have to force myself every inch of the way, snuffling and sobbing, until I can finally look in the mirror and be absolutely sure that I am the one He will keep, I am the one He truly knows and desires, that I am the one that has earned the title of His slave.

Only then will I not stand in the way of His wants and desires. Because even though now I wouldn’t stop Him from sleeping out, wouldn’t begrudge Him from finding some sweet thing to enjoy, a part of my soul would commence bathing in acid. I’d kill myself inside to serve Him, all the doubts and fears and insecurites eating me from the inside out until I was nothing but a shell of the woman He loved.  I know all the poly sayings and theories and truisms. I know why my thought processes are false. That is what is so frustrating about it.

A good example would be this song by Tracy Lawrence called Time Marches On.

And most of all, even as I’m beating my breasts and gnashing my teeth about how it kills me to be an impediment to Him, I’m so very very thankful that He restricts Himself to guard the safety of my sanity until I am strong enough to know that Him sleeping around doesn’t mean I am not valuable to Him.