I wrote something.
I’m almost 40 years old and I can’t spell ‘consciousness’ without looking it up. I write this word more than a little too. Weird. I’m sitting here hoping for an epiphany. Hey chick…here’s what you are supposed to be doing with your life! Forty is not old. Forty is just getting started…especially for me. Nothing.
I’m supposed to raise my daughter. Well I can’t do that if I can’t pay rent, but that’s not your problem. I halfway to the point where I am no longer going to accept it as my problem. Maybe I’m getting an answer to a question I accidently asked a long time ago: what will she do when she hits the end of her rope. Will she snap and go on a murder spree with “Time Of My Life” from Dirty Dancing playing in the back ground. It sounded plausible. Suicide also sounded completely doable. I mean its not like it hasn’t crossed my mind a few times. I might have even tried once or twice…barely. I failed miserably. Only strengthened the idea that my lack of interest in life was entirely an attention ploy. Except I didn’t like telling people. Nope…when I snap it will be me turning off the alarm clock and waiting for someone to tell me to leave my apartment for non-payment. I go on strik from life. That’s what I’m fighting. If I make it through this shit…and it’s so much more than losing a loved one or helping my daughter through this time or shitty job or any of the other things happening….it’s simply I keep doing what I think is my job and it doesn’t work out. I’m not asking for fame or fortune or any of that shit…I just want a job I can retire from. I’m done hoping for a writing career. I’m not that driven. I’m done hoping for love. The first time…no wait…every time shit goes sideways I don’t go running to anyone that loves me. I retreat so far into myself sometimes I think I may not even find me again.
Come on universe. Bring it. End it. I’ve already got plans in place for all the shit I’m responsible for. I’m tired of being the responsible one.
I have nothing I want to write about. I hate pity posts. I love my daughter and I don’t want her to hurt. I love my acquired family and I don’t want them to hurt. I hate the news we got, and I don’t want to write about. I have nothing else to say.
A few years ago I was standing at a reunion of a family that was mostly not mine. I wore capris jeans with frayed holes in them and became the subject of conversation with a preacher. The standard joke: “I just threw away a pair of jeans like that. Should have had you pay me a hundred bucks for them.” He also asked me why I would want to scar my body in reference to my tattoo. I tried to tell him they were free, but he was far to amused with himself. Honestly it should matter. Petty shit like that from “Christians” made me give up on being spiritually awakened.
At one point I decided I rocked those goddamn jeans and I’d rather be sexually awakened then whatever the fuck they thought they were. These days though I just want to….be. If someone wanted to comment on my jeans (still have them) I wouldn’t care. I honestly don’t understand why they would. It’s just clothing. Here…let me take it off if that helps ::evil grin::
When you are comfortable with who and what you are the “slings and arrows” of society stop bothering you. You don’t get pissed because someone attacks your beliefs or style. You certainly don’t get pissed if someone believes differently than you…even if it’s really fucked up. Difference becomes interesting.
This, I feel, is awake.
I’ve always had this fantasy of being tied and forced to orgasm long past the point of pleasure. For a long time I thought it was because I was a total freak. It turns out I’m normal in certain circles. A few months ago I gathered up my courage and went to a meeting point of one of those circles. Life hasn’t been the same sense. Tonight you get the story of my first scene.
I met a guy. He’s a sadist, though only because he gets pleasure from being on the top side of the slash. He takes nothing if his bottom isn’t enjoying it. I am a bottom because I thoroughly enjoy being on the receiving end. Marks make me giddy. I may very well be the yin to his yang. I don’t know that I can mark myself a masochist anymore. I am not a fan of pain at all, but I’m nearly addicted to the feeling of flying that hits you immediately after the pain subsides. The greater the pain the higher the feeling, and so I yearn to be able to take more. For now I’m only beginning.
My first scene starts in a dark corner with a fair bit of teasing while watching a small group converse at a picnic table. He whispers in my ear “do you want to try a little playing?” I indicate my desire and he leads me through the house to a front room a little away from everyone. He likes to be very public, but I’m still not quite there yet.
There are two crosses here; large X’s standing silently against a white wall. On the other wall is a small table with a radio playing the kind of music I love. If I knew nothing else about this group their taste in music would have made it for me. I stay there while he goes to grab his toy bag. There are so many words that will never mean the same to me again.
I’m nervous which I love. He takes out a pair of cuffs and secures them on my wrist before slipping off my dress. Leaving me only in my panties he locks my wrist to chains at the top of each side of one of the X’s. My first sensation is a pair of clothes pins attached to my nipples. They sting. I’m getting a little ache between my thighs thinking about it now. He starts with a light flogger made of wide soft leather. It’s more thuddy than stingy. I get remember all the toys he used on me now. Eventually he used a heavy piece of leather on my ass that left the most beautiful bruises. This is almost my favorite part.
He says he isn’t into playing when his play partner legitimately doesn’t like something and yet….I hate electricity. I’m terrified of it. He has something called a tazapper that doesn’t hurt, but it arcs quite vividly with a loud pop. It’s everything I hate about electricity and he hooked me with my back to the cross and started threatening me with it. I laughed and screamed at the same time. I managed to get my body behind the damn cross which is pretty impressive. I suppose you can honestly say I have a love hate relationship with this particular play.
Eventually I was standing breathless on the cross and he blindfolded me. I thought we were done, but the scene isn’t up to me and I would have it no other way. A collar was snapped around my neck and a leash to that. He led me in just my panties through the house to a chair in the living room. I had to dress while blindfolded.
I spent the rest of the night cuddling with him: safe, warm and on cloud nine. I can’t wait to do it again.
It perches behind my teeth
Beware my smile