Looking forward.

There is only so much looking back and wondering what went wrong I can do.

I’m not a naturally negative person. I know it seems like I am but usually I’m a glass half full girl. I tend to shake things off and move on but this year has seen a change in me. I’ve been drowning in my emotions and frankly wallowing and I don’t like it. I try and see the light in the dark for the most part but for some reason I’ve been keeping the lights off.

I don’t like that about myself. It’s miserable and I imagine it’s equally so for people around me.

While I was walking today, I saw this guy sunning on a rock. He looked very satisfied with his activity. I was out of sorts at the time, grumbling to myself about the injustice of it all and I stopped to watch him. He poked his tongue out at me but didn’t seem interested in conversation. He was doing his thing, not worrying about anyone else doing there thing.

I decided that’s what I need to do. Do my thing and not worry about what anyone else’s thing is. Their thing, at this time in my life, doesn’t interfere with my thing and I’ve been letting it interfere way too much. I need to be content with my thing. It’s not the old thing. It will never be that glorious thing again and that’s okay. Moments pass and so does time, but it is a thing and it will be alright as a thing.

I need to look forward, and do my thing.

Things to ask before you submit

I’d love to know what you would ask if you had a time machine and could go back to the beginning.

I would ask one question. Are you intending to take on another submissive and if the answer was the same as it was when I asked it way back in time, which was I don’t know. It’s possible, I would have said it’s been nice talking to you, good luck.

It’s too late to do that. Science has let me down. I thought all those nerds I went to school with would have figured that one out. They weren’t drinking with me at parties, so what were they doing, huh? Explanations are needed, people.

It’s never too late, I hear you say. Tell my heart that. I love him. It’s harder without him than with him. It all comes down to that. It’s harder with out him so I stay and I hate every night he is with her. I hate myself for staying and I hate him for doing this to me.

All of it is a mess of hate and anger and I am a miserable unhappy human.

I’m really sorry to bring your day down. On the bright side, I went riding today and I love to ride. I found a church up in the rocks, out in the desert. What an astonishing place to put a church. I’m not at all religious but I preyed to a god I don’t believe in to give me some kind of relief from this.

That didn’t happen. As usual, I need to get myself out of this mess.

I have lost my submission

This is a very sad statement for me to make. It’s an honest one at the time of writing and because my emotions are like a sign writers flight plan, I do not know what it will feel like tomorrow, but right now, as I place my fingers on keys that make up the words, the submission is lost.

It is like a rabbit. Grey and wild for context because they seem like the hardy variety. The white fluffy ones seem like a fairytale so we will go with the grey and wild for now. The rabbit, who is the caretaker of my submission these days, is in and out of burrows, putting her head up and sniffing the air, only to dive back underground and out of sight. There she is- now she’s gone – over there – no over here – gone again. She’s agile and elusive. Damn her.

When I think I have the submissive thing worked out she runs away with it and I can only watch her go, she’s too fast. She never stays still long enough for me to get to know her. On her heels is the hunter. I’ve always liked the hunting analogy when it comes to dominants and submissives. I like the feeling of being hunted. It’s seductive and nerve wracking. Like me. There are tactics involved. That’s alluring. I confess I am turned on by the predator movies. Being caught is the end result of the D/s hunting fantasy. That’s submission 101. The hunter catches his prey. She is caught and consumed and happy about it. For some reason my head doesn’t compute the caught part. It’s on a constant hunt and that is not healthy.

This is why I have lost my submission. I don’t know how to be one. Yet. I don’t know how it be happy when caught. I’m always looking to return to the hunt.

There is no point to this post. No question. It’s a release. Thank you for reading it.

I’ll see what tomorrow brings.

Sub-creation

Have you noticed that so many submissives are the creative type. Whether it be writing, art, fashion, cooking, coffee art – it’s a thing, what ever it might be, so many submissives are creating things. I wonder why that is?

I’m kind of going to break apart the submissive personality here so move on a few paragraphs if that’s been done like a bottom at a dungeon party.

To be submissive is to be really arrogant. How dare we go against society and popular culture and listen to our gut?It’s just rude. Be over scheduled, confused and exhausted like the rest of us. There is no excuse for being smart and together and deciding to defer to another in some or all of our lives. How dare you?

Submissives are annoying. We really are. We know what we want and we know what feels good. We are not wishy-washy. There is no demure princess hiding in here. There is a fully gown mountain lion fighting for what she needs. Submissives are so annoying for knowing that. No wonder the rest of society is baffled by us. We are a contradiction walking around wet and satisfied.

Is that why we are creative? Welcome back if you skipped ahead. Have we acknowledged some chemical need inside our brains and we need to channel that into something that is more than ourselves? Who has met a submissive that hasn’t penned an erotic story? I’m looking around at the lack of hands in the air.

It’s pent up desire bursting from a sticky cum filled center. It’s painting time. That time between knowing this is the answer to my life and finding the dominant that keeps the same time as me. Listening for that tick tick that matches my tick tick needs accompanied by music, words, paint, fabric, coffee.

Going against the grain takes grit and adjectives. The majority of my family, friends associates and space cadets will not live in a D/s or M/s relationship so they won’t know what the hell I’m taking about. If you are like the majority of us, you keep it to yourself, behind your front door and with only the most trusted vanillas. Maybe you have better connections than mine but I haven’t had any success in explaining this thing that we do – that’s another story – but for me, it’s something I keep to myself and my blog. It has to come out somehow. That’s why religions proselytise. The more the merrier, come believe in what I believe in. People love to share and when someone believes in the same way of life as we do, it makes us happy. Our health level goes up, our happiness score rises and we feel fulfilled and verified.

We are not a religion – oh if only we were, imagine the tax implications. How do we proselytise? We create. We splash the paint around to write a message that is uniquely ours.

Mine is writing. What is yours?

That time when Amelia was angry – Like now.

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Jump, Tim.

How high, Amelia?

That’s how our relationship worked. Or at least that’s what he was told.

He believed it. He felt that to be true. He had an epiphany. The clouds parted and he saw the twinkle lights Emily placed around the pergola. This epiphany released him from guilt. It wasn’t his fault because Amelia wasn’t a good slave. Hallelujah, there’s the answer. Amelia is the reason we are shipwrecked. Amelia twisted him around her little finger, that’s why he couldn’t be the captain of his ship.

He wrote to me and said I’ve tried to accomodate you and I enabled you. You gave into your ego instead of talking. You weren’t honest, communicative and transparent.

If that’s accomodation, let me check out. There was no time to communicate. We were in constant danger and I was in constant stress mode.

I was there through all of it. I didn’t come and go as I pleased. Through the good and the bad, I stuck around. I was standing there beside him, not behind him because it was too scary behind him. I was blindsided too many times by flying objects and yes, every now and then I had to yank the wheel violently to the side to avoid a collision. But I was on the boat. That rocking leaking unstable boat. Where the fuck were you Emily? Getting a manicure? And now you whisper in his ear, turn it all around on me and make me feel bad for it. Oh, your good. But I’m better.

I was in this relationship when he was anxious, wrong, worried, stressed, over worked, underslept. I woke up to it every morning and went to bed with it every evening. I’m not the one who wrapped him around my finger. That was you sweet Emily. Little tiny cute soft spoken, Emily.

“I can’t today, I’ve had a hard life.” Yeah, you’re singing to the choir. We’ve all had a hard life. Toughen up, princess. Stick to what you agreed to one time, it’s life changing.

I have never asked that man to jump. I only asked that he do what he said he would do. I asked that he be the dominant. That he take control of the wheel. That he keep us off the rocks. That he not be reckless.

There was no consistency and he didn’t have stabilizers on his boat. It rocked from side to side and while I don’t get sea sick, I would have liked the calm he promised. He would add and subtract elements on a whim and a prayer and our navigator was a magic eight ball.

When he wasn’t in control, was I suppose to let myself to tossed onto the rocks? Would that have made me a better slave? A better submissive. When I saw we here heading for danger was I suppose to say in my sweet voice, yes Master, of course I trust you when you’re heading towards that lighthouse and you’re not the the best sailor in the bay.

Because I put my hand out to steer us from danger in our rudderless boat, I am to blame and he believed her.

There is no one I need to make amends to. I did nothing wrong. I stayed until it crashed. I’m wearing the injuries from that crash.

It’s Serenwrap

When a door closes a window opens. Or the window slabs and blows the door open. Either way the house is draughty, it’s eight in the morning and I’m in my PJs with a knock at the door. Little blue cloud PJ’s no less

There stands my best friend of 18 years who I haven’t seen in too long after we parted with angry words. We grew up side by side. He was everything to me for those years and then we weren’t any more and seeing him there reminded me how much I needed him at moments like this.

I haven’t slept in days. I haven’t eaten. My eyes are stinging red and I cried again. There he was right when I needed him, on my door step.

We went to breakfast, talking over each other

Me: I’m sorry

Him: no I’m sorry

We were brutally honest about our friendship crumbling down like a straw house blown on by a pissed off wolf.

Him: I couldn’t continue to watch you make mistake after mistake and ignore the people who have loved you and known you all your life. It hurt me to watch you fall apart. Your happy drained away. I had to leave you and hope we could come back together some time.

Me: Now is the time. You’re right. I didn’t listen. I was miserable.

Him: I’m not going to support you in continuing to make poor decisions but I want to get you healthy again. Your mom called me, she’s worried, my moms worried, a lot of mom’s are worried. You’re skin and bone, your sick and I’ve never seen your hair go in so many directions. This is bad. You need vegetables and a blow out girlfriend.

Me: This is acceptable to me

That was the last thing I wanted. To worry people but of cause clueless me had done exactly that. Worried lots of people who love me because I’m too stubborn to say I need help. I’m out of my depth. I can’t swim any more. Help me. I’m doing stupid things and pretending I know what I’m doing and hurting myself and others. I’m climbing over the roadkill of my arrogance and bitchiness.

Health wise, I’m in dire straits. I’ve never been so run down. I’ve had a cough for months and every bone aches. I’m 25 and feel like those numbers have switched. I need help.

Dear dear Damien who drove from Portland to tell me he doesn’t like what I’m doing but feeds me bacon anyway. I love bacon. And coffee. Small town coffee but what’s a girl to do.

I’m the Anti-sister

In reference to National sibling day, I’d like to talk about a different type of sister.  I don’t have a sibling, only child here with all the only child issues they write about in psychology books.  I’m looking for National Only Child Day.  National Singleton Day, perhaps?  No? Thought not.  This is discrmination

Anyway, lets get to the post.

I hate the term sister. I will remind you  that I am an only child, and have never had a real sister. We won’t talk about that one I Bart Simpsoned in the attic. You didn’t hear that from me. I have a slave sister which is like a sister wife if you watch that show, only kinkier without the freaky looking husband who needs a haircut.

When someone calls Emily my sister I throw up a little in my mouth along with a moaning vomit sound deep in my stomach. Sorry if you were eating. You probably think I am being mean to Emily but she knows this. We’ve laughed about it. I have sniggered and given her sid- eye when we were called “sisters.” Excuse me while I shudder. She giggles. Emily is a giggler. I’m not a giggler. You could tell that, couldn’t you.

She loves being a sister. She uses the word a lot. I think mostly because it annoys me but also because she is the poster child for slave sisterhood. She is all in with poly. She’s rolling around in her poly house, her hands flying in the air in bewitching joy. Unicorn slippers on her feet, flayling around on a cloud of poly. She has glitter stuck to the side of her face from the posters she made for “poly is family too” march. I was the one hiding behind the telegraph pole sipping town coffee and reading the Female Eunich.

There are woman in the lifestyle who throw around the word sister and love the sound of it and I say “you go, girl,” but please don’t use it with me. Friend. Confident. Misadventure co conspirator, but not sister. Even poor- much maligned in this blog- Emily is not sister. Maybe one day she can be, she aspires to be, she tells me, though god knows why, I’m a total bitch. Maybe one day, but today is not that day.

How did this sister thing take off?

If you are poly, is she your sister? Or Brother? This is an equal opportunity blog.