20/01/2017 § Leave a comment
It was summer. I lay in the moonlight at the warehouse, sad because the boy I was really interested in had left a few minutes before. The other one whispered in my ear ‘I bet you’ve never had anyone hold you like this before, it must be nice to feel so loved’ and I laughed and laughed at such an obvious attempt at manipulation.
It was autumn. We hung upside down off the fifty foot drop looking at the city lights with his arm around me, and couldn’t stop laughing at all there was to be happy about, and what was happening next to us. I thought ‘this, is a very good moment’ and it seared in my mind as permanent memory, made that way through repeated recalls.
It was winter. I was walking back from a friends thinking about the flash of anger I’d felt earlier, remembering how a man had gently pushed his own flaws onto me like a mirror. I thought about how he did not realise what he’d done and felt my flash melt like an icicle. Realising that the stronger you are as a person, the more generous you can afford to be in your opinions of people.
It was spring, and he didn’t wake me when I slept through his alarm. I showered and we had a full English breakfast, no sex that morning. He was the best of the bunch. Years later he told me he tried to wake me, shook me hard by my shoulders, but literally couldn’t manage without causing pain so left it. I’m still amazed at how deep I used to sleep. My mother says she once had to stick her fingers up my nose to check I was alive.
It was winter. We were arguing. As his hand closed over my jaw and the back of my head went unhappily into the wall, I filled with fear and thought simultaneously ‘that’s not a nice way to shut someone up’ and ‘I wish you did that in bed instead’.
It was spring, and I lost a Felix Gonzalez-Torres print given to me as a gift. It’s my biggest regret of that year. Although I worship Felix, this probably says more about my priorities than it does the print.
It was summer and it was dark. The wind and rain blew insanely and the tent was not enough, a house would barely be enough in that weather. The sex was as good as it could be in the circumstances. He was lonely, I was not, it made it awkward the next day.
It was summer and I lay posed for her art project in the prickly grass with a plastic parrot. From anyone else I would have found the parrot irritating and tacky, but from her it was perfect. Everything, hers, was perfect. I thought about how much I loved her.
It was summer and with every selfless morning cup of tea given to me in sleepy kindness I thought ‘that’s a benchmark’ for how to treat a person.
It was autumn, and tripping up the steps I heard my dad echo in my head ‘be caaareful’ in his way which grinds at me with its patronising undertone, but is just another expression of how much I am loved. I felt an inner warmth that’s always there.
20/01/2017 § Leave a comment
*Written aged 17*
I remember the weather on our first and last meeting. It was sunny, a sticky heat which allowed me to feel comfortable in the clothes he asked me to wear. I would not have agreed to the meet if it were raining, I would not have travelled to the location, I would not have worn the outfit.
He told me he lived on a riverboat, which sounds romantic but isn’t. The way he said it meant it was the truth. He told me what he used to do before retiring but I can’t remember the words, only it was operator of something and the images conjured in my mind are of metal, smoke, grease, steam, pistons.
‘There are two types of people’ he said. ‘Those who stand on street corners and are looking for the next tenner to spend on crack. And those like yourself-’ he gestured towards me ‘-who enjoy the company of men and for who money is just a bonus’. I heard his voice jolt slightly as he mentally changed the word ‘prostitute’ into ‘people’. It was unclear whose benefit this was for. If mine, his impression of my naivety and denial to myself both amused and angered, how dare he presume such ignorance in me. If for himself, how superior, how mansplain-y.
I nodded false agreement. What a stupid thing to say, how presumptuous of him to comment on such a large group of people as if they are all the same, and as if he knows the slightest thing about young female sex-workers.
People assume you will be upset if they use the word prostitute. They dally around the word looking for an alternative. ‘This line of work’, ‘escort’. Sometimes, they don’t want to think of themselves as hiring a prostitute so try to trick themselves, avoiding the word for their own sake.
I couldn’t figure out the motive behind the things he said and did. Was he a danger to me? Should I feel fear? Pity? Anger? Often I find it much easier to analyse females than males, although males are more likely to underestimate my intelligence and fall for the surface of youth and innocence.
After our meet, himself and his family took their boat further downriver and he asked me if I would visit him in *******, but I refused to travel that far. He messaged me stupid things, as only a man could do.
Things I didn’t foresee. Where can I hide all this money? How can I subtly check my phone during a meet? Why can I never get a dick inside me when I’m on top? Why is it so difficult to find a doctor that will give me the implant? Why is it so difficult to find a clinic that will give me a full sti check? (I take precautions but nothing is foolproof). This is supposed to be traumatising, am I going to have a mental breakdown at some point?
28/06/2016 § Leave a comment
The news is full of the fears of Brexit. But we create our own little bubble. We carry it to the bedroom, a caravan, cinema, restaurants. And in it things are safe and warm. We discuss politics regularly, but with the knowledge of how impervious we are. We plan bright futures far away and cosy futures here. We have the ease of the young and healthy. Our only responsibilities are to our jobs. When our boat rocks, we know it won’t capsize.
Things are easy, gentle. My anxiety is as low as it could ever be. I’m filled with trust and warmth. What more could I ask for? Nothing, with any kind of acknowledgement for how lucky I am compared to most human life. I couldn’t ask for a drop more.
May I always be loved like this.
May I always love like this.
23/01/2016 § 1 Comment
I am wearing a suit and walking for an hour along a road which leads me back to my lovers. I pee in the corner of a filthy bus stop (it’s daytime and I’m sober, but really needed the toilet and wouldn’t reach one for over an hour) then sit on the pavement, meditating and waiting for the bus. It’s countryside here, well out of the city and rolling hills stretch away from me. My mind thinks ‘it’s a long wait’ because that’s what I’m supposed to think, waiting for an hour. But really it’s massively fucking short compared to the time it takes for things, and stuff, and life. I open my eyes gently and a string of bicycles whoosh past, how perfect are these moments. It’s hard for me not to contrast my suit to peeing in bus stops to listening to rap music to meditating. Don’t we all have such apparent contradictions which aren’t really contradictions at all? Why do I have to write this shit down, why can’t I just feel?
04/04/2015 § Leave a comment
We’re in the missionary position. The traditional one. The one I assume if Adam and Eve really existed and fucked, this is how they’d do it. You pull my hands above my head and bind them to the bedpost. I’m not sure what with, but it works, and I can’t move my arms in any direction because you’ve pulled my body downwards with your weight between my legs until I’m stretched tight. I’m not sure what you used to tie because I’m too busy looking at your face expressions and your torso and your cock.
This is where I think us and Adam and Eve would diverge, because here you start to fuck me in the ass. I’ve prepared myself for this, training my ass with a buttplug slightly wider than your cock for the past week, so the pain is minimal but oh my god the pressure and the overwhelming fullness and the control and the dominance and gahh. You pull my mouth open and spit in it, then instruct me to swallow. And here my mind starts to go blank. I’m pretty sure you’re calling me a dirty little fucktoy and a slut but I can’t really hear and I think my eyes have rolled back in my head slightly, to which the tiny part of my regular brain which is still functioning (about 0.5%) is laughing about how that must look mighty unattractive. But the other 99.5% really doesn’t give a shit.
You start to fuck me harder and I dissolve.
Later, pounding me from behind, you drop your weight downward so instead of a distant hand I can feel your body’s weight, heat, presence. I know you well enough to know exactly why you’ve done this: Because of how much I love it, and because your abdominal muscles are screaming at you for a break. I feel a wave of gratitude and warmth and resist the urge to cry or tell you I love you. It’s like being drunk: BDSM, submission.
Things happen, and half an hour later I’m on my front with your fist deep in my vajay. This is odd for me because usually I’d be terrified of fisting, but currently I’m not. Do I trust you more than my ex? If so, why? Has my love of hands simply grown? Is your quiet confidence this effective? Has the amount of excellent hand based sex we’ve had contributed to this enjoyment; making me fetishise your hands, or accustoming me to the fear? This all flashes through my mind in less than a second before your hand plunges in again and my mind collapses.
Later still, I’m on my knees with my mouth round your balls and quite honestly I feel so incredibly peaceful and happy I think I could stay here forever. You wrap your hand in my hair and my submission is screaming half-baked phrases in my head such as ‘please’ ‘I’ll do anything’ ‘sir’ ‘you’ ‘yes’ ‘daddy’ ‘anything’ ‘anything’ ‘anything’. Looking up I watch your face, as far as my blurred vision can see, and your heavy eyes and slightly opened mouth provoke my Freudian id into wanting to kill myself and give birth simultaneously. I want to climb into your body and I want you to climb into mine. I want to be consumed by you and consume you, dissolve our bodies together.
I’m not crazy, it’s just intense right now.
As ever, there’s a conflict between the part of me that’s loving it and the part of me that knows how this must look to you. I feel so exposed, a large part of me wants to walk out the door and never look back. Another, equally large part, loves the vulnerability because there’s no better feeling than completely opening up and being accepted. After all, isn’t that what it’s all about? Logically I know I’m not vulnerable. I put myself here, I consented, I could stop this at any moment but I’m choosing not to. I keep telling myself these things so I don’t burst into tears.
But I’m submissive and I’m in that mode. That ‘true’ me. I’m desperate to please you and I want you to own me and I want you to love me and I feel so fucking needy. So inside, I’ve made myself vulnerable as fuck and I worry. Do you really care about me, do I look ridiculous to you, do I look weak, do I look pathetic, when my voice becomes younger and girlier (as it automatically does during submissive sex) is it silly to you. I think about these things when I’m domming a man later for work. I feel relaxed and in control, I feel good but it’s not what I truly crave deep down. I can enjoy playing like this but I wouldn’t want a full time relationship like this. As I stand over him and watch him suffer in the ways I’ve created, I think about how his face contorts with emotion and I know exactly what’s happening within him with every facial change, because it’s the internal processes I go through myself.
And in some ways he does look pathetic, and he does look silly (although he is massively into humiliation, so one of the main purposes of this scene is to make him look that way). But this opinion is coming from me, who does similar things and understands every move he makes. So how must I look to someone who’s completely Dom, who can’t relate at all?
I feel sexier and more confident in the dominant role, but being submissive is in my soul and the relationship dynamic I crave, so I must keep cracking myself open to this vulnerability.
20/03/2015 § Leave a comment
Remembering how I used to move with skin, from body to body with myself intact. This feels foreign and impossible.
Perhaps it’s a dream only imagined in retrospect. When did these spikes arise? And this thorniness. Turned inwards, so another’s body presses it deeper.
The difficulty is in knowing what to reflect on and what to ignore. The difficulty is in knowing when to push through and when to stop.
I fantasise of receiving sexual abuse but just before I orgasm I’m overtaken with the wild energy of the reptilian brain and I become the one choking, hitting, forcing.
My friend told me of a girl who was raped as a child and wanted him to fuck her in the same way now. I couldn’t even fake shock. Maybe it’s naive to say, but I doubt a persons desires will ever be shocking to me again.
My boyfriend (and that word still freaks me out) nearly fisted me the other day and I nearly cried with joy. To be filled by someone I have strong feelings for is an indescribable feeling.
He strips my skin away. It’s not the acts, it’s myself. Lashing myself raw with my affection for him.
The hunger of submission, like worshippers to god. The similarities of D/s and religion is endless.
‘My stomach is swollen and I long to be fucked and destroyed’ I wrote high, after eating a large pizza. Losing the ability to be humourous after too much introspection.
I dream of his boot crushing me into the floor, being fucked in the ass, being growled at to squeeze his cock, to suck the cum off him.
I fantasise about him cumming deep inside me without protection. In my dreams I cling to him like a mussel on a rock, knuckles white with emotion. Even my dream self can’t deny that I’m vulnerable.
I know life is all about being open. Buddy Wakefield was the first to crack open that truth to me. Then the men I work with, their lives of lies teaching me how not to live. An instruction manual for misery, laid out step by step.
‘I refuse to fight it’ I say to myself, meaning the vulnerability. But that’s only partly true. I’m torn between cracking myself open and burrowing to safety. I do both at the same time.
09/01/2015 § 1 Comment
I woke up the next day, happy
and the next
and the next
and each day the happiness stayed.
What’s wrong with me? I though, as the days and weeks rolled by. Why am I not a miserable wreck crying over tubs of Ben and Jerrys? Aren’t I meant to make some dramatic choices like strings of one night stands sans condoms, or shaving my head? Instead I came home from nights out alone or with friends, and continued to grow my hair longer, a few shades of blond lighter.
Why? This is someone who for two years I’d been completely emotionally invested in, who I’d loved so intensely that I’d (a previously independent as fuck lady) dreamt of marrying and housewife-ing, I’d (previously anti-children, not as in I wish they didn’t exist, but as in I want them far away from me) imagined having kids with. Etcetera et embarrassing cetera.
It took a while to realise my lack of grief was because I’d already mourned. I’d already gone through the grieving process in the months leading up to it. The person he’d insidiously become had destroyed my self-confidence, self-esteem, and excitement for life and I’d already known I had to get out of the situation and felt the corresponding emotions.
The problem was, this knowledge came with the naivety of first intense love. Nothing was stopping me leaving but I’d put the bars up on my own cage, believing that without him I’d never be happy. I couldn’t have been more wrong, the life I entered into afterwards proved that.
I’d created a rock and hard place in my mind. I was lonely, crying most days and not understanding the reason why, believing without him I’d be even more lonely. From the minute I ended it I haven’t cried once, for any reason, in two months. The loneliness went, and it’s pretty clear where the source of it came from! I thought he filled a thousand roles in my life, but like a belly filled with poison there was mass but no nutrients, and the smaller healthy portions of love from my friends could not find their way in. As soon as I left, they could, and they filled me.
Of course I missed the good parts, and the version of him I knew in the first six months of our relationship. But I’d been missing it long before the end, and in truth I missed it a lot more when I was still with him than I did after the break up.
I could have beat myself up for putting up with shitty behaviour for so long, but I don’t blame myself. I’d never been burned like that before, it was an entirely different kind of shit to anything I’d been used to and I had no defence mechanism for hurt from someone I love. I’d never let anyone in like that before. He was someone who knew most of my soul and that shit’s hard to release. Like a frog in a slowly heating pan of water, I was boiling but didn’t realise I had to jump out.
Everything’s always clear in retrospect.
I even became (and still am) one of those irritating people who go ‘aww’ at cute couples at restaurants without feeling bitter, and that’s surely not natural for someone fresh out of long term misery. By the laws of balancing, this bonus must mean bad juju somewhere, misery on happy future days, it’ll come back to bite.
The bad juju continues in the euphoric mornings I experienced often in the first few weeks which were not dissimilar to being on ecstasy. This excess of happiness will come and shit on me one day, my superstitions tell me. I even got scared I was using up my serotonin levels and actually tried to make myself more miserable. But the lows, in the dashes they came, were bearable and understandable.
1. Just how much I am capable of being emotionally drained by a person, I didn’t realise it was possible.
2. I am capable of being in a long term monogamous relationship with someone, and be happy and satisfied providing they’re the right person (which he, very clearly, was not).
3. Sulkers, whingers, and self-pitying people are to be avoided in future romantic endeavours.
4. As above, people who cannot handle my sexual past, present, and possible future.
5. Recent sex has taught me my vajay problems were due to lack of good foreplay and emotional connection with my partner, and I’m actually completely normal in the natural lubricant and orgasm departments. What a relief! It’s something I always suspected, and having it confirmed was a great feeling. It’s not that my ex was bad at sex, he wasn’t, but he stopped caring or putting in the effort in the last part of our together. Probably because he hated me (lol).
5. Not really to do with the break-up, but a recent thought. My relationship with food and sex are, in a way, my soul. I should be proud of them and enjoy them without guilt. Currently, I do.