Hello, dear readers,
Thanks for sticking with me through how quiet I’ve been. Life has been pretty busy.
I’m planning to start posting more again, and I hope to take this blog in a slightly new direction. I’ve been predominantly focused on service-oriented submission and poly these last few months, so I plan to write more about those topics. I also plan to write about my (sometimes unintentionally hilarious) adventures as a service sub with OCD. And, of course, I’ll still be posting about my experiences with bondage and S&M, because those experiences continue to be both wonderful and challenging (in the best possible way).
Thanks again to everyone who’s been reading and commenting! I appreciate your support.
Trigger Warning: PTSD.
In order to rise from its own ashes, a phoenix first must burn.
– Octavia E. Butler
In Asia lotuses were everywhere. You could buy lotus seeds as a snack in the marketplace. My friend told me that the flowers symbolized purity, their perfectly formed petals rising effortlessly from the muck.
After I returned to the United States I had a dream. I was sitting in a cabin watching a lotus flower outside slowly blossom. As the pink petals unfolded themselves, I heard a voice quoting from the book Eva Luna by Isabel Allende. The voice recounted the journey of the character Huberto Naranjo from homeless child to revolutionary. It described his growing feelings of love for humanity, ending with the words “he understood then that his rage had been transformed.”
I awoke in quiet wonder.
I’m seeking transformation now. For the first time in my life, I’m addressing PTSD symptoms that started when I was seven. It’s hard to write that I was abused as a kid, but that’s what happened.
For anyone who’s surprised, this is a fairly new development. I began having trouble with flashbacks in August and started therapy in September. I’ve known for a long time that I had trauma symptoms, but I masked them by keeping busy. Even so, my memories were always there, waiting for me to acknowledge them again.
I’m looking for a path through this, and Huberto Naranjo gives me hope. Perhaps one day, I will see flashbacks, anger, sadness, and fear as fuel for compassion.
and I forget.
But for you,
my skin has a long memory.
My bones sing
with the afterimages of touch
after your fingers have finished trailing
I need to think before I can write.
I need space to think, space that can only ever be made, not miraculously found amid the whirl of work, friends, partners, and community.
Fall is here. The old year is dying down, like a fire reduced now to its embers. The sun is lower in the sky. The ground is quiet and receptive, patiently awaiting the coming snow.
It’s a good time to reflect on the changes this year has brought. It’s a good time to create a new rhythm, a rhythm that includes space to think.
How does one write an intro paragraph to a list of fantasies? An intro presumes the need to explain, the need to provide relevant context. Fantasies require no explanation and no excuse.
So, without further ado:
A Few Fantasies
1. Being made to lie in a dark closet for an hour with a vibrating dildo inserted. The idea of lying curled up in the dark as my world slowly fills with a mixture of pleasure and agony gives me goose bumps. Even more appealing is the idea of being ignored for that hour, the idea of being put away until I can be useful again.
2. Taking a bath with Jin’s beautiful girlfriend and slowly washing each other’s hair while he watches.
3. Jin covering my cunt and breasts with clothespins then telling me to insert a butt plug and stand against the wall while he canes me. I imagine that after he is done, he comes close to me, strokes my hair, brushes away my tears, and calls me a good girl. Then he tells me to bend over, and without removing the clothespins he fucks me in the ass.
4. Being covered with multiple clothespin zippers then being told “sit quietly till I get back.”
5. Being caned then made to cum twenty times while not being allowed to make a sound. I’m generally very loud and would probably fail at this, but maybe I’d find reserves of strength somewhere. The uncertainty just makes it hotter.
6. Getting my nipples pierced. I imagine being extremely nervous beforehand, then going home to play immediately afterwards, while I’m still shaky, sore, and a little sick from the adrenaline. This is not something I want to do anytime soon (if ever), but it’s fun to think about.
Author’s Note: I started writing this while wearing Everest, but the post took longer than expected, and I couldn’t continue. I’m obviously woefully out of practice and need to remedy this post haste.
The morning after a scene. It’s cold outside—rainy and quiet. I can hear the rush of cars on the freeway. The yellow flowers in the garden are waiving in the chill air.
I’m comfortably alone in my apartment, curled up with blankets and coffee near the open window. It’s nice to feel the cold trying to sneak through the screen and into the warm nest I’ve made for myself.
I still feel small and somewhat vulnerable, unready to face the complex world outside of these four walls. But mostly I’m happy. I have some wonderful people in my life right now, and when I’m with them I feel accepted. Not to mention, I get to cuddle them, so that’s a plus!
Jin recently started a relationship with a lovely person. Perhaps she and I will collaborate on a blog post one of these days (hint)! God, I love making new friends.
There have been times when I’ve felt insecure, but we’ve talked that out. And mostly what I feel is a strong sense of community—warm, cuddly, joyful community.
I realized the other day how important it is that Jin has expectations of me. I’ll write more about that later, but in the meantime I promised him that I would start posting again. Am I doing it because I want to be a good girl? Because I want to write? Because I believe that I can do this? Because this blog matters? Who knows. Maybe I just need a place to process my experiences. Maybe I need to write in order to grow.
I wrote a poem. It doesn’t really fit here. It’s a start.
Singing in the Wilderness
There is a man on my street
who likes to sit outside
long on the phone.
Today I heard him say only:
“a thousand different pleasures”
before I passed him completely,
losing his words in my footsteps.
I like to imagine that he is the Omar Khayyam of my neighborhood,
telling his lover about a picnic they will have,
describing the benefits of singing in the wilderness.