It’s no wonder that my masterpiece would be a derivative works — for those unfamiliar, known as Hunting Alice, soon to be an audio drama series and broadcast on the Internet.

This, strangely enough, is not about that … exactly. This is about something else. Deeper. The roots of Roulette, in some sense. While I am always aware of myself, I do have momentary lapses of … treason? No. Season? Hmm, not quite. And ‘reason’ doesn’t cut it, since they’re not always unreasonable; but they do change me.

There are many people milling about in my head — many of which whom are my own creations, and present themselves in my fiction works. But sometimes, I get a bit too method. Certain characters, unfortunately, are so deeply ingrained within me that when something triggers them (or someone) it’s all I can do to keep firm hold of myself. It’s just so otherwise natural to slip into the masque of someone else.

(Yes, this is why I did so much theatre in my youth. Why, had I my druthers, I would be an actress as well. Moving on.)

One such character is Dr Penderan Fauste. That’s a name you’ll be hearing much more often, you can be sure of that. While it’s new to you now, it’ll one day be uttered with such casualness you’ll hardly remember the time in which he was a non-entity. Do mark my words; it’s not hyperbole.

Fauste is a funny sort, though. Trouble is, while I am his writer, I’m unable to ever assimilate the character completely. I must always entrust him to another (which I recently have, and could not be happier.) Alas, something incredibly curious takes place once that … vessel has been found. His counterpart, soul-mate — the yin to his yang — the other side of the coin — does fight to take hold of me: Riley Wingate. (Another name you’ll soon know, well, though not as readily as Fauste.)

She is the Alice for a chaotic, modern world; a controversial heroine, and inquisitive investigator of the strange, curious existence in which we find ourselves, and cursorily term ‘reality’. Regularly, she’s a wonderful person — very compassionate, empathetic, and … a bit unaware of the depth of the tumult around her. She tends to find herself at the heart of massive conspiracies which serve to unhinge her sanity, disturb her inner peace and leave her a very different person than she started out.

Of course, according to my brain, there is a kind of chronology. In some sense, being that I have written all five novels, and I do know the ending of our strange tale, Riley does not appear as easily to me in her earlier, innocent stages. She comes out in full-force as what she has become: something powerful, and in many cases, to be reckoned with — quite carefully.

This doesn’t work in my everyday life. She’s too much; too intense, too forthright, too dominant, too antagonistic. If her world is not perfectly ordered, she just about blows a gasket. (And not quietly.) All of the docile, peace-keeping, harmony-seeking, submissive years which left her bewildered, brokenhearted, and forever changed are long gone. One extreme to the other.

Yes, yes, I know, I know. It does seem the story of my life, does it not? To constantly seek the balance. That’s Riley’s journey — and it appears it’s mine, too. Days like these, when she comes to me so easily, tend to remind me that I’m not there yet. She’s still disturbed, still seeking resolution, closure — some sense to why her world was so casually destroyed; why the only one that seems to care about the fact that she was left to gather the pieces, alone, was — no doubt — her.

There’s an anger there; a rage, unsatisfied. Powerful, and a bit frightening. She is my dominant side, strangely enough — and she was born of a sort of enforced submission. A requirement to be gentle, appease, placate, and be at the beck and call of others. She was never such to begin with, and when her dominant side came into being, it did not do so quietly. (Of course, to tell you more, I’d spoil the whole thing. You should read the books instead — and well, purchase the audio drama episodes on iTunes when it premieres; that particular scene is brilliantly presented in the audio drama — if I do say so myself.)

And, yes. The whole thing is very, very kinky.

At any rate …

I fear there is much that is resonant — and reminiscent — with me, and my own. That, in many ways, she is my means of coping. She is the tangible existence that my own journey is underway. And I remain just as perplexed and unaware of where the destination is to lead.

So, while we are engaged in demo recording, script revisions, rehearsals, and intensive characterisation — bear with me, as there may be many days like this, where she overtakes my good sense, because a part of me is too enthralled with the notion of just giving in.

It will be curious indeed.

Stay tuned.

What is up with guys with average-sized dicks wanting ‘small cock humiliation’ ? Seriously, it’d be like me emailing strangers and wanting them to laugh at the fact that I have no breasts. Or wear a training bra. I get the fascination with, and intrigue resulting from the fantasy of humiliation and degradation, but honestly, people. Can’t you at least have the defect you want to be ridiculed?

When I finally amass enough of a cocktail of boredom and fed-upedness to go on FCL, (not because it isn’t sometimes a pleasant experience, but it’s mostly a I-get-jack-for-it type of minorly pleasant experience — depending upon who’s on at the time) the weirdest thing I get are the average to above-average cock guys who seem to be secretly dreaming of having micro-cocks and having girls laugh at said micro-cocks. It kinda reminds me of an old magazine article from something I read as an adolescent about the stomping fetish — where guys imagine being the insects that the women stomp on in a variety of footwear. (I thought it was bizarre then. I find it equally so now.)

Anyway.

I wouldn’t mind the experience if they’d at least get into the roots with me. Were they humiliated by girls on the playground when they were sporting a much smaller member? Did it turn them on, because they’re naturally submissive? Is this a feeling they’re trying to recapture in their adulthood because sex has otherwise become stale? Do they have a genuine problem with normal channels of arousal? Or is it just a kinky enhancement?

But, noooo. They never want to talk about that. They just want to be ‘humiliated’ because of their perfectly normal-sized cocks.

… Beats the fuck outta me. Your guess is as good as mine.

Oh, dear, christ. How can I ever hope to express the full extent of my conflict over this?

Because:

A) It’s largely true — and it works.

B) It shouldn’t. It really, really shouldn’t.

See, I’m rather living proof of this, since my mother’s earliest lessons involved manipulating men. I was too young to realise that it was … well, kinda wrong, and that the world didn’t really work that way. (I know. Funny coming from a domme, isn’t it?) The truth is, I don’t believe in either (or any) sex being superior to the other. Both genders have strengths and weaknesses. Really, they fit together quite neatly, once you get past the cosmic joke of all the internal conflict. And even that’s not true in every case. Quite honestly, dominant women and submissive men get on very well in tandem. So long as they both remember to respect and appreciate each other.

But … it doesn’t seal the deal.

Nope.

Sad, that in this day and age, we have to look at tying the knot as a business transaction, but really, isn’t no different from any other sales conversion. You’ve each convinced the other that you’re worth the contractual agreement, because of your fancy advertising or dollars poured into market research, so you sign on the dotted line. It’s true that men don’t marry nice girls. Nope. They marry bitches. They like nice girls. They enjoy nice girls bringing them coffee and sharing their office space. Cleaning up their desk and ensuring that the blinds are open when they come in and closed when they leave. They probably even appreciate those women who take the time and effort to make their lives a little easier, to see that they feel supported, valued, and loved.

But do they seal the deal with a nice women?

Natch.

Negatory.

The second you fall for him, and he gets under your skin, the balance of power changes. I hate to admit it, but the most fulfilling, successful portions of my relationships have been as intricate as a battle plan — where every piece of correspondence was strategic, every word carefully crafted, each response closely evaluated to see whether or not the operation was a success or failure. God, I remember triumphantly proclaiming to my mother my various escapades. How I’d played each of my potential suitors like the fiddle he appeared to be, wrapped him around my finger, twisted him up this way and that, and watched my puppet dance. Whatever I wanted, I could achieve that. Easily. (Once you’ve had to mindfuck a homicial maniac, trust me, your average male between the ages of 25 and 35 is child’s play.)

I also found myself creating my own masterpiece: a lengthy, multi-volume fictional tale of a woman (or was it really the man that was the focus?) that begun in childhood where the two met, and for the first time, she’d encountered someone as brilliant as she was — as clever, as fearless, as manipulative, as wise. And, lo, and behold …

I’d plopped down in the Great Room with my mother, at home one weekend from the university where I received my Psych BA, exhausted from the some 5K words I’d just written in a mad flurry. ‘Doesn’t it get old?’ I’d asked her, still deliciously enthralled with my creation; mildly jealous of my protagonist who would eventually get to live happily ever after with him — after a lot of hell, naturally. (I am a mystery writer, after all.) She set down her tea and stared at me, blankly for the moment. ‘Old?’ I explained myself: never meeting a man that could really keep up. Always beating him at his own game. ‘Yes, they’re wonderful for taking you places, and doing favours for you, and being there if you need … satisfaction,’ I sighed. ‘But what would it be like if you couldn’t just control him? If he was as swift as you are, confident in his own right, and … oh, I don’t know. What if you could share the power?’

She laughed. ‘Sweetheart, there’s no such thing. The woman always has the power. Always. Whether or not he knows it. And trust me, most of the time, he doesn’t have a clue. They never did.’

I was dissatisfied with her answer, sighed to myself, and dreamed of men like Dr Penderan Fauste. He satiated me for a long time, actually. I wrote some of the best things I probably ever will in that particular series. He also kept me strong and complete throughout the long years I decided to (subconsciously) really stick it to my mother and found the most terrible, arrogant (and for no good reason), spiteful, cruel, unambitious, vile creature that ever walked the earth. (In my personal experience.) And, since I was recently done with my college education, moved in with him — so that I wouldn’t burden my parents.

Trying to control him was a full-time job. Maybe a part of me even enjoyed some of it. Oh, God, how I despised him. I never felt guilty for my anger toward him, either, because he was truly abusive toward me, and almost always unprovoked. What a change he was from my ex-fiance! Here, I wanted a man that was willful, domineering, and wouldn’t be pushed around. And, holy fuck, did I get it. Even minor things like doing the dishes or ensuring that the carpets were vacuumed was ripe for major conflict. Every time we got into the car together, after the fourth — and soon to be final — year of misery, was the advent of another war. He never paid for anything, expected me to swathe him with gratitude for the mere usage of the furniture he had, and bitched and moaned whenever I didn’t want to fuck him. Which was 90% of our relationship.

It actually gave mutual friends, with whom I still acquaint myself, the idea that I was a cold fish and incapable of sexual passion with zero prowess. For awhile there, I think Mister P was under that same impression, but I never can tell for sure. Sometimes, I get the sense that he knew under my mousy and unassuming exterior was a dominant and sadistic woman secretly dreaming of letting it all go; other times, I don’t think any of it even crossed his mind. He gives me mixed reports, depending upon when I’ve asked him, or at what point we’ve reached in our relationship. So, who knows? The truth is, that relationship, despite its volatility, abuse, and overall misery was not sexless. True to being my mother’s daughter, I’d found other ways with which to satisfy myself — other men that I could entice, ensnare, and use for my own pleasure.

(I know. I’ve come a long way, haven’t I?)

To that end, I’d often-times write with them — sexy, D/s filled fantasy-oriented collaborative stories — which was, I guess, like some kind of cyber-sex to the nth degree — but minus the present arousal. That would always come later, and be saved for all posterity. One particular writer I knew adored me, and while he was so very sweet, a wonderful friend, and will always be dear to me, he never really did it for me — you know? But another one — the one I’d recruited from another collaborative story group — he was just the right mix of asshole and charmer.

Shit, I thought I was kinda in … something. It couldn’t be love, but it was an intense sort of sexually-charged affinity. The ambiguous platonic of which I’d become an expert after my teen years. I always knew which ones were secretly in love with me, and which were just friends. (Odd but true, there were much more of the former than the latter.) It was with him that I truly got to let off the steam that unbearably built up after I’d realised I was developing a crush on my coworker — Mister P. Who, for the record, could not be more indifferent to me. He was stand-offish — but helpful, abrasive — but friendly. (Yeah, talk about your mixed signals!) But really, it was more confusing because the more important actions said, ‘I care about you.’ The more minor ones — his daily manner, his behaviour — even his words, all screamed: ‘Who are you?’ or ‘You’re really annoying me.’ Hell, at the end of most days, I was just as perplexed as the character I wrote with my favourite co-writer. I’d never knew until later, however, the insights I’d draw from that very same thing.

After a thoroughly enjoyable, but altogether confusing, day at the office, I’d return home to the pity party / abuse and drama factory, put on my headphones, some of my best writing music, and go to town, losing myself in the world I’d created because, at that point, fantasy trumped reality in spades. My co-writer and I would converse outside of our work, of course, and soon, it became just as rife with mixed signals as my daily grind with Mister P. I couldn’t tell if he liked me, hated me, was secretly into me, or couldn’t care less about me. Depending upon the day, or the situation, his words conveyed a little bit of everything. His actions, like Mister P’s, were always aligned. He was prompt, respectful of my time, committed, and reliable.

Then came the day he opened up to me. It was like hell fucking froze over. (I couldn’t get Mister P to do that. Believe me, I’d tried. He walled me off — successfully — and barred me from any private thoughts or insight into his inner life. I was rejected — and dejected — at first, but I was able to channel my fury, confusion, and sadness into my writing. And, damn, to this day, it’s some of the best. Honestly felt.) Then came the truth: about how I meant something to him. He just didn’t know how to express it. And the talks about women. And the roundabout admittance of, ‘so, what if you didn’t have your boy-toy?’ (Note: this would continue even into the near-present. In his eyes, anyone in my life who is not him is clearly a ‘boy-toy’ given what he knows about my ability to manipulate the male mind and body.) Then, I was enamoured. I mean, despite my commitment to my ‘relationship’ — which I never, ever stepped out of, thank you — I do have scruples — I was really, really into him, too.

… Right?

Or was I into the character he was writing? … The character that I’d originally mapped out and created, that had quite the eerie resemblance to … Mister P.

Shit, fuck, and damn.

There really weren’t two ways around it. But which was safer? Confess to my co-worker that I really didn’t know how I felt about him, only to surely be pat on the head, told ‘how cute’ and have my entire feminine ego crushed in a single blow — at which I point, I would’ve just gotten angry and even. Or, skip the whole thing and continue this rich and fulfilling fantasy life with a guy miles and miles away who’s really attractive, but a teensy bit young for me, (listen, after being with a man 2 years your junior and enduring that train-wreck — anything beyond that feels ‘too young’ — regardless of how legal or otherwise normal it may be) which served double-duty to allow me to indirectly contemplate and evaluate the complex dynamic I had with someone else entirely. Obviously, I chose Option B.

The most gratifying sex I’d ever had in my abusive relationship were the times I’d written a particularly kinky scene with my co-writer only to be so fucking hot that I really did need to just use someone until I came. At which point, I could promptly return to writing. It was an okay — if not mind-numbing — existence. At least outside of the moments of genuine pleasure and happiness — which were precious and few, to say the least. I was discovering a real compatibility with my co-writer, which only served to complicate everything. It always got me thinking back to Mister P, since their similarities were peculiar, to put it mildly.

Of course, once I started to take the template of the characters we were writing, things … got even weirder. (They never actually experienced any of this wondrous kinky erotic fun, by the way — at least not to the point where they could remember any of it; that’s the whole point of stringing the audience — or readership — along. It also meant we got to write it over, and over, and over again. In so many ways. Which I didn’t mind!) See, if I looked at everything logically, read the internal motivations of his character, I came to see that his word were almost a complete contradiction of his actions. His character would be saying how silly and annoying my character’s behaviour was, while his thoughts ran to the … tender. Affectionate. I dare say, loving. While he never once indicated to her how he really felt — how much he cared, needed, desired, and admired her — he thought it the entire time!

Okay, big effing deal. But you’ve got to remember I’m a writer. I think in terms of character, plot — motivation. I ask myself: why does someone do what they’re doing? What’s the point? What’s their agenda? What do they hope to achieve? Seeing that he actually loved her, despite all of his statements and minor behavioural evidence to the total contrary was a kind of epiphany for me. Oh, I knew that people can mask their intentions. They do it all the time. But for some reason, when it comes to matters of the heart, I tend to think in more surface terms. Writers tend to do this, too. If they’re going to have two characters hook up, they always give you — the reader, or audience — outward, obvious indications of that happening.

Did anyone ever think for a minute that Mulder didn’t want to bone Scully from day one?

Yeah. I rest my case.

That’s because, be it the talent of Duchovny or the skill of the writers who were responsible for creating that fantastic character, we all had enough hints that they so wanted each other. And Carter (the guy shouting, ‘I made this!’ at the end of every episode — because he did) was going to make us wait. Nine bloody long seasons. And one movie, apparently. But most of us hung on. Why? Because we knew it was going to happen. There’d been enough evidence that, while maybe the character acted dumb, they were just waiting for the opportune moment — that the writers would decide they could finally do the horizontal mambo.

And, oh, how we cheered.

But life’s not like that. If there had been a convenient voice-over attached to all of my dealings with Mister P a few years ago — besides being incredibly odd, and auditory hallucinations — I might’ve had a clue that he was going the way of my dear character. At least part of the time. (Again, I’ll never know the per centage on that. Even now, it keeps changing.)

This was not a line of thinking I wanted to explore. Because he was different than the other men I’d known. I didn’t exactly know why, or what the fuck was wrong with me that I would still find myself thinking of him even after months of purposefully breaking contact. (Which led to many futile attempts to write something to fully express my inner turmoil, often accompanied by Chris Isaak’s ‘Wicked Game’ — sung by many talented cover artists.) It was best to just stick to fantasy and quit entertaining the possibility that just because that’s how it was shaping up in fiction, that that was the way it really was in reality. That world was only gonna break my heart.

The truth was, he’d tapped into something even I had forgotten in my years of trying to learn who the fuck I was, and what was really up with men and women. I’d controlled and dominated oh-so-many boyfriends. (Yawn.) I’d finally found one that was such a supreme asshole, hated me and everything I was so intensely, that he would rather die than see me be happy. (Yikes.) And, to that day, there’d only been one guy that I’d known who I couldn’t really control, who proved that I could enjoy sex, and it could be playful and suspenseful and fun, and yet, was gentlemanly, generous …

… and completely fucked, since his father had fairly recently died, and couldn’t have a real relationship at that point if his life depended on it. We’d been such good friends for years, and fuck, I fell hard. He was my first masochist, and I’ll never forget the delicious hours spent filing my nails to a razor-sharp point while listening ‘Supervixen’ before our weekend would begin.

And then he left. Broke all contact, because, well, technically, I had been taking a break from the pussy man I’d been with for the past couple of years. He was kinda committing, and kinda not, and — did I mention a total pussy? Oh, he was sweet (at least then) to be sure, but he was also putty in my hands. Been there, done that. So, so many times. When my dreamy masochist came along, and decided he wanted me all to himself, and I had to do the fucking honourable thing and decide to stay with my pussy-boyfriend because he’d been so loyal to me … Sigh. Let’s just say I sacrificed my own happiness.

It wasn’t until Mister P that I’d even thought that that sort of feeling, that kind of man, was in existence. And it was so much more than that. Somehow, he touched upon everything deeply buried in my psyche. All the archetypes of all the men I’d put to the page and longed after in my adolescence and early twenties. He was, in every literal sense, the man of my most private and dearest imaginings. My ideal version of  a man. Brilliant — insanely brilliant; genius level brilliant. Attractive — with amazing eyes. A strong build — capable, but not muscle-bound, and certainly not wiry. Able to dress well, but most of the time, just not giving a rat’s ass — but with excellent hygiene. An incredible smile. And an off-the-wall, borderline crass, on the edge of obscenely arrogant, but always crowd-pleasing sense of humour. A natural comic — complete with timing.

It was like I’d taken all of my favourite traits — from characters I’d admired, or created myself — listed them, and sent them to someone and said: ‘Here, make this.’ And there he was. And I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.

Oddly enough, I firmly maintained that belief — all the way up to the point when he first kissed me. And, to my amusement, entertained the same thoughts that my character had in that fictitious works: he was drunk, he didn’t mean it; don’t get too caught up in this. I’d never had any thing like that happen in my life. Hell, I didn’t think it was possible. The guy that you somehow can’t get out of your head, for whatever reason, does not just reappear in your life, soon as you’ve left the asshole and gotten back on your own feet. Well, not outside of the latest spec-script for a rom-com. (Fuck. I’m turning Angeleno, yes, I’m turning Angeleno — I really think so. People really talk like that. I don’t, typically, but after awhile, augh, it seeps into your head.) In fact, it’d been so long that all of my denial had congealed into a strange form of truly violent hatred. I’d always thought that, had I ever had the weird happenstance of running into him somewhere, that I’d punch him square in the jaw.

I know. Punch a guy 6’3″, who’s a brown-belt in Judo … in the jaw. When you’re 5′ 3″ — maybe 5’5″ in stilettos. I didn’t say my anger was logical, or even sane. And it certainly wouldn’t take into account logistics. Yet, I think deep down somewhere, I knew he’d never hit me back. But he probably would do a great job of blocking me — despite how quick I can be on my feet — maybe even restraining me for the moment, the portrait of calm, asking me what the fuck did I think I was doing — his blood pressure not rising a numeral.

And then what? That’s where my brain would stick — and then rewind on itself, and get back to this part about … uhh … where he would stop me, and maybe restrain me for a moment, at which point, I was going, ‘What the fuck?’ That wasn’t the way I rolled. I was in charge. I was in control. But what about those moments when I wasn’t? When I’d lost it completely because of the rage I know of which I’m capable? What then? How could it be that what, deep down, I really needed, was a man who would save me from myself? Well, and doing damage to him.

Naturally, he knew I’d never been in the submissive role before, so we started out that way. And, given the nature of how my mind had been working then, it felt … well … natural. Until it didn’t. He was right — and honest — when he proclaimed I was the world’s worst submissive. It made me so upset! I’d wanted so much to be his faithful and loyal little … whateverthefuck. And … do … uhh …

Okay, so maybe I am the world’s worst submissive. But that’s okay, because he’s not the world’s most natural dominant. Of course, if you want him to top you, he’ll gladly oblige. I think he even enjoys it in some respects. But that’s because he’s eager to please; looking to satisfy. If that actually involves picking up the crop, okay, he’s happy to serve.

Funny how that works out, isn’t it?

So, fast forward to the here and now. Argov’s article proclaims that men want confident women who know themselves and where they’re going. Well, that‘s a no shit. I’m not sure when ‘confident’ became synonymous with ‘bitch’, but, okay. We’ll just go with it. Just as women want a confident man who will give of themselves completely and fully, men want a confident woman. Awesome. But, wait — that’s not what the research (Argov claims to be sound) states.

She says that men marry bitches.

Let’s break it down. Men — which means, not pussies; marry — as in get hitched to, okay; bitches — in this case, dominant, powerful, arrogant, and self-serving women.

Huh.

I guess it’s a theory worth testing, except that it seems to go against everything I’ve done thus far. Of course, I’m almost 30, and have yet to actually wear anything on my left ring finger for longer than 6 months. And men certainly do love bitches — or, if you want to get more specific — submissive men certainly do love dominant women. Trouble that I’ve seen is that …

… they don’t love them back.

Period.

It’s sad. Pathetically, so. While a man’s with a loving, beautiful, caring and sensitive woman, he’s secretly in love with a controlling, manipulative, cunning bitch. And you know why I know this is true?

BECAUSE ARCHIE MARRIES VERONICA.

Click the link if you don’t get it. You soon will. Even comics have failed reality — or, they’re a frighteningly accurate portrait of it. What do men value the most? What do women want? If both men and women want a confident mate, then there should be a lot more dynamic, power-brokering couples out there. Except, there aren’t.

Instead, there are a lot of henpecked, cuckolded, emasculated men who are bending over backwards for their controlling, manipulative, self-entitled, luxury-loving wives. Are they great in the sack? Maybe. Perhaps, the true way to a man’s heart is his cock. Maybe once you put a ring on it, he’ll adorn your finger, too. What drives submissive men to crave, fall in love with, and be perpetually drawn to, bitchy, horrible women? Their need to be used, abused, and discarded? They’re sort of going about it correctly by trying to get it all in one place — marry a bitch and you don’t have to pay a domme.

But is that safe?

Is that sane?

Maybe it doesn’t have to be — because it’s consensual. Whatever these master manipulators did to wind up shuffling all accountability off of their shoulders and getting a free pass to controlling their subservient husbands, I’ll never know, because it’s never been a philosophy to which I’ve subscribed.

But maybe, if I ever hope to ‘seal the deal’, I’m going to have to. Or I could just continue to be a good and decent human being and hope for the best.

(Hah. Yeah, right.)

Please. Please, please, please, tell me that after all this time, Mother did not know best?

For one, Akasha is a narcissist. Pure and simple, she lives in a fantasy world of her own creation to escape the fact that she has never had the capacity for true intimacy or to find real happiness. And God knows why; her life is fine. It has been for ages. And yet, she continues to use, abuse, and discard men. And men continue to let her because it’s ‘hot’. Sure, the concept may be veritably on fire, but the reality will leave you cold. Because that’s all it is and should be: fantasy. Subs are attracted to her because she’s a ‘true femdom’. Fine. Great. And no doubt, many submissive man’s idea of a female dominant is cold, hard, calculating, cruel, and selfish, but the even colder, harder truth is that such a person makes a shitty girlfriend. And probably an even worse wife.

Think about it. You’re a submissive man, and you’re in love. Finally, you’ve found everything your heart has ever desired: strong, independent, successful, beautiful, popular, and an uber-domme with dozens — maybe hundreds — of men at her feet, or dying to be there. Clearly, you’re more into her than she’s into you, but that’s okay, because she’s at least giving you her time and attention, which means you have more than a snowball’s chance in hell of winning her affection. Perhaps, one day, after your trials and tribulations, she’ll be so proud of your selfless suffering, service, and devotion that she’ll love you as deeply and entirely as you do her, since you were the one man who proved to her that you were everything she wants and needs, and now she’ll be forever yours, and you’ll both live happily ever after in femdom bliss.

Ahhhhhh.

But, wait — come to think of it, I hope you really like waiting, because that’s what you’ll be doing a lot of, and for an indefinite amount of time. That’s right, indefinite. As in potentially — make that, likely — never-ending. Waiting, waiting, waiting for her to call or email you back. To want to see you again. To pay attention to you at all. But this is what you’ve wanted — right? The chance to prove to your one true love, that woman you’ve always been waiting for since you were a young boy with raging hormones, that you’re all that, the bag of chips, and the super-sized beverage? Because it’s in your sweet nature to want to be of service. To give of yourself so completely. You’re sure if you just put in (though, after awhile, it feels more like ‘do’) the time, that you’ll be rewarded with all of your dreams and desires coming true.

Sigh. You poor boy. I don’t know how to break this to you — well, okay, I do, but you’re going to have to really brace yourself — but … she’s just not that into you. Don’t take it personally; she’s just not that into anyone. She can’t be. The only one Mistress Akasha loves is herself. Period. And if it stands in the way of her being able to satisfy the one who means most, then she will do it. Unfortunately, that person is often you.

Now, you’re probably wondering who the fuck am I to be targeting a ‘legendary’ woman who has contributed to BDSM and femdom erotica for over a decade. What could I possibly know, and why would I have such a decidedly nasty approach? Well, the truth is, I don’t know her. We’ve never once met, and have only passed each other on various boards and forums. But once upon a time, my boyfriend was one of those madly in love and carelessly discarded after a year or so after an intense relationship he hoped would last his lifetime. We’re not talking about faceless subs in a chatroom or enrolled in her online training programme. We’re talking flesh and blood, visage a visage, real deal. So, forgive my overly catty tone. I’m sure you can understand. (Although why she let him go is something I never will; nor will I ever do. Of course, in that regard, I can always be grateful to her.)

Maybe she’s absolutely wonderful to some people, or some subs, since I can’t say for sure, and she seems quite popular with a busy website. But one thing’s for certain; she’s left quite the number of broken-hearted, confused submissive men in her wake. And it’s to them that I’ve addressed this.

It’s for them that I’ve made this post. And, well, the fact that I still get riled on occasion if someone mentions ‘Akasha’ (like one of my clients — another of the dismissed — did just recently) and I can’t help but simmer and seethe for a bit.

So, if you wrote her off once upon a time, give yourself a big pat on the back, a ‘good job’ and don’t regret your decision. Since she was no doubt the first one to pull away, the ‘relationship’ was considered done, anyway. You just saved yourself more suffering and heartache by ending it before she could officially. Always feel good about that choice, since it’s the right one.

Now. If you’re one of the many who were left eating her dust (or watching it collect upon the toys you bought for the purpose of playing with or amusing her in some capacity) I’d like to invite you to personally contact me and share your stories, woes, or just let it all out. She’s a cunt, (as far as I’m concerned) and has left you in pretty shitty position. Don’t deny or minimise it; it’s the truth, and you need to be honest about that. Again, just be grateful you’re not the poor bastard who was dumb enough to walk down the aisle with her. (And, really, just because it has little chance of lasting, don’t let that give you some kind of false hope that she’ll one day remember the kind, wonderful, amazing man you are and come running back with apologies and pleas that you’ll find your way back to what you once had. Life isn’t a romantic comedy, and she’s just an aging narcissist for which there aren’t many actresses on the market to play her. Or who would really want to. She’s probably a very sad, lonely person, despite all of the things she could be happy about. But this is the mystery and paradox of the human condition — especially narcissistic personality disorder.

So, how about you? You ever been caught up in Akasha’s Web? Want to talk about it? Hey, I’m always confidential, and my counseling rates are available on my Services tab. You don’t even have to tell me who you are. Just get it off your chest. Let it out, and let it go. Right now the only thing I find ‘legendary’ about Akasha is her relentless ability to lead on, neglect, and finally, abandon the men she’s claimed to have once loved. But I have a better term for that: ‘fucked up’.

The next time you think of your ‘ideal image’ of a femdom, step outside for a minute and quit using cock logic. What’s your domme like outside of the bedroom? When you want something? What of the things that matter to you? Does she deny you every second of the day? Use you for everything she wants and never returns the favour? Does she ever do anything solely for you to show her appreciation for your devotion and submission? Is there any chance — real chance — that she’ll love you the way you love her when it’s all said and done?

If not, then run — don’t walk — away from her. And never, ever look back. I can guarantee you, she won’t be.

Keepin’ it real.

NiteFlirt, through which I take calls (and clients) is suffering some major downtime due to some snags in switching over the server to a newer technology platform (don’t get me started) but … never fear!

/begin victory

I HAVE FOUND A WAY!

/end victory

If you want to call me, (and you KNOW you do) then …

GO HERE NOW.

All of my listings are there, just take your pick. I’m also REALLY PISSED right now, so if you want to be berated and bitched out, well, you just may get your wish, you lucky, lucky boy.

Stupid NiteFlirt.

I’m done for now. I think …

CALL ME, FOR FUCK’S SAKE.

What the fizzuck, yo? I’m going more broke than a joke. (And jokes, in case you were unaware, are seemingly penniless. … Don’t mention it. Here to help.) Apparently, you’re worse than De Sade. And that, my friend, is hardcore. Unfortunately for you, I’m not a submissive, so we’re having a difference of opinion over this whole you-torture-me-senseless thing. I’m sure a bunch of people are loving it — but I’m not.

I’m a Libertarian, which you may not know. The less market manipulation the better, because I know you’ll sort yourself out eventually, no matter what we do. But, damn! The waiting! You’ve already taken two of my most amazing clientele away from me until sunnier skies — on the same bloody day — and now I get to deal with further inflation, and an exhorbitant bill.

Sigh.

No wonder a lot of pro-dommes are leaving the biz. It’s just too difficult to make ends meet.

In your debt, (you asshole)

- MR

—

—

EDIT:

No, no, no, no, no. I couldn’t do THAT. I mean, I’m a hard-working woman. I EARN my living. I don’t sit around eating bon-bons and expect someone else to pave my way. And hey, when your health sucks and you can’t do much, (like mine has for the last 5 months) then you’re pretty screwed. I couldn’t possibly start asking for hand-outs from the financial dom guys …

No way …

Even if all they’d really, really have to do is, say, send a little here and there through my Donate button. And, depending upon who donated the most — well, maybe they’d get a photo, or … a free 15-minute phone call, or … something to show my gratitude …

Maybe …

P.S. You may have something there …

Hopeful,

-MR

–

NiteFlirt is an education. But I don’t have time to relay everything, so here are the Cliff notes.

All of these women with lens-flare tits and sparkle-cunts designed to entice men to engage them in phone sex — usually for large amounts of money, though, not always in the category of Financial Domination. Of course, I receive these calls myself at times, being a psychosexual counselor and dominatrix. It never ceases to fascinate me how much time, effort, and cold, hard-earned cash, these guys are willing to blow on these spoiled brats.

Now, being a writer of transgressional fiction, I’m always challenging normatives and established idealogies. I also avoid the good guys versus bad guys cliche; my protagonists tend to be anti-heroes (and heroines) and reformed villains. My actual villains are never so black and white. All characters are shades of grey. But something stood out to me very quickly throughout my earliest investigations into characterisation:

Sexual attraction has no moral compass. None. Zero, zilcho.

This is largely why it’s tough to distinguish the stereotypical idea of a dominatrix from a fictitious villainness. They’re all voluptuous, drop-dead gorgeous, powerful, cruel, and hell-bent on destroying the hero. And, okay, I’m far from a psychoanalyst, (read: neo-Freudian) but if the hero’s hot, and the villainness is hot, those two are definitely going to want to be getting it on. Why? Because that’s just the nature of things. It’s very basic social and interpersonal psychological theory: those who are of acceptable (though, that’s variable) age, desired sex and gender, differing bloodlines, and of relative physical attractiveness (especially if the levels of physical desireability are closely in line; just as you tend to see long-term coupling between those who are about as ‘attractive’ as the other) are highly likely to experience sexual attraction to one another.

Of course, there are always other variables involved: circumstance, physical state at the time of meeting (as those who have, for example, just survived a traumatic experience will be more likely to get it on with someone nearby meeting the above criteria) being the two biggest. I recall an anecdote from a psychologist friend of mine for whom I worked as an assistant upon my coming to Los Angeles. This mild-mannered, no-nonsense, understated and serious woman engaged in a spontaneous, impassioned make-out session on an overseas flight with her fellow passenger (whom she’d only known for the past 3 hours) when the plane took a sudden nosedive. The intensity of the moment prompted her to act in impulsive, uncharacteristic ways with this attractive stranger who was quickly becoming a single-serving friend, or acquaintance.

And of course, it’s not going to be anybody, and everybody. But this is the number one reason why we all have villains we love to hate, and, despite our own embarrassment — would love to do a lot more than just hate. In fact, passion is nothing more than an intense expression of emotion, and when the wires get crossed, it can present itself as anger. Rage doesn’t have to have a direct cause to be expressed; it can be a nebulous overall feeling of irritability and distress. As a result, many, many dominants — especially dommes — are really just rageaholics foregoing the necessary therapy to work through those powerful emotions. It’s easier to pick up a whip. It can also be extremely dangerous and lead to destructive and abusive patterns in their lives, and against those they love. Often-times, those submissive men who have suffered through their wrath and unsorted rage and issues of low esteem and fears of abandonment become my clients. Once they’ve had enough, that is. It’s amazing how long they’ll stay.

So, I evaluate these cases carefully, and, knowing what I know, it never really surprises me when each one of their tormentors turns out to be some sort of exceptionally beautiful, sexy, ‘dominant’ woman. Now, I use the term in quotations for a reason, since I hardly find them to be truly dominant women, but spoiled little girls who never grew up, learned their value, or to harness their own power, were able to form a solid sense of self, and, conversely, never had a secure base from which to explore the world, as well-adjusted children enjoy.

If she was neglected or abused, she lived in fear of abandonment or the threat of physical, emotional, or psychological danger; learning to wall herself off, defending against anyone who dared to try and get close, making healthy relationships of her own an impossibility. As a young girl, her playful dominance of the boys in the schoolyard — tying them up and laughing at the ease with which she was able, set the stage for her next and most grand role that she would adopt in junior and high school: the compelling ice queen, now receiving the adoration of her ever growing male entourage that she never did in her earliest years; she already knew it was so simple to subdue and control them. It was a natural form of interaction, and would define her pattern of relating, inciting her to be continually dissatisfied, hopping from one relationship to another or avoiding any sort of commitment altogether. She would tell herself and her girl-friends that she wanted a man who would be a companion, allowing her to express her own vulnerability in a safe space, but only draw to her emotionally-stunted mama’s boys who were either as fearful of commitment as she herself could be, or looking to lose themselves in her identity. None of them ever truly up to the task of winning her heart, loyalty, or trust. So, she continues alone in the midst of a sea of faces she barely knows, remaining in the company of men who devalue, ignore, or even abuse her, as her initial dominant spark has faded to a mild embre of what it once was, beaten down by her own lack of understanding, refusal to introspect, and the neutrality of the world. Lonely, miserable, and living with the certainty that people cannot be trusted, true love is some kind of bullshit faerie-tale fed to us as children, she realises that being a pro-domme will allow her to be the same uncaring, distant figure she now believes herself to be, and make money pretty easily by expressing the anger she’s already amassed through physical violence, verbal, and emotional abuse. And she continues, empty, despairing, nursing her own private wounds, while allowing the entourage to continue, caring for none of them but herself.

I know this pattern, because I was dangerously close to becoming it myself. Without the genuine love, affection, emotional support and firm guidance from my boyfriend who had proven to me years before that he was a good man and a reliable, rather unconditionally selfless friend, (as well as trustworthy and dedicated boyfriend or husband) I probably would’ve continued right on down that path, eventually being consumed by my anger, and becoming the kind of person no one really wants to be around. Especially since I’m not a DD fake-tits bottle-blonde. Again, if you’ve got the looks, you can get away with anything.

There’s another type of domme different from the first. The Spoiled Princess type. (Very different from, we’ll say, The Abuse Survivor type.) She had everything. Adorable just as soon as she popped out, she grew to be a cute kid, a beautiful teen, and is now a gorgeous woman — likely with quite a bit of enhancement. She’s every man’s dream on the outside, and men crave any opportunity to be with her. Submissive men, however, want something more that she’s already got since she went through college on Daddy’s dime, paying for all of her frivelous wants and needs with his plastic. She doesn’t really need the degree, because she won’t need a job. She’s already got men lined up outside of her door to fuck her, pay her bills, offer her places to stay, and, in general, make sure that she never has to face the unsightly thought of growing up and becoming an independent human being. She is spoiled absolutely rotten, through and through. And because of the way she looks can get away with every nauseating minute of it.

Knowing that this is a pretty popular fetish, many professionals have modelled themselves after the Spoiled Princess type, looking as high-school cheerleader-esque and as much of an actual princess (crown and all) as they can muster. And, my God, does it fucking pay. I have a financial domination listing on NiteFlirt because of the pervasiveness of this phenomenon. Occasionally, I’ll get a call and ask why on earth they called my listing, as I genuinely want to know. I have no guilt about my listing, just in case you were wondering. I’m a working woman. I’m not sitting around eating bon-bons when they call. They’re paying me for my time, which is valuable. But a typical call regarding financial domination will go like so:

MR: So, you attract these horrible, emotionally immature, bratty women who use you for your money.

Caller: Oh, yes.

MR: And how are you aware they’re only dating you for your dough?

Caller: They tell me.

MR: They tell you? You ask?

Caller: Yes. I asked my last girlfriend, and she told me it was all for my money.

MR: Wow.

Caller: But it’s not a bad thing.

MR: You are aware that this economy is only going to worsen.

Caller: Yes.

MR: How will you feel about your gorgeous spoiled brat when she’s taken away the roof over your head?

Caller: I save for a rainy day.

MR: This is more of a typhoon.

Caller: But I enjoy it. It arouses me. What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with it if I enjoy it?

MR: You love the fact that they’re horrible women using you for your money.

Caller: Yes. I love it. That’s how I found financial domination. I’ve been doing it ever since.

MR: How long has it been?

Caller: 15 years.

MR: Jesus christ! Don’t you ever wonder if, I d’know, you might’ve been a millionaire, were you not buying these bitches mansions and cars and dogs?

Caller: I’m sure I would’ve been. But I’ll never know.

MR: Does it not sadden you?

Caller: Oh, no. I love it.

MR: What do you think happened to you to make you believe on some level that you’re only as valuable as your earning potential? You’re like evolutionary psych in overdrive. Why not find a good woman and provide for her in a traditional husband-wife setting if it really puts you so at ease?

Caller: Because I like being used.

MR: Any idea why?

Caller: No.

MR: Don’t you ever wonder?

Caller: Why? I’m happy.

… And there you have it folks. The crux of it: why wonder? He’s happy. He gets arousal, they get bling — at the end of the day, somehow, these two components of a very dysfunctional relationship are happy. This is why human beings confuse the ever-loving fuck out of me, and I have to just tell myself we’re all illogical, and things in the realm of emotion and sex — sexual attraction, especially — are operating on an entirely other level. And that level is far from being a logical one.

As with multiple clients, there will always be those that simply don’t want to be helped, because they don’t see the issue. In the case of financial domination, their accounts are being drained, they can’t fathom why they’re going into debt, and once they do find the source, the addiction is too powerful to touch. They keep doing what they’re doing.

Jesus H. It’s no wonder the American economy is in shambles, central banking shenanigans aside. Keynes would be proud. (Fucking Keynes.) A modern take on his ‘bury bottles of money in the sand so that the government can dig them back up’ will be replacing ‘government’ with ‘spoiled brat’.

I can take some comfort in hoping it fucks up her manicure.

While phone sex lines are perennial, phone domination, or ‘phone dommes’ are very much en vogue at current. Does this mean that there’s increased ease of finding a genuine female dominant or professional dominatrix at the end of the line? I remain sceptical. While there’s a good number of us pro-dommes hanging out on such third party services in our off-hours, (I have an account with NiteFlirt), the bulk of the listings are barely legal bottle-blonde with IQs to match their body weight. Hordes of ‘bratty princesses’ with stereotypical head cheerleader dispositions wear slutty clothes in demeaning poses, with market-ready femdom phrases, but deplorable grammar and not a spell-checker in sight. (It’s ‘dominant’, honey, not ‘dominate’. But don’t worry — you aren’t.) It almost seems a joke with how much these photographs have nothing to do with the femdom-centric phrasing.

And a word on age. I’m a young domme, and I’ve got a decade on these girls. Some individuals have incredible maturity at a younger age. (I did.) However, it’s hardly the standard or norm, and most of these girls couldn’t top their way out of a paper bag. ‘Bratty princesses’ are just that; not dommes. I am what I am. As I say in my profiles on websites, I don’t play at it, and it isn’t something I have to switch in and out of. I keep a tight lid on my sadistic personality — that does take some conscious transitioning; but for the most part, I’m a domme anywhere and everywhere. (Which can be interesting at times.)

If these girls can dom, I’ll eat my hat. (Naturally, first, I’ll have to acquire such headgear — and props if it’s already edible — then I’ll consume it). The youngest pro-domme I’ve met is 25, which is an acceptable age for a domme. I’d still be a bit sceptical of younger than that if it’s not geared toward paying for college. Then they’re in something of a different class, and kudos to them for learning the biz early. I’m quite honest about my skill level, and the fact that I’ve been a lifestyle domme for far longer than I’ve been a pro. Luckily, counselling is something I’ve done for so long, I can hardly recall a time when I wasn’t doing so, but it’s important to advertise truthfully. I can’t say these young women are doing that.

Were they simply being ‘phone actresses’ — okay, but they proclaim to be dommes. There’s a market for just-turned-eighteen, and it’s not domination. (Well, not on the doing end, that’s for sure.) I can imagine plenty of doms salivating at the possibility of slapping that pussy or fucking that ass, (since we’re talking fetish here) but subbie-boys? Really? Okay, there’s no doubt they’re getting turned by the sight of a beautiful young woman, but if part of the fantasy is in this woman taking control then, I have to ask — where is the control-taking? These women are advertising themselves in the sort of manner as would a female submissive — NOT a dominant. Dommes don’t show you their ass. They don’t offer you photographs of their ladybits. They never do something as unbecoming as bending over and presenting themselves to you, and — while we’re at it — they’re really not so ‘gangsta’, either. (What is up with that, anyway? Do they have any idea how ridiculous they look? Do they?)

I know, I’m kinda sounding a bit like a mom, aren’t I? Probably because the ultimate archetype of the female dominant is the mother figure. She’s the one who said what went; justifications for her orders were accepted at ‘because I said so’ and for a good decade and a half of your life, (maybe more) she was the be-all, end-all, final say of everything. And, personally, my mother is a domme. She raised me from a very young age how to be a proper girl in my station, and, more than anything, how to control the boys around me so that they would behave as was proper to their station. Yes, looking back, I realise that my mother’s something of a female supremacist.

Funny, isn’t it? Of course, she doesn’t enforce any of it, or really believe it. It was just a good way to teach her daughter to not be subservient to men in hopes that she wouldn’t suffer unneccessary heartbreak at the whims of assholes and losers. Alas, I’m just as human as the rest of us. It took age for me to truly come to appreciate the beauty and value of a submissive man who’s got his shit together, isn’t looking to be saved, and wants instead to give over that power to you. How amazing is that? Anyhow. Like most women, I kissed my share of definite frogs, and learned the hard way that most doms (not all, but most) were really just complete assholes and looking for a license to be assholes. But take it from me, ladies: the prince you’re looking for is definitely a sub. (Well, that or a switch with enough inner toppiness to be a good, but loving, dom — which no doubt comes from his actually being a submissive.) But in my personal, nigh three decades of life (a good fifteen years of which have involved my seeking to unravel the masculine mystery), I’m not going to say there’s no such possibility, but as far as I’m aware — most male doms are dicks. If you’d like to narrow down the jackass factor, stick with the subs.

Now, I leave the rest of up to you, my sporadic, but appreciative (and valued) audience. Would you, as a submissive man, find such a young, fresh-outta-the-box girl, doing all she knows to attract a man, even the least bit believable as a domme? Could you think for a moment that this young woman is capable of even remotely bringing out your vulnerability? Would she not seem to be exactly what the advertisement says about her? A ‘bratty princess’?

Before you respond, a point of necessary clarification: a domme can take on the persona of a ‘bratty princess’ if she feels like it. Some women enjoy returning to that point of their evolution; kicking back and playing the role of the selfish, overbearing teenager she may once, or possibly even never, have been. It can be just as freeing and liberating for the submissive man who’s seeking to let go differently, (especially if her base personality is more serious and even-keeled. Then it’s a real vacation from the ordinary.) On the other hand, as said before, it doesn’t work in the reverse. If anything, I think the whole situation would work better if they portrayed themselves as ‘bad girls’ in need of punishment by doms — rather than ‘dommes’ themselves.

But what do I know? I’m just a legitimate domme.

So, fellas? What’s the verdict?

Now, I may be opportunistic when it comes to flexing my own punisher-muscle, but I’m hardly petty. So, names will be ommitted to protect the guilty. (The very, very guilty.)

Our story begins on a typical day — of course, for a pro-domme, that could be anything. He contacted me in the usual way, and I gave the benefit of the doubt, despite such fantastical nature of his claims. Plus, it’s always a bonus when they can spell correctly and utilise proper grammar. (Of course, so could Ted Bundy. Moving on.) Well, I was intrigued, although I can’t say I really wanted to work with him. Something felt … off. So much so that I contacted a friend of mine, the lovely Guinevere the Severe out of NYC, who heard my concerns and gave wonderful advice which supported my own suspicions: it really didn’t matter what everything else seemed; if I felt even the slightest bit off, it was hardly worth the money from the business transaction.

So, I kept that in mind and proceeded with caution.

So far so good. He was a bit paranoid about some things, and so it took longer for me to receive his payment, as it always does when it’s sent through sail mail. And, though I was sick as a dog the day of our scheduled appointment with no other channel but the site on which we’d met to make contact, I kept the appointment and muddled through as best as could, with my migraine pounding as I tried to enjoy something that would hopefully settle my stomach and keep up my blood sugar (as both tend to get a bit wonky when you’re ill). It sort of worked. I paid enough attention to determine he was actually being truthful (as far as he was aware; if he was lying, he himself believed it) and gain some background information on this guy I secretly had little desire to be meeting, no less begin an intensive business relationship. Why intensive? You see, he wanted a chastity sentence, and for me to be holding the key. Now, that’s nothing. It’s his reasons for desiring it, and his claims for his need of it, which are, at most, blog-worthy.

In professional domination terms, it was sold to me as a fairly straightforward deal: guy wants chastity. Lock him up, hold the key, and do whatever I choose, or he wants to fulfill his fantasies, in the meanwhile — part of the fantasy being the constant threat of his looming chastity sentence being extended. (I’m sure he whacked it numerous times to that alone.)

Ah! But wait … there’s more! (There’s always more.)

To spare you the ridiculous details, and the grueling snail’s pace at which they were presented to me, I’ll lay it all out for you in a nice bulleted list. Bear in mind, of course, that this is what was presented to me, not what I believe to be legitimate. (We’ll get into all of that later.)

1. He’s an incurable, narcissistic, misogynistic asshole (okay, that I believe) whose only recourse is to allow himself to be made chaste which, in his opinion, renders him entirely harmless and at the mercy of all the women upon which he would otherwise prey.
2. He seeks chastity primarily to save his non-consensual slave (who he had consistently blackmailed, raped, and has otherwise owned for the last couple of months) from further abuse, humiliation, torture and harm until their negotiated terms have been resolved, although, he does not seek for his chastity sentence to extend to this date, but rather hopes that ‘a couple of weeks will be enough to kick him back in line’.
3. Although, he acknowledges a degree of selfishness in his vigilante behaviour toward this woman, believing himself to be punishing her deservedly, he sought my counsel and services out of fear that he was unable to control himself, and that his absolute power had, indeed, corrupted him absolutely.
4. Once his chastity sentence has concluded, or the time in which she is indebted to him has resolved, (whichever was to come first) she would voluntarily sever all ties with him and extricate herself from their shared resources and communities, barring future correspondence or involvement.

He made no attempt to even slightly lessen or disguise his outright misogyny or blatant narcissism, constantly referring to this woman as ‘the bitch’ or expressing what a terrible person she was, and how she no doubt deserved all of the horrible treatment she was getting from him. Funny thing was, like some narcissists, he didn’t entirely believe it. Rather than spreading out, holding his head high, and stating her abuse in an almost casual manner, he spoke of it with genuine pleasure, but a bit guiltily. He kept searching for my approval; wanting me to confirm his wavering belief that ‘this bitch deserved everything she got.’ He didn’t like it when I gave little to no indication what I thought of his story, and would neither support nor negate his claims. He was a deeply secretly dependent person, and didn’t like floundering on his own. But then any man who dreams of submission, but struggles with narcissism as the result of a compensatory inferiority complex, is going to be contending with some very severe cognitive dissonance. No doubt, he projected most of what he hates of himself on to this woman, and vicariously abused himself. No narcissist can do this for too long. Of course, he wants to appear noble in my eyes, since I was to be the one providing what he so desired. (That is, if he even knew what he was really seeking to do. It may have never once entered his conscious mind.) Rather than admit to wanting to stop the self-abuse, he had to play the punisher card, and claim it was for the betterment of his slave — who deserved it, of course. He was just looking to be merciful. It would be unfortunate if he was aware of what was really going on, and instead chose not to tell me. That kind of honesty would have almost made me want to consider continuing to work with him.

So, the next few days were not fun for me. I was ill, bed-ridden for an entire day the following day, and had to move all of my appointments to the start of next week. He was to email me directly, rather than through the website, following our conversation, which he did. I found it curious that one with a full-time job was able to be so casual about returning to work, and being able to email me minutes after we had parted company, but perhaps my work ethic differs from his, and vice versa. I noticed the email coming through and made a mental note to address them when I was well, which wasn’t for another three days, at least. So that by the time I was able, I had multiple messages — some providing information I had requested, and others simply carrying on about the situation; specifically, seeking to appeal to me for a lesser chastity sentence. When I wasn’t responding, he began to assume that I really didn’t find what he was doing to be all that bad, (hah!) and that, clearly, this woman was deserving of everything she was getting (yeah, right!)

Now, I already knew given his narcissism that he wasn’t at all bothering to read me, and since he feared my silence indicated something having to do with him, (can you believe it?) he began to replay our meeting in his head and come up with all manner of erroneous assumptions based upon what he had inaccurately recalled. Since I was not responding, and he wasn’t receiving what he wanted (some sort of abuse from me, stating what an awful person he was and how severely he needed to be punished for these transgressions) I was finally feeling up to answering his messages, and tried to respond to everything he had sent over the course of the last few days. I was honest, and responded in kind. They were getting progressively weird, and that vibe was starting to come through once again, even stronger this time, so I decided one of two things would happen: he was legitimate and would respond sincerely, or he was going to insist upon playing games, try and consistently manipulate the situation, constantly speculate about me and why I wasn’t in contact with him on a daily basis, and lash out as a result of the implied rejection, behaving juvenilely, cruelly, and making it seem as if our failed business arrangement was his idea, and he was responsible for ending it.

Can you guess which happened? Ding-ding-ding! Rather than truly begin handing over the control so that we could start work together, he responded maliciously, hurling vile insults and snide remarks, letting the misogyny and filth that permeates his personality fly without further thought — going far beyond polite decline, or childish rudeness.

To wit:

You’re not much of a strategist.

Oh, if he only knew.

You should have saved your abuse until you had acheived control and there was nothing much I could do about it. Instead, you have shown your hand while I still have a choice, and it seems obvious that it would be a mistake to give you that kind of power.

And this is just a little bit funny; see, even when I should show my hand, I still have trouble with doing so. In short, I never show my hand. So, just as an FYI, if you think you’ve seen it — be wary. You’re only seeing what I want you to. For that matter, who knows what you’re seeing?

As for what I have done to [blackmailed woman], it may be coercion but it isn’t rape. She does, after all, have a choice, albeit not a pleasant one.

Not a pleasant one! Well, I’ll say! I suspect he has no idea of what being blackmailed feels like. Had he, well, perhaps his actions would reflect that knowledge. Unfortunately, he remains a jackass. Now, onto examining point #2: ‘it may be coercion, but it isn’t rape.’ I’ve already suggested he buy a dictionary with the mounds of money he claims to have at his fingertips, but for demonstration, here’s the official word from the OED:

RAPE: v. force (another person) to have sexual intercourse with him against their will.

Oh, lookit that! Force. What’s a great synonym for ‘force’, boys and girls? How about ‘coerce‘? That’s a pretty fucking good one. So, unsurprisingly, he’s very, very wrong in his assertion of not raping this woman, but merely ‘coercing’ her. There is a choice in an act of coercion, but coercion is rape. In fact, there have been acts of defined rape which don’t even involve coercion, but rather obliviousness, or where choice was impaired. It’s still rape.

So, where were we? Oh, yes … he continues to repeatedly rape this woman. And, according to his bizarre, self-absorbed, violent misogynist view of the world …

I did not realize, but I’m afraid that you too are the type who would benefit from some of that treatment. Obviously, you need a cock up your ass to realize that you aren’t quite as superior as you seem to think. It won’t be mine, but I do hope that someone does it.

Yeah. I’m not kidding. Fucker actually said that — typed those words to me. Saying I need to be anally raped. That I’m ‘the type’ — whatever that means. (He and my ex seem to have something in common.) I’m used to this coming from woman-hating, using, and abusing cocksuckers (and, you know, not in a good subby-boy kind of way) such as himself, but it surprises me just a bit every time. Not to mention such words coming from a narcissist are supremely laughable. I love how he adds ‘it won’t be his’ — like that was ever an option. It’s little doubt that his slave hates every minute of him savagely raping her. You might say he falls into that ‘not if you were the last man on earth’ sort of category. Were it up to me, I’d let the race die.

Now, he’s decided to pout, as a result of my rejection:

So, I’m not going to put up with either counseling or chastity from you. I cannot trust you and have no intention of surrendering to you, although I think your dominance is mostly theoretical.

I guess that was supposed to hurt. Or something. People do strange things when their egos’ are wounded.

Keep the money, since I have no means by which to recover it. I’ll write it off to education. Money was always your primary goal, and you got some, for very little effort and should, therefore be pleased.

He was correct in his assessment of really not being able to recover it, outside of receiving a refund, which I would have given, had he asked. Though, it wouldn’t be much. He’d already spent most of it. Money was hardly my goal; I just can’t stand people who aren’t serious about their self-improvement, and I told him that.

Easy come, easy go. But I knew he’d be a problem. I was just hoping it wouldn’t waste too much of my time. Score one for intuition. I guess M and Guinevere were right: trust the vibe. It’s never wrong.

Fuck!

Can’t people read? Ever? Are the rules that tough to follow? Do I need to hold a fucking ‘BMF Conduct Class’? Probably not. I’m not yet to the ‘pro bono‘ level yet, and there’s no doubt those assholes couldn’t pay a single cent.

Meanwhile, I’d say that ‘being sick sucks’, although that’s the sort of thing that Captain Obvious (who will not be named) used to say back when we had conversations over IM. Which we don’t anymore. Since I called him out on his propensity for statements that had me replying: ‘Really? No shit, Sherlock.’ I can’t say I’m all that surprised I never see him online anymore. Oh, the mystery.

Still. Being sick does suck. I’ll be back up and running soon. At present, however, I’m really wondering who opened the fucking BMF flood-gates. And whether or not they’d be a dear and kindly close the fucking things. Enough’s enough already. If I have ‘BMF Fridays’, don’t worry, boys, you’ll be notified. Until then –

FUCK OFF!

Have I made myself clear? I think I’ve made myself clear.

Jesus. Assholes. Fuck!