Love and marriage … love and marriage …
Be dishonest and there’ll be much … erm, tearage ….

(Yeah, you try rhyming something with ‘marriage’ that isn’t ‘carriage’ or ‘disparage’ that sounds halfway decent; wearage? Dare-age? You see my point. You’re stuck with something that sounds like the backwater cousin of the language abominations which brought us ‘suckage’ and other-such greats.)

I digress. But I do that.

Greetings and salutations, my … erm, kinky monsters? Evidently, that’s the latest from the japevine. I think it’s cute, and while I don’t believe that men will steal my creativity via my vag, ( … seriously, that Gaga’s got quite an interesting take on life) I appreciate the compliment, and it’s somewhat valid. I do have a degree in forensic-psych and a background in crim, am still – for all intense per poses – still a profiler. (Lotsa monsters in this noggin. And, no, the bloody lambs haven’t stopped screaming yet. But I’m workin’ on it. I’ll get there.) So, the monsters thing is rather apt in my case. And you are kinky li’l basterds, ain’t ‘cha? Well, as you know, I wouldn’t have you any other way. Of course, to be part of -my- monsters’ ball, you’ve got to distinguish yourself. So, we’ll work on that.

Lessee … where on earth to begin? Well, Dodgson was a fan of the beginning, so, in Carrollian homage, let’s follow suit.
(more…)

(The proceeding interlude care of Norah Jones. Reflection and usual blogging to follow.)

You’ve ruined me now –
But I liked it –
But I’m ruined; do you have a plan? ‘Cause I’m in your hands.

You’ve ruined me now –
Though I liked it, now I’m ruined –
I had no choice when I heard your voice.

I know you said, ‘can’t be misled’.
Now I’m the one whose face is red.
You’ve ruined me now.
Though I liked it, now I’m ruined –
I’m trying to part with what’s in my heart.

You’ve ruined me –
And how I thought I liked it –
Now I’m ruined.
My whole world’s now turned upside down.

I heard me say, ‘I’m going away’ –
But now I write you everyday.
You heard me say, ‘I’m going away’ –
But I’m on the floor outside your door.
You’ve ruined me now.

You’ve ruined me now.
But I liked it –
But I’m ruined …
Do you have a plan?
‘Cause I’m in your hands ….

–

Yeah. Do I even need to add to that? Norah sums it all up rather nicely.

(more…)

So. Odd and uncomfortable as it might be, I’ve decided, (in coming to accept the end of that strange relationship) that there’s really nothing else logical to do except help to find him lots of women to date, so that I can get him swiftly into the next chapter of his life — now that I realize it doesn’t involve me.

He’s pretty clueless when it comes to the practise, (and very quirky, on top of that) so I figured he’s going to need all the help that he can get. Help, of course, with which I can provide him.

Not entirely sure how to go about this whole thing, though. In part, in my deciding that I can’t just resume some form of platonic relationship, or, as he would like, maintain everything but the sexual / romantic components, (be an ‘adopted sibling’ as it were) I’d prefer our lives diverge until such point I’m not furious with him — since I’m no longer hoping that a relationship will resume. I accept that it’s over, was probably a bad idea to begin with (even though, it did seem the smartest choice at the time — and might still be) and he hadn’t any of the tools to make it work, thereby leading to his need to ‘redefine the relationship’ (fancy term for breaking up, really) in such a way that it was no longer romantic, sexual, or D/s-oriented.

I discovered that that’s a lot more complicated than it seems. Forgive me for repeating myself here, but there’s much more involved in changing the way you relate to someone than simply breaking up. Oh, sure, if you’re no longer going to be involved, then there’s the more traditional option of foregoing contact until the dust settles. But if you were friends initially, or you work together, then you sort of have to suck it up and grin and bear it.

Easier said than done. (more…)

Oh, depersonalization. You tricky devil, you.

I realized this evening that the power my former — whatever, for lack of better, we’ll say dominantly-oriented dynamic relationship — had over me is now gone. Lifted. Somewhat relieving, definitely a bit sad, and more than anything — fills me with a an equally powerful, almost inexplicable rage.

That part’s not so grand. But, hey. It is what it is, and right now, I feel nothing — or just rage over the fact I no longer know how to maintain an interaction with someone I know meant a great deal to me. That, and while I used to feel this sense of … well, power over me, as if I was just awaiting the moment he’d admit that he couldn’t really deal with it, either, and in a sudden, likely fevered moment, everything would feel right again — having returned to the way it was, which had become something that felt so incredibly right to me.

Except now … it doesn’t anymore. That feeling that what was can be regained, and exists just beneath the surface has been replaced by a raging apathy, oddly enough, or is at least being sufficiently drowned out by the fury to seem as if what was is good completely. I used to long for and want it back. As if that which I was raging against was simply the loss of it, and it could reaffirm itself in a matter of seconds. (more…)

God. I fucking hate being emo. I typically kick the ass of anyone attempting to be emo and blast the Eagles’ ‘Get Over It’ (which is a fantastic song, all the same.)

Sigh.

Thanksgiving. Giving thanks. Being thankful. Oh, and I am — don’t get me wrong. Very much so. I just wish there wasn’t more than one side of me — a side that’s so very different from the one I know so well. The one I hadn’t even realized truly existed until one, fucking, person brought it out in me. (Sort of like the fact that — I have to confess, most submissive men — outside of my friends and clients — tend to bother the shit out of me when they’re being ‘subbie’; just makes me want to slap the shit out of them and scream, ‘My God — be a fucking MAN, for chrissake!’ Naturally, this is the very thing my fiance craves of me that I -don’t- feel the want to give or do to him — except in rarer circumstances — because I actually -like- his submissive side, and want to cuddle, nuzzle and nurture it.)

Sigh.

It’s the other side of me that’s been bothering me, since it’s had to get stuffed back into the kink closet. Y’know. The -other- side. The one I -don’t- express, and since I’m naturally dominant … well … we can all guess.

Mister P, of course, offers to explore this with me, (and back in the beginning, before he began submitting to me and it all clicked for me, I enjoyed it for its novelty — but then … it wore off) and it just … no. It’s not the same. I want -his- submission. I don’t need his dominance — or him to prove his dominance to me. Oh, it’s -there-, believe me. But he’s naturally a submissive man, and enjoys being able to express that. And, as I’ve said to some close friends (and him, too) if he were to ever suddenly decide not to submit to me anymore — it’d feel like the planet was just knocked off its axis. Not. Cool.

That leaves … the other. The hidden, unexpressed, briefly uncovered and explored side of me that now lies dormant yet again, resigned again to the latency it’s gotten to know all of my life, really, outside of those years I suffered a hell of abuse. (Rest assured — not the same.) Consensual exploration of submissive feelings — not the same as being non-consensually coerced into submissive behaviours due to cross-spectrum abuse. Just go ahead and clarify that one right now. So, off it goes, back to whence it came, relegated, yet again, to my fiction and its general fucked-up’ed-ness (of which there’s plenty).

God. I hate being fucking emo.

Unfortunately, right now, watching the roses on our coffee table surely wilt and wither, regardless of their having proper water, being appropriately trimmed, and not having suffered too much of a temperature shock — there’s no other way to be. It’s some kind of fucking natural order, I suppose. Nobody’s fault, really.

I have the one with whom I’ve chosen to spend my life. He satisfies every pragmatic and important part of me. Makes me deliriously happy on a daily basis. And, so long as I can forget the other side of me, and the way it felt with the one who’s now gone to find his own primary partner to whom he can belong and return home after slaying the day’s dragons — I’ll be completely happy. Again.

Goddamn. Why is this so bloody hard? Why does it feel, on certain days, to matter so much? It’s just a part of me — not all of me. Not even an aspect that has any use. And yet … And yet ….

God. I hate being emo.

That’s a funny word, isn’t it? Indicating possession; something owned, or over which we have great control.

Which of the following seems out of place?

That’s my computer. That’s my car. That’s my spouse. That’s my apartment. That’s my lizard. That’s my favourite corset. That’s my braided leather cane. That’s my … complicated-something-or-other-which-doesn’t-really-have-a-name-but-we-love-each-other-dearly.

… Yeah. That obvious, huh?

Not to seem jaded or even talking-out-of-turn here — because, God knows I’ve very limited personal experience in this area — but I think poly people need to stick to having relations with poly people. Vanillas, or semi-vanillas, who are otherwise exploring the lifestyle or its trappings due to a particular situation in which they find themselves, always seem to find dawn’s breaking especially blinding.

It was the nightingale, and not the lark. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale ….

-sigh- Oh, but if only it were.

Reality sets in, and the one ‘un-partnered’, as it were, seeks one to whom they can come home as well, not having to spend their nights alone while a beloved sleeps beside their beloved. That’s where it gets complicated. But, if love is truly limitless, as it’s said to be in these circles, then there should ideally be enough left over for everyone — right?

I think, pragmatically, it depends upon the nature of the love. At one point, I foolishly thought I could quantify human relationship dynamics. (I know, I know. Let’s all point and laugh right about … now.) And, to an extent, it wasn’t a -totally- brainless and mad idea; there’s -some- merit to the notion of four major domains being present in relational compatibility: emotional, intellectual, sexual, and spiritual — and three degree classifications (high, moderate, and low) — from which the various resultant combinations being what drives human relational dynamics; of course, not always together, and in those varying degrees.

For example, a friendship being: HEM, H/M-IN, LSX/NA, and, depending upon depth and overall ‘kindredness’ factor, H/M-SP. Written out in long-hand, that translates into ‘High Emotional Dynamic’ (HEM) ‘High or Moderate Intellectual Dynamic (H/M-IN), ‘Low Sexual Dynamic or ‘Not Applicable / Present’ (indicating a platonic relational style) and ‘High or Moderate Spiritual Dynamic’.

This particular friendship would be good to best — obviously, the better being High levels as opposed to Moderate. Also, because of the Low to Not-Applicable Sexual domain, it would be a platonic dynamic. Dynamics, by my understanding and experience, are simply present between people without us having to do a thing. It’s just what happens between us; what, as we’ve all experienced, ‘that person brings out in us’.

I explored the most common types for quick access: a few friendship dynamics, several romantic dynamics — ranging from marriage / committed relationship dynamics to NSA (no-strings-attached) sexual involvement. The thing I found most fascinating was, pretty obviously, the ideal sought that we all seem to refer to as ‘true love’ or ‘the one’ is where all four domains have a High quotient, resulting in balanced, strong dynamics. I also thought that it was oversimplified when I noticed that, in some cases — as many poly people I’m sure would tell me — they’ve experienced that — but with multiple people.

So, this is where you have to be extremely honest with yourself, and those with whom you are, or would like to be, involved. Is there -really- that high of a level of compatibility in -all- those areas, or just most of them? How are you measuring them? And so on.

But, in that instance when you -do- find the same dynamics present in two relationships where one is preferred over the other — you’ve got to ask: what’s going on? Why?

I haven’t been able to explore it all thoroughly yet, but I feel it definitely lies in a D/S, M/S spectrum scale. I also suspect that you’ll find that one of them is high on the Dominant Sexual dynamic (and weak on the Submissive) and vice versa. This would obviously paint a very clear portrait of one sexual dynamic being in operation and leading to the desire for fulfillment while the other remains lacking — and vice versa. Not a bad argument for poly then, considering that both spectrum needs would be met, on top of all other dynamic domains being present — and strong.

Herein lies the trouble, however. If one is married, or otherwise committed in a conventionally recognized relationship with one who satisfies one side of the spectrum (along with the full ‘true love’ dynamics) how are they supposed to find -another- who will present the same dynamics (plus intensity) but present a sexual dynamic domain strength that’s -opposite- to the first? How does that work? And … does it?

Further, what would the partner who can meet those needs also need to seek for him or herself? How likely is it that they would then find their own ‘true love’ dynamics met with, yet again, the -opposite- sexual dynamic domain from the one he or she is currently fulfilling in the first partner? It seems like a hell of a dynamic puzzle — which is, of course, true to its definition, constantly in flux and adjusting to find equilibrium.

It seems everyone would need to be fully established poly with enough experience to maintain this strange, complex dance. Anything less … leads to heartbreak. Of the ‘really, fucking bad’ kind.

-sigh- O, think’st thou we shall ever meet again?

Hey, guys!

Long-time no blog!

Bet you’re wondering what I’m doing up at … 6:00AM, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Huh? ( … Nosy bastards.) I’m up because I had another nocturnal anxiety attack after falling asleep in a relatively comfortable (except for a few things) new position after receiving a wonderful massage from Mister P. I have no idea what causes these things, as they occur alongside with some nightmare I seem to be having, but not quite remembering. (Useful, no?)

At which point, I find myself ridiculously wide awake, and in a mindset that’s ripe for worrying about everything in the fecking universe, along with manufacturing quite a bunch more, just in case I run out.

Yeah, I wish I were joking, too. I’m not.

The anxious headspace is one that’s purely irrational.

(more…)

Obviously, being a therapist, I know the extent of abuse. I deal with it on a nigh daily basis — both from my own past, and through helping others along their own journey. Rarely, I’m so forcefully confronted with the spectral fingers of my own — even though it does still claw at my brain upon occasion.

I’m hardly masochistic; in fact, I hate pain. Really. Not a fan. Emotionally, physically, a combination of both …. I’m not even that big into catharsis except with very special reason. And even then, it’s tightly controlled. I don’t run from pain, per se — I’m done with that phase of my life. I confront, I deal, I regroup, and I get back out there. If there’s something I’m supposed to feel in order to move through something into the next phase of my life, I do it.

That’s why I’m not quite sure how I’m feeling right now.

Allow me to explain.

This morning, going about my usual routine, responding to my Facebook messages, I saw that stupid little, ‘Hey! This guy’s friends with one of your friends! Maybe you should friend him, too!’ box in the corner. Normally, I don’t give a shit. But when it’s my abusive ex-I-hesitate-to-call-a-boyfriend — I do.

And … I did the wrong thing.

I clicked it.

(more…)

Forgive my bit of rambling here, but I feel the need to make a necessary point. About Alice and Carroll, both.

In the light of all-things-Alice trending again with strange remakes, reworkings, and wonderful new material being published about the actual historical figures, it seems important to set something straight.

First, the obvious. (Albeit, maybe controversial.)

Dodgson was not a paedophile. Alice Liddell was not innocent.

(more…)

I lost my voice.

I don’t know when it happened, or even why. But one day was different than all of the others, and I couldn’t speak. Not literally, though I have experienced laryngitis, and it’s almost as disconcerting. This is when you lose the ability to speak your mind, your soul. All that you are, and everything you’re about suddenly vanishes — and you can’t say where it’s gone, or how it disappeared. Worse, you have no idea how to get it back.

Those of you who find themselves musically-inclined will recognise the title as a song of the same name from Pink Floyd’s Division Bell album, which I would’ve worn out, had it been vinyl. It has particular meaning for this post. That particular group, along with Moody Blues, NIN, Sarah, Tori, Smiths, Cure, and more than I can name here, provided the soundtrack for most of the salient experiences of my youth and young adulthood.

I sort of remember the day I suddenly realised I’d lost the ability to feel. I remember when sex became clinical, and then simply unimportant. I couldn’t say why, however. The abuse? My past? The shame of it all? I’m simply more cerebral than sexual? After all, there were more times than I can count which I’d favoured writing — or even bloody daydreaming — over engagement of the physical act of sex. So … complicated. Messy. Took planning, and really, seemed pointless. I’d get to experience pleasure — physically — for a mere fraction of the time I would ride the holistic high from completing a particular scene, or resolving a plot issue, or finding that I’d written some of my better work.

That was when I’d had the startling moment that I really just didn’t like sex.

I’d had a complex enough history with it; very fickle. But, still, it was one of those things that would not land you happily-ever-after, no matter how you sliced it, and a part of me decided to ignore it. Launch a full-scale denial campaign, conveniently avoiding the realisation that I wasn’t like everyone else, (of which I was already painfully aware in other arenas) and figuring that, at least I had control over the world that existed between my ears.

So, the rest of me just took up residence there. For years. It was fine, to an extent. Helped me endure what would’ve possibly done much more lasting damage during a four-year abusive relationship. It also allowed me to fully disengage any sort of emotionality from sex, which was what I had secretly been seeking all along. At first, I suppose I figured it’d make me happy — to feel more in control, not needing, not craving, not wanting sex. The romantic within me became tragically activated; always seeking, dreaming of, longing for some sort of idyllic love affair that really only existed upon my hard drive, or occasionally, within the pages of rare fiction that spoke to me — into which I’d endlessly escape while somehow managing to function. (Have friends, maintain a full-time job, block out the abusive boyfriend, etc.)

I know what you’re thinking: ‘That’s not a life.’

No. It’s not.

People can survive in a stifled environment that disallows them to develop or ever express their full potential. But that’s about all they can do. They can’t actually thrive, since most of their daily existence is dedicated to escaping all that depresses or seeks to prevent them from changing their circumstances — which, in time, they do themselves. Trust me on that one. I hadn’t realised that a constellation of factors had emerged to ruin my sexuality — or rather, my relationship to my sexuality. One day, I simply disowned it. I fear it was so long ago, I can’t even say when. Most importantly, I had no idea how to get it back.

Until … today.

(more…)