(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.

(And the white rabbit. As, ladies and gentry, we are about to take yet another trip down the rabbit-hole — further than you’ve been before. It’s like spelunking. Except you don’t die. Hopefully.)

So, the topic today is marriage and nonmonogamy. Quite the topic, that. Riddled with complications and raised-eyebrows and whispered hushes of, ‘They’re -what-?’ from the peanut gallery. (Of course, never forget it’s the peanut gallery that’s most suited to feed the ‘invisible’ pachyderm procession collecting in the middle of your living room. After all, they’ve got the goods. You don’t. Ergo? Beware the peanut gallery.)

-headdesk-

Yeah. I don’t even need to say it, do I?

I’ve been getting to spend a lot more, much-needed, long-overdue time with my co-star — be it legitimately, or in our own unusual psychodrama, in which we all play a role. He does this to me. Like ECT — minus the succinylcholine. And, well, the electroshock. (Though, it can be rather paralysing, when he does this thing … with that damnably unique voice of his …. Goddamned ex psy — o-o-o-okay then! Public blog, Rou, public blog. Look likely now! … Yeesh. Brain’s extra fritzy today.)

So … yes! It is still quite the jolt to the mind and senses. A much-needed reconnecting of certain synapses that’ve begun to atrophy due to lack of usage. The only sort of thing one can get via someone who’s ever-so-slightly mad — in the most delicious sort of way.

My husband keeps me sane. My co-star keeps me from being too much so. Somewhere, in the middle, it works to produce just the right balance of madness and stability. And therein lies my genius.

… Hey, my freaky fiends. Anyone see my point? It was here before my mind wandered onto the next tangent. No? Damn. Hate it when that happens. Be on the look-out for the obligatory ‘living with fibro’ post. It’ll be upcoming — unless I forget about it.

Bud-um-ching!

… No, seriously. I could. (But probably not.) Though, I might. It’s happened before. (Not that badly.) … There’s always the chance for –

‘Kay, I’ll stop now. You get the joke. And if you don’t, you are deprived! You must get thee to the works of Izzard; now, I say. Now!

Now, then. Nonmonogamy. Does it work? Specifically, could it work for you?

Raise of hands for the marrieds in the house. Guy in the … back. Wait. That’s your wife? … Shit, man. I’m sorry. I guess I see why you’re here.

Ohhh!

Somebody stop me!

(… Mental note. Second cup of coffee’s enough. Third unnecessary. Right, then.)

Seriously, though. A lot of us have rings on the third-finger-from the-index-on-our-left-hands. Y’know. ‘The Ring One’. ( … or the One Ring? … I must ponder this. … Later. Before I look even more like an ADHD-coke fiend with a nicotine buzz. Second ‘fiend’ in the blog? … What’re the chances of -that- echo? This is a most fiendish blog, indeed.)

The ring, as we know, symbolised that you’ve become someone’s property. (And when I say ‘you’, I mean the one with the vagina. Yeah, you. You’re now his. He gets to treat you like he does his whores. Or his cattle. Or his Rolodex. Because you’re just an object from which he derives pleasure, gets his shirts ironed, and bitches about how much you suck in the sack while fantasising about sugar-tits down the street who ‘would so blow him’ if ‘you’d just let him’ …. Shit-God-damn, your husband’s an asshole. But I digress.)

But you get the gist. Since time immemorial (and in memorium, depending upon which way you swing on the space-time continuum; hyperdimensionalists in da house!) — we’ve been the lesser, though, fairer sex. That ring on our finger meant that our pleasure came from one place — and one place alone — and at his discretion, while he could fuck the meter- or milkmaid whenever he got the yen for it. And, m’dear, that ring was also a clear sign to everyone else that you were off-limits, and he was entitled to this bullshit.

Ohh, how times have changed — and are a-changin’ still.

Hang on. … A tightness in my chest? A shortness of my breath? … What’s this — what’s this? Is your faithful pathfinder along the road of all things mad actually suffering the first stirrings of … panic? It’s true, the path is not an easy one, for those who choose to take it. This is a river that cannot be forged alone, nor can the map be constructed solo.

It takes serious teamwork. But if that’s the sort of duo you are, then you’re a dynamic one, indeed, and I applaud you.

So, another show of hands. Who here is married and nonmonogamous?

… Yeah. Smaller crowd, isn’t it? That’s how it goes, sadly. We’re a sliver of the population who doesn’t get much respect, understanding, or even acceptance from society at large. We’re freaks. Sluts and whores. Home-wreckers and adulterers. We’re vile. We’re wrong. We’re … evil.

‘Do you think I’m evil?’

I guess it’s the likely path for a transgressive writer such as myself, married to a professional poker player and pornographer. The truth is, we’re livin’ the dream — and together, and doing what we want to be doing, without hurting anyone in the process, and loving each other completely throughout it.

Shit, if that makes me evil, then where’s my robotic arm and cat?

(Do-do-do-do-do, inspector — keep restin’ peacefully, Don Adams. The one, the only Maxwell J Smart. …. 99 was such a sexbomb before they got hitched, too. Then she was all super-whiny and hormonal, and — ohhh, the ’60s. Would’ve been nice to’ve been alive then — but I’m cool with having missed it, too.)

Anyway. In other news — ever throw someone under the bus? Don’t do that. It’s not nice. It’s today’s ‘secret phrase’, I guess. So far, it’s been used … thrice. By me. So, I’m not sure if that counts. Brains like certain words and phrases and tend to overuse them at times. Today, it’s bus-throwing — erm, under-throwing. Throwing under the bus. I’ve been thrown — twice. By men I worked for. … Let me tell ya about that sometime. It’s quite the story. One of them I married. And found out only years later that he actually hadn’t. The other one … well … let’s say he’s not gonna be on my friends-list anytime soon.)

It’s amazing, the power of sex. It makes us do crazy an inane things. But — what if — there’s something else going down? Being a rather recently renewed firm believer in karma, soul-centred shit and all that jazz (yeah, yeah, I’m back to my roots; perhaps, it’s because of my mother’s favouring the ganja before I came along — but I don’t think so; this had been going down before she went green with a metaphysical mindset) — I get it. Sometimes, dare I quote the Nolfi re-imagining of Dick’s ‘Adjustment Team’ (called ‘The Adjustment Bureau’ — overall, good film) there are ‘remnants from a previous plan’. … Y-e-e-eah ….

Oh, and incidentally, if your hubs or beau starts saying that he’s got a ‘lot of karma’ with this one chick he’s bouncing to bang — see it for what it is (‘boobs’), set him straight, and call it a day. But … in that off-chance that there is a rare configuration of the planets coming into effect …. we-e-ell, that’s a bit more complicated, mes amies.

Distress, disagreement, and disconnect fundamentally do not a happy marriage make. Period. And, yes — sex is the barometre of a relationship. If you’re having it — then life is going to be brighter-and-lighter feeling, and your sero-surging brains are going to be digging the intermittent oxy-rush ( -tocin, that is) that comes from looking long into your lover’s eyes, and breathing in the totality of their being.

First and foremost, you need to having a strong sexual relationship with your spouse. You married them for the reasons that country songs, easy listening stations, romantic comedies, and Nicholas fucking Sparks ( — love him, hate him — that’s just how it is) exist. They rock your world — and it would be vacant, empty, and you lost wandering aimlessly within it — without them.

And if that’s not the case — take a look at that shiny band o’ gold you’re sporting. Contemplate very seriously as to why you’ve got it at all. Because you’re not married. You’re just hitched; legally-bound to another for some purpose other than love. Or … maybe you had love. (And it was a gas.) But something happened on the way to heaven, and — well, fuck.

What the hell do you do now?

For better / for worse is looking a lot like ‘whatever for?’ and you have no idea how you got into this contractual obligation with that person who was supposed to swallow your load — while also somehow managing to kiss your kids with that mouth. ( … Like, really? How did we get to be this fucked-up of a society? … Anyway. Begone, Miss Manners! Your services are not welcome here! But only in the voice of Patrick Stewart. It’s just funnier when Picard says it. And — somehow! Much! More! SERIOUS!)

Alas, this is usually when the trip down the aisle ends with a stop in divorce court — on the way to The Next Big Thing. And that’s what always got me — and why I told myself, ‘Self, if you ever get married, it’s going to be for keeps, and come whatever else — you and that man are going to turn old and grey together, regaling each other from the comfort of your rocking chairs about ‘your good ol’ days’. In my case, it looks like part of those tales are going to be, ‘Remember when I used to fuck you with that huge strap-on? Ahh, those’re the days.’ Of course, ideally, I’ll be referring to last Thursday. But my point remains valid.

When we do have sex, it’s a gift from the fucking sex gods. Honestly. And, no, I’m not all that wild about the idea of sharing my perverse Olympian with other members of the sisterhood. It’s gotta be about more than sex to me right now, and I seem to be the person he was meant to do this crazy dance with — even though, it turns out that he needs to share the stage with another actor in my case. So long as we don’t crush each other’s toes, the composer doesn’t go flat — the band can keep playing on, and we can put on a hell of a show. Even if, first and foremost, it’s for each other.

We’re on a hell of a coaster, strapped in, clinging to each other and screaming, ‘OH, MY GOD, HOLY SHIT — ARE WE ALL GOING TO D-I-I-I-I-IE!’ and yet, laughing all the way. It just so happens that it’s a third-seater, and I have even more protection from the edge of this madness, another hand to hold, another voice with which to scream in unison, and — oddly enough — further protection from somehow slipping and falling to my death.

Even stranger than that, once we do get off, ( … okay, okay, yeah, yeah, get your giggles out now; jeeez — buncha grade-school kids …. ) there’s this wonderful exhilaration of, ‘Damn, that was awesome!’ and the desire to throw my arms around them both and thank them for not only giving me the ride of my life, but doing so safely, to where we don’t get hurt. Now it’s to the point where they can give each other brotherly slaps on the back in those ‘man hugs’ ( — must be said in that ‘manly tone’, y’know; ‘MAN HUG. Hua!’ and we can comfortably walk arm-in-arm without anyone feeling neglected or growing resentful. Even if there’s a subtle refrain of: ‘I love you … you love me … how’d we get to be po-ly … ?’ in the back of my brain. Because, honestly, for such straight-and-narrows like ourselves, (minus my husband, the-pre-established-freak) — it’s rather mind-blowing.

So. What’s love got to do with it? Everything.

Some women, like myself it turns out, as the evolution of interpersonal psychology is teaching us, are rather dual. (Men, too — you’d better believe it.) For whatever reason, we’re wired to need this and that — simply because it’s so damned hard – impossible, one might say – to find this and that in the same person. This is especially evident – and likely – if you’re also nonmono and there’s quite the discrepancy between your partners. Each satisfies a major facet — and I’ve got two that’re central.

When I’m balanced – I’m dynamic, productive, euphoric, and capable.

When I’m not –

Yeah, that was old-time B-monster movie castle-thunder crackling. It’s not just your imagination.

Shit. Gets. Bad.

As my initial theories will support, I believe the healthiest way to go through life is balanced — and in our collar of the forest, that’s being something of a switch. We’ve all got the anima and animus. Some of us have just forgotten one and come to favour, feeling more at home with the needs and methodology of the other. I’m a domme because, yes, I’m dominant. Why? Was I made this way? Not entirely. I feel I’m always going to be dominant. It’s next-to-impossible to get me to submit to you. The more likely response is a raised eyebrow and a scoff. The more extreme of that is breaking something. Of yours. Besides your ego. (Or your mind. Depends on how I’m feeling that day).

It’s quite the luscious mix of words and tricks — to downright gank from the Shins. (Great group. Wonderful lyrics.) I’m not exactly sure what set that off in me, but it does it once in a blue moon. Actually, less than that. Pick a geological event that occurs every thousand years — and you’re closer to the truth. Just like the fact that I knew rather inexplicably that Mister P was the man not-yet-my-husband. I raged and railed against it. I thought, back when I had a dream a month into our relationship where we were writing a wedding guest list, ‘What the fuck, subconscious?’ But there was something about him, his life, who we are, what we’re about, that was cluing me into a deeper truth.

This is the man I need to marry. The man I love above all others. The one who completes me.

… Imagine my shock and confusion when I realised that, in order to truly be the woman deserving of him, that I needed to build a relationship with an entirely different man who would quirkily fit into our life in the most unusual, yet crucial way, bolstering us both — and allowing me to feel truly complete.

These things are a work-in-progress. They’re fluid, and they change. Love is the constant, communication is the key, and happiness unlike you’ve ever really known — can be the reward. You just have to play your cards right, know when you’re in check, and never fold unless you’re in zugzwang.

Got it?

Excellent. You might have a chance in hell at understanding what all of this is about. And, if that’s so, I invite you to tread carefully, with your eyes wide open, ready for anything. Because it very well could be the ride of your life — and the one thing that saves you and yours from becoming another statistic.

How decidedly contrary, you say? That’s how it works. Just as Carroll said –

– we’re all mad.

Welcome to the party. Pull up a chair and don’t mind that someone’s been there before you. Jealousy is the manufactured emotion, stemming from some ev-psy programming, and largely rooted in insecurity. If you know your place is at the table, then maintain eye-contact with the one that brought you. If it just so happens that you both leave with someone else who arrived separately — it could be so much the better. Who knows? Only you.

I wish you the best of luck in your own adventures beyond the looking-glass. Just remember — it can be sharp. So don’t break it. The shards are a motherfucker with which you do not want to deal. So, hang on, and don’t get splinched (Props to my girl JK).

Who knows what magnificent undiscovered worlds await you?

Tesser well, my fiends.

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.

I couldn’t sleep last night. Again. So, I finally gave in and got out of bed, grabbed a snack, and reflected upon the evening’s events. That song popped into my head. Hadn’t heard it in ages; liked the melody. The lyrics seemed a bit melodramatic — what I knew of them; which was essentially the chorus and not much more.

‘You’ve ruined me’. Damn. That’s an intense concept, isn’t it? What a thing to say to a person. Definition is even dicier. What’s it even mean? To be ‘ruined’ — ? How?

While it’s indeed dramatic, it’s not undeserved. For numerous reasons, I feel rather ruined: recollections of my past history of abuse, which has been creeping into my subconscious, while other elements of that very precarious psychological space present themselves in sudden and unexpected ways.

I’d say I need to explore the submissiveness that’s slowly begun surfacing, but no one beckons that forth from me. So, much as Norah’s proclamation, I, too, am ‘trying to part with what’s in my heart’ — because the truth is, I have a wonderful husband who’s, really, uncommonly so. I know plenty of wives say their husbands are wonderful; it’s hyperbole. Mine truly is.

And so I conversely feel horrible. Terribly guilty. Namely, because he’s also submissive. Deeply, wonderfully submissive. And I’ve no idea where my dominance has gone. It’s either quickly reappearing, like a trusty shield, in the face of strangers and mixed company — or it’s just not there. Nor is anything in its place. Rather, my sexuality has just … checked out..

Except in those rare moments when it checks back in — just to fuck with me, it seems. Just to torment and to tease. As if to remind me that — yup, it’s still there; thoroughly buried. Except when it isn’t. And that happens quite randomly, but is easily handled (well — most of the time) through sublimation. Unless it’s a dominant sexual feeling. Oh, how I miss feeling THAT!

Ruined.

Yeah, suffice it to say. Though, I liked it, now I’m ruined. And he has no plan.

I tried going away. Much like Norah’s, it’s a work in progress with certain similar results. I have an unfailing pride which never allows me to flat out bear all in most cases. It has happened a few times — but we won’t speak of them right now. ‘Tis a bit more emo than I feel like getting at current.

And regardless of his ‘indecision’ and genuinely being driven as crazy and being completely flummoxed as to what to do — it’s still torturous at times. Well … recently. I’m not going to just forbid him to socialise with Mister P or the gaming group, with whom he’s become friends. So, what else I can do? Besides hide out various locations of the apartment? ( … Even if he finds me in said locations of apartment. Sigh.)

I’m civil. I had a normal conversation — about writing / work. It’s our patented fall-back. Any time we veer to close to having to discuss It, we can always retreat to work. (Except … when we can’t. Those’re the tricky times.) But there was plenty to discuss, and he was a complete space cadet due to having worked long hours on little sleep. Understandably, as he was about to crash anyhow, we suggested he do so. Away from the game, of course. (Mister P offered our bedroom, as it’s quiet away from the boisterousness of roleplaying and clattering of dice.)

He accepts the offer to nap — and decides to (wait for it) lie down over by me, upon the carpeting behind where I was seated at the dining room table.

… Sigh.

All right. Fine. So, he won’t stop blathering about all manner of things which make little sense to the point where I have to downright tell him to shut it and get some rest. Erm, gently, of course. Y’know. Nicely as it can be said. He says I’m ‘quite right’ and prepares to do so.

Whew. Just as I’m thinking to myself that perhaps, I’m overreacting; perhaps, this won’t be nearly as difficult as I thought, and despite his going through a similar sort of hell, he’s clearly managing it well enough to where all I have to do is maintain my own composure, and –

He grabs my hand.

I’m dumbstruck.

Doesn’t say a damned thing; not a bloody word. Just … holds it — and not idly, not softly, not delicately, not gently. Not quite for-dear-life, but with an odd sense of … not quite knowing what else to do. A quiet desperation. The stirrings, but not yet manifestation of, a kind of madness.

I just blinked. He just stared. I blinked again. Finally, my cerebrum has connected with my motor cranial nerves, and sent some sort of message indicating I should SAY SOMETHING –

– and before I do … he gives my hand a slight squeeze before closing his eyes, turning his head, and slowly pulling away. Silent after that. Completely.

I’m still blinking. I say nothing, turn back to the laptop upon the table before me, and attempt to concentrate — and not on the words emblazoned across my mind: WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?

As if a part of me I won’t acknowledge isn’t chiding from some dark place — oh, I know exactly what that was. And of what of it? (That’s the logical portion again. See, I argue with myself. Rather frequently. It’s … useful. Sometimes.)

What of it, indeed. What point does it serve? What does it even matter? Who cares what’s there if there’s nothing that can be done about it? What point does any of it serve if it won’t be expressed?

It … doesn’t. Not anymore.

You’ve ruined me now — and how, I thought I liked it; now I’m ruined —

My whole world’s now … turned upside down.

I wish I could get it back upright. He deserves more than this. A real wife, a real lover; a real partner. Not this broken, twisted-every-which-way version of what used to be relatively sane, quite straightforward, and capable of making all of his dreams come true.

Sigh.

You’ve ruined me.

… What comes next?

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.

The issue that’s presently stuck in my craw, however, is this: upon ‘redefining the relationship’, he explained that he ‘didn’t like the feeling of being the male equivalent of one’s mistress’ ( … ouch?) and he ‘needed to find the one who would be the one for him’. In essence, a primary relationship. I’m engaged, so he wants to find someone he can marry, with whom he may build a life himself.

Well, okay. I certainly get that. Apparently, the relationship we had made this more predominant, and a greater pressing need, in his life than it had been prior. I ‘awakened’ this within him.

Well, that’s great. And … as for all of that stuff that’s been awakened in me? Oh, I guess I just get to deal with that on my own. Thanks. Thanks a bunch.

And therein lies the crux of the issue; the reason why I feel this particular pain and overall stupidity could’ve been avoided — had he not been quite so (as I see it, careless) with everything. Why do I say this? Because there are a few glaring things that I can’t ignore:

The fact that he’s needed and wanted a primary relationship has not been a secret to me; we’ve known since the beginning. Why he did nothing to pursue finding one while we were together is beyond me. (I think it’s beyond him, too.)

Why he feels that these relationships are mutually-exclusive to each other. Especially if he’s looking to begin dating — which, typically involves seeing lots of different people before you’re able to confidently narrow the pool down to those who might be long-term relationship potential — then I don’t see why he couldn’t have maintained the relationship with me while pursuing a primary partner; that being said, he wouldn’t have even necessarily needed to forego one over the other unless that was specifically determined later. (Certainly not by me.)

That’s why I feel it’s been carelessness, more than anything else. Had he considered all of his options ahead of time, everything would’ve been done differently. (Sadly, the direction in which things were going.)

I was looking forward to this …

My fiance and I would continue to be able to explore the emergent aspects of my personality, as we were able to further incorporate them into our own kink and sex life. I would meanwhile be helping my … whatever he can be called — best friend, creative partner — and intermittently — when he could get his act together — dom — find his own primary partner that would satisfy the needs I couldn’t, or had otherwise satisfied by my fiance. We’d do so in a variety of ways, because I’ve come to know a good number of people in the scene, out of it, and on the fringes. (Honestly, he needs someone who’s kinky, too, so we’d peruse within the scene — and its perimeter — first and more frequently.) I’d be able to continue discovering this hidden, greatly unexplored side of myself which made the rest of my personality feel more integrated and complete, he’d have certain needs met while he found his primary partner, the one with whom he could share his life –

… and we’d all be on this great adventure, learning about ourselves and each other, exploring the depths of what makes us human, while not having to actually be denied anything, or suffer the loneliness of detachment, loss or, simply being alone.

This way, no one had to be alone — and everyone could benefit from the experience. Sounded like a pretty good deal to me! Actually, quite logical, too.

But, for whatever reason, he felt he had to change everything and go back to suffering until he found his primary partner. And having done my own share of suffering, I can’t imagine why anyone would actually -choose- to in place of an alternative.

Sigh. To each his own. What’s done is done. It would’ve been nice. A rather lovely dream, I think. I was looking forward to being able to realize it.

It was also only the option I truly saw, given the circumstances. With some people, and for whatever reason, we’re just -drawn- to them a certain way; and the connection I felt to him (relatively early on, too) ensured that we could never comfortably be friends, and nothing more. The frustration would take hold, which would then lead to anger — not at each other, but the situation, and we’d probably end up in a similar position.

Although, -now- my anger -is- with him. I’m angry because the position is self-imposed! Foolishly, and inexplicably so. I can’t shake my head at the hopelessness of the situation and sigh dejectedly. The only reason things -are- as they are is because he’s -chosen- for them to be. At first, I raged against it. Hated it. Thought it was a very dumb idea. I still do, except now I understand that it’s over. I’m not secretly hoping for everything to magically return to the way they were. I can accept that it’s gone — which is partially why I’m angry.

I knew that it would. I knew the anger would overtake me and I’d not feel the same anymore. I knew I wouldn’t want him in my life anymore; that I’d forget what we had, and why he ever was. It’s not conscious, either. It simply … happens.

I can’t be friends. I can’t be platonic. I can’t be vanilla. We aren’t any of those things, and to pretend as if we were for the sake of what, appearances? It’s dishonest. We never could be then — why would we suddenly be able to now? Now that we -know- all that we could be? All that we -were- ?

So, the only logical thing to do is send him on his way. Anything else is unproductive. Bemoaning the past and trying to be what we’re not is stupid — and likely, useless. He wants to find his primary partner (which, for some reason, excludes any sort of relationship with me) so all I can do, that I see to be logical …

… is let it go.

Right? Is this not where I throw up my hands and say, ‘Okay, I give up,’ and call ‘Red’? Enough’s enough, already. I’m sick of the pain. We used to encounter confusion in relating to each other, but now it’s tenfold. What we had is gone. I hate that — but it’s reality.

I can’t be friends. I can’t be something I’m not. That we’re not.

… So, what does that leave me?

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.

Now … now, however, I just feel loss, and bitterness, and anger. Fury over the fact that it’s gone, and for no good reason that I can see. That I’m angry in my acceptance of its being lost. That now, I have no idea how to progress forward. And while I can acknowledge its ending and not wish for resumption, the rage and growing enmity is making me fear that any sort of connection at all — the platonic relationship that remains close and emotionally intimate — is impossible. I’m too damned angry.

And maybe it’s just too soon. Maybe I can’t believe he can fathom that we’d be able to just transition right into this, given all the pain it’s caused, thanks to all of the intensity that our dynamic naturally encompassed on so many levels that can’t be expressed anymore.

And I’m supposed to be okay with this? I can’t attend those BDSM clubs with him anymore — where I see a side of him now only in my memory once experienced. Hell, I can’t even talk about sex or kink with him anymore — and I’m a therapist, for chrissake!

Why don’t people realize that being friends after having been in an otherwise intimate, either romantically, sexually, or both — is just not that simple? You’re not just cutting out one type of interaction; you’re changing your whole schema of that person and how you relate to them. Takes time to refile and make those adjustments so that you don’t relate to them in the same manner.

And that’s a huge change. Plenty of loss. Suddenly, there are all these types of interactions off limits to you. Things you can’t do. Can’t say — because ‘it’d be weird’ and your schema for being friends doesn’t include that.

Oh, sure. I could rewrite my schema to include such things in what is classified a friendship, or platonic interaction. Things which would normally overlap a relationship with a degree of sexual intimacy. But I already rewrote a lot to incorporate what I needed to so that I could have the sort of dynamic I wanted.

I’m ready for someone else to put in the same effort. Not that he hasn’t to some extent, but my schema for friendship doesn’t allow me to relate the same way I do emotionally when there’s romantic or sexual vulnerability involved.

Is that so difficult to understand? Perhaps, so. But, as said before, I’m done with being the one to rewrite and compromise. And until that changes, I suppose I’ll feel either anger — or nothing.

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.

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?

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.

Appeals to logic don’t do anything for an anxiety attack until it’s subsiding (for whatever reason — some satisfactory conclusion has been reached, or the person psychs themselves out of being anxious — which can happen with some long-time sufferers who’ve just had -enough- already) at which point, it can be invaluable. You’ll know you’ve crossed the logic threshold with an attack when you start realising what you feared to be completely possible 2 minutes ago now seems not only implausible, but rather silly.

There are ways, actually, to try and jump-start the logic process:

1) Take all knowledge you know. Does your anxiety fit with anything you know? While seeing the world through panic-goggles, something may. Take a deep breath and re-evaluate, using the same criteria as before, but perhaps, some other methods of achieving results.

2) Again, taking all knowledge available to you, has new information been presented that indicates your fear is anxiety and not fitting into any of what you use to evaluate a real threat? You’d be surprised that typically by this point is where most episodes can conclude. But … some require a bit more intensive work.

3) Imagine bringing your concerns to people. How do they each react? If, (like me) you suddenly get the sense that everybody tells you that everything’s fine, and to drive their point home, look at you strangely, then you’re probably viewing the world through those panic-goggles. Go through the first couple of exercises in an effort to take them off, and -then- re-evaluate a (hopefully) final time.

4) Does your fear no longer fit the worst case scenario you initially thought it did? I’m going to bet money it doesn’t. It may still match up with a much lesser, doable concern. This is where it’s important to understand how the fear of one (the irrational) linked up with the other (the rational). For a split second, we’re all thinking rationally before going balls-out into a panic frenzy. We have that fleeting moment of, ‘I bet it’s this,’ or ‘I think this is happening,’ or, ‘I think he / she meant this,’ etc. before we launch into thinking we’re dying, or someone hates us, our partner is cheating, we’re going to be fired — the list goes on.

I used to go to great lengths to not be up in the middle of the night. The brain’s actually on a different wavelength then, and for me, it used to mean enhanced creativity. In recent years, however, it means it’s ripe and ready to freak the fuck out about everything it can. Those of us who suffer it all have peak times for anxiety. Find yours, and try to be as unavailable to it as you can. Go to bed. See friends. Make love with your partner or spouse. Read a book. Watch a movie. Jam to your favourite album. Whatever it is that relaxes you (hey, yoga!) is the activity in which you should engage then. Bonus points if it ups the serotonin.

So, how do we so quickly jump the crazy train? A lot of it has to do with present mental state. I shoulda known when I awakened speaking loudly and as if I hadn’t really slept at all, and hadn’t even grabbed my glasses before walking out into the living room (for … some … reason?) that I was still riding the weird vibe from my dream (or nightmare). Something in the environment, or directly happening within us at that moment will cause us to latch onto the absurd rather than accepting our first, more logical and rational explanation for whatever it is we’re currently fretting over.

Being in that mindset, it doesn’t seem absurd any more — it seems frighteningly, horrifyingly real; the embodiment of our worst fears. The beginning of the end. Our heart races. Our breath seems harder to catch. We’re a little dizzy. Everything we do must be done quickly to get to that next moment, because the moment in which we’re existing now seems like everything is crashing down around and upon us.

But it isn’t.

Our brain has simply made the irrational jump and we’re in the proper mental state to go bat-shit. Lovely. That’s why it’s best to un-bat-shit as quickly as possible. Because who -really- wants to sit around and panic? Not fuckin’ me!

So, go through the multi-step process — repeating steps as needed — until you get to the 4th and (hopefully) final step, which allows you to break free of the fear and re-evaluate your circumstances outside of the crazy, panicked mindset, using logic and rationale. If there’s anything wrong or slightly off at all, it’s probably what you first assessed, and your brain will naturally return to that. For example, the perfume you smelled on hubby resulted from his co-worker he sometimes goes drinking with. Rather than assuming the duplicitous bastard’s porking her for dessert, you -first- figure that she’s not handling her alcohol like he is, and quite possibly -has- made advances. Instead of citing grounds for divorce (or throwing the contents of the living room in his direction once he returns from his just-gotten-home bathroom break) why not -ask- why he smells like (what you assume) is her perfume? Hell of a lot more likely, (providing you have a good marriage — one of those pieces of knowledge you know to be true, and he’s a faithful spouse) than his being -uncharacteristic- and cheating.

Think. Just because something looks a certain way never means it is. And, while our brains want to rage against this, it’s the -only- way to deal with anxiety — and win.

I wish you guys the best of luck. I’m going back to sleep now.

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.

Oh, fuck, no, I’m not requesting the asshole’s ‘friendship’ in any form. I was just … curious. It said there were several photos that had been added in the last few years or so; whenever the hell it was I was last faced with his terrorist-looking-mug. (Really. He looks either like a terrorist or a serial killer in his older profile photo. It’s disturbing. Dunno why he picked that one. Though, it may be the most truthful representation of what’s inside — which, I feel, is pure narcissist.) An-yw-a-a-ay ….

I poked through, and saw … a look which was at one point familiar to me. An expression that was loving and tendre, gazing to the side of … some chick. And … I underwent some (very briefly expended) detective work. (I think there’s a 10 minute cap before you can consider yourself ‘cyber-stalking’ — though, considering he fucking actually cyber-stalked me, to the point where I had to get a damned restraining order — yeah. I’m good.) It revealed that she is, in fact, his girlfriend. They both — in fact — appear quite happy, and he is, in fact, becoming an employed professional.

And all of the sudden, I find myself doing something I never do.

I want to fucking cry.

A single word beats against my brain: Why.

Why, why, why, why?

Why, when I fucking gave all I had to give — which wasn’t much, and I still gave it — when I was at the absolute lowest point of my life, when I had been so successfully beaten down, broken, and embittred to the point of just not giving a shit, allowing myself to become another cog in the machine — a retail drone — foregoing ever realising any of my dreams, and resigning myself to — not failure, but mediocrity — when I was the only one putting any fucking bread on the table, going out and busting my ass to ensure that the Goddamned lights stayed on — the main point of contact when anything went wrong –

WHY … was it that all he could do was fucking hate me?

WHY?

A person can drive themselves mad with this question in no time. So, naturally, I quit asking it. Years ago. Occam and I sat down, cut through the bullshit, and decided upon the most likely cause:

He’s just an asshole. He’ll probably be alone for the rest of his life (poor guy) and I was the one speck of happiness in that dismal, failure of an existence — which is why he hated me even more so once I finally fucking left, (four and a half years too late) that he completely shot to hell.

I felt … pity. And, I moved on.

I decided that, while it takes two to tango, there really wasn’t much I could have done in that situation that I hadn’t already. I gave what I had to give. I stuck with him. I kept plodding on, plowing through. Day after fucking day, fight after Goddamned fight, I remained faithful, strong, and capable. I carried him to the point where I thought I would break — and for what?

Because nobody ever had.

Mister P and I have a sickness. We like to help heal the wounded birds — help the poor lost souls out there find their way — if at all possible — because we know what it’s like to be lost. We remember how it feels to hit rock bottom, and wonder how the fuck we’re ever going to get back up.

And, yet, we have. And we keep doing so. We’re survivors. It’s what we do.

So, when I met this charismatic fellow with a brilliant smile, I thought — wow. There’s a lot of pain in those eyes, even though he tries to hide it with an almost blinding smile. And, foolish me, the fixer in me just had to get to work. And, work it was. And work, I did.

I can’t give up — it’s a problem I have. One of my failings as a submissive. I’m going to scream at and curse you before I’ll cry — no matter how much it fucking hurts. I won’t let you win.

Yeah. That‘s not love. It’s not a relationship. It’s not anything — except an endurance test. Quizzically, I ended up with some of my absolute best writing during those four, almost five, lonely years. My mid-twenties. I existed working and writing. I’d go to work, do my time wherever it was from which I was currently drawing a steady paycheck, punch out, go home and write. I’d write like a fiend. I’d type until my fingertips were calloused, and I was approaching early-stage carpal tunnel, and my doctor told me it was either publishing or get out of clerical quickly. I ditched clerical and became a host for a restaurant. And I’m still the best fucking host they’ve — possibly ever — had. Because when I do something, I do it one-fucking-hundred-and-ten-per-cent. Or … I don’t do it at all. Another failing of mine. There’s a lot I’ve done. Sadly, I know it could be more.

But, I digress.

You’ll hear Mister P go on about the ‘Pizza Delivery Guy’, or, use pizzas as a form of measurement. ‘ … all I’m saying,’ he begins, ‘Is that’s gotta be a LOT of pizzas.’ (Regarding whatever winnings he’s brought home, or so forth.) And yeah, that’s why. Because when I knew him — almost solidly — he was a fucking pizza delivery driver. We he capable of more? Fuck, yes. Would he do it? Even Goddamned try? … No.

Until I left.

His whole fucking world seemed to open up for him when I left. Kana and the fucking crows. (That confuses you? Google it, slacker. And then watch the series. It’s breathtakingly beautiful.) I left, and he actually started fucking living. Went back to school, graduated, and apparently, found another very capable, strong … short … auburn, (though, chunkier, to be frank — not that it matters, though he’s — fuck. A good wind could knock him down) … young woman, and … make her his girlfriend.

And … love her.

You can tell that he loves her.

So, that leaves me with another resounding question I cannot answer, and I probably shouldn’t even try.

… why couldn’t he love me?

What was so … wrong with showing me love? Why did he have to hate, tear down, manipulate, ruin and destroy me?

And, yeah. If I think about it too much, it makes me want to fucking cry.

Sigh. So, I don’t. I go back to writing … and, living. Because I’m happy now — despite the past. I am loved, and I love in return. Again. And regardless of why he couldn’t love me doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t affect me anymore. As Mister P says, ‘Who gives a shit?’ Of course, to an abuse survivor, when we find that our abuser truly loves, is treating properly, and altogether being a good person to someone else, we’re left wondering. Did they learn? What taught them?

We try not to resort to the obvious darker question.

‘What was wrong with me?’

I don’t think anything’s wrong with me besides what I know, have accepted, and am working through. That’s all I can do. I have my goals, and I’m slowly achieving them. We’re all a bit cracked for sure, but if we were perfect — we wouldn’t be here. We’d all be pretty boring, too.

I’m glad he’s found love. I’m glad he can love someone. But it really gets under my skin when I remember the note he left me, with the one single red rose I’d ever received in the entirety of our relationship. (I’d gone with my best friend to move out of what had been our apartment — that I’d chosen, up-kept, etc., ad nauseum, infinitum.

‘I hope you find someone whom you’re willing to love.’

… Willing to love? Had he been there, I would’ve shown him how willing I was to shove it up his fucking ass. Willing to love.

Yeah. Who was unwilling? Who didn’t try?

Useless now. Wasted energy.

… and I refuse to waste anymore of it. On this.

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.

Oh, and if you’d like to argue that point? Have a look at one of the most famous photographs ever taken by Dodgson – ‘The Beggar Maid’ from 1858, featuring, of course, Liddell.

Go on.

Yeah. Look at those eyes. I rest my case.

Holy eyes, Batman! How would you feel if you were a repressed Victorian gentleman on the other end of that?

Why Miss Liddell was quite the strange charmer of men at such a young age, nobody truly knows, and she, of course, never dared to say. (After all, it’s horribly un-lady-like to discuss one’s personal business in mixed company — or, let’s face it, at all.) All we know is that, given the evidence that’s been left behind, certain testimonials and memoirs — she was. And, unluckily perhaps for Dodgson, with whom she shared a close and somewhat precarious friendship for most of her youth, he got the brunt of it.

Was it playful? Her mother, Lorina Liddell, the wife of the Dean certainly knew how to wrap men around her finger. The newer (last 5-10 years) biographical material argues that a lot of the personality for the famed Queen of Hearts came from none other than the domineering Lorina, given the power and control she had over all of Oxford. If you wanted to be somebody, then she had ultimate say over it. (Yikes.)

Being from a domineering mother myself, I understand how a little girl can watch her prime feminine role-model’s behaviour with men and draw all sorts of conclusions. And if they practically bow to, defer, and treat her as if she holds their life in her hands … well … it sends a hell of a message.

So, on that front, can we really be that surprised when a fumbly, well-meaning Oxford don shows a great deal of interest in photographing and spinning tales of incredible imagination and wit with an insatiable (and very precocious young mind) that, given her background, she’d pull immediately from how she thought women were supposed to engage men, despite her years?

Dear God.

It was a Victorian recipe for ultimate disaster — and I can only hope I capture (at least) the spirit of it in my novels. (I think I do.)

So, as a result, we have lots of pages ripped from diaries, the rest of those journals burned, misunderstandings, gossip, and eventual estrangement.

Sigh.

I’m not even sure the little Alice had any idea — at first. She simply thought this was male-female interpersonal dynamics worked, and it must have been great fun to evaluate the power she no doubt held over Dodgson. He was seeking a free-spirited and adventurous cerebral playmate. One who wouldn’t be hung-up on all of the tropes and trappings of the Victorian era; who chose against operating by it. Which is why her nice dresses were always splattered with mud, her hair constantly tangling, and her eyes positively full of mischief. (Again. Look at the challenge in those eyes! Goddamn!)

As a result, I’ve always felt a kinship with her. The real Alice. As, I have to admit, it reminds me a lot of how I operated as a youth. Watching my mother, I had a very sure sense of this is how stuff worked, and … I suppose given the numbers, I encountered enough submissive boys to have it somehow proven right.

I had ‘boyfriends’ for every day of the week. I wish I was kidding. They each knew when it was or wasn’t their day, and politely backed off in those times. They were also all very aware of each other — and as a result, some of them got into a few fights on the playground, while others were great friends. I hadn’t realised at the time what a disservice I was doing to my girl-friends at the time. What elementary schoolgirl does? (Oh, did I forget that part? I was … let’s see. 8? Maybe ’til round-about 11? Something like that.)

Of course, I had no designs on anyone. They were perfectly free to court any of the other girls in our classes, and, of course, some did. And we’d all play tag and steal kisses on the cheek and run away. Even some of the girls — which, at that point, is a pretty natural exploration of sexuality. They’re your sisters, and they might later become your lovers, and they might not. We’re all figuring it out at that point. For me, I ended up playing for the opposite team, but I never faulted any of my sisters that chose otherwise. Hell, I respect and support them for it. (But that’s another story. Speaking of other stories — ask me about the monogamy versus polyamoury ‘experiment’ I unwittingly held that year. That’s a trip in and of itself.)

Ah, digressions.

I know why I’m not innocent, and haven’t been since the age of seven. As for Liddell … who can say? It may simply be modelling. Some of mine may also be due to the very same.

Either way, thanks for letting me soapbox there. Since so much new information is coming out about Dodgson’s life and sexuality, (namely, that he actually had a drive of which to speak, and it vacillated between periods of long celibacy and bursts of passionate interlude) I felt it important to fill in some blanks there, as a result of my own extensive research over the last decade or more.

We’re quick to paint someone a paedophile if there was any sort of involvement with children. We don’t even examine the interaction or relationship. And, I realise, being as insistent about this as I am, being a survivor myself of childhood sexual abuse, it’s a bit contradictory. But you might say it’s also kept me from becoming dogmatic and exclusionary.

My personal understanding and definition of abuse involving a minor is when a child is lured into sexual situations of which they have no understanding or ability to evaluate. Their privileged trust is used against them by the one seeking to satisfy their illness, or, simply encounter a sexual relationship without having to go through the necessary work to achieve one with a consenting adult. And that is something for which I have equal if not greater passionate detestation which knows no bounds.

Anyway.

It’s seemed pretty important for me to bring some necessary clarity to this subject which is often confused, clouded, and as misunderstood as it was accused back when it was first happening. Give the ghosts some peace, for chrissake. Sometimes, it feels like that’s what I’m trying to do, in a way. Set the record straight, and let their story conclude with the same sort of truth that only they ever knew.

So. Thanks for listening.

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.

Who the hell knows why things happen as they do? Only that sometimes, they just do. In my case, it was recounting a particular portion of my past with a young woman I came to mentor sometime earlier this year. This sort of exchange of mutual experiences has proven insightful for each of us, and there’s no rhythm or structure to it. Mine begun with the usual recent fretting over a personal issue with which I’ve been struggling, and somehow ended in my recalling and sharing the circumstances surrounding the very first time I ever did the deed. Specifically, why. While it’s not essential, I’ll provide the Reader’s Digest here for you.

I didn’t have a lot of female friends in high school or college. Never did. I tended to be more of a tomboy, and thus, my best friend my first-year of college was, likewise, a guy. My astrophysics lab partner, in fact, since he was horrible with conclusions and writing labs, and mathematics and I’ve never been on very good terms. It was a win-win. He was also a writer, and from that alone, a lifelong friendship was born. (We writers are all a bit on the cracked side, anyway. It’s always nice when we find a fellow lunatic.)

I had chosen to maintain my virginity for two reasons; one, it fit the image of me that my parents cherished, and two, I’d heard too many horror stories about people’s lives getting completely blown apart because of sex. It just seemed best to steer clear, and as I took up Psychology, I learned of even more reasons for waiting until I was really sure I knew enough of what I was doing to make sure I didn’t become a casualty myself.

I’d decided, upon turning 21, that was was good enough. I could contribute (or so, I believed at the time) to the election of political figures and could legally consume alcohol. I was, for all the world, an adult. A grown-up. Which seemed strange to me, because I’d always felt both that I’d been something of an adult all of my life, and yet, perpetually a child. (It’s a paradox with which I continue to wrestle.) I knew I probably wouldn’t really understand the full depth of this whole sex thing, but I figured that it was time enough I leave the ranks of the uninitiated.

I walked over to the other end of campus, where the best friend (upon whom I would soon tack on ‘with-benefits’) of mine lived, and explained rather simply, (even though his very attractive roommate was there at the time, too) that I was newly 21 and tired of being a virgin. It made the most sense, given that he was, too, (and just a slight younger, by a few months) that we ought to rectify the situation together. (Those may have been my exact words, if I recall. I know. I was a regular sex-bomb.) Being my best friend, and someone I trusted greatly, it seemed the wisest move to do our experimenting with each other before embarking on any sort of serious relationship where our inexperience would only count against us. He agreed. (But what recently teenaged male wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to have sex with his female best friend? Hell-o?).

What resulted was neither memorable nor awful. After the sizable endowment of my prior high school boyfriends, he was severely lacking in comparison, but quickly devised other skills to compensate. Since we weren’t in a relationship, but remained very good friends, we’d share in each other’s experiences with casual dates and what-not — even if they involved other mutual friends. I suppose that should’ve seemed strange, and yet, it didn’t. I believe while I had a type of love for him, and always will, I was never in love with him. I didn’t use him for the purpose of sexual advancement, education, and exploration — per se. But then, perhaps, we used each other. Though, he was severely heartbroken when I decided to begin dating, exclusively, who would much later become my ex-fiancé. (Or, more appropriately, ‘college fiancé’ as this seems to be disturbingly common. And why not? Get the degree, career, settle down, and that’s that, right? Seems a solid plan.) He was also very much bipolar at that time — which only complicated things. (I was also being stalked by a former boyfriend with whom I didn’t put out, and wished so much for me to that he’d drugged me. Unsuccessfully. I detected it, and ripped him a new asshole. I also called my best friend and stumbled out of the apartment so that he could pick me up. Just because I had done the deed didn’t mean I should do so with everyone, after all. I was choosy then, too.) It was a crazy year.

Either way, my protégé of sorts was surprised by this behaviour, which, I’ll grant you, is a bit more forward than commonly expected. Most girls wait to have sex with some desired partner or boyfriend in a heat-of-the-moment fumbly disaster. (Not always, of course. It can do something besides suck — but mostly, it just sucks.) Sex, never being like we’re foolishly led to believe it is in fiction — page, stage, celluloid and tube — is a weird, dissonant orchestration of out-of-sync rhythm patterns, the crashing and dashing of expectations, and a lot of awkwardness. Wouldn’t you rather suffer through that with a friend and not someone you just happened to have the urge to bone?

My motivation aside, it led me to come to a stark realisation that I … had no idea who this person even was. This circa 2001 version of myself that had her world by the balls, didn’t take shit from anyone, and was in control. Oh, sure, even she wasn’t perfect — but she was on the road to do great, big things. I often wondered where she went, and how I ended up in her place.

And, for whatever explicable reason I can’t begin to fathom, while digging into the warm, fresh, recently store-bought rotisserie chicken — not giving a damn how filthy my hands were, somewhat liking the sensation of my fingers digging into the warm meat, and tearing it from the bone, no matter how much of the sinew lodged itself in my nails — I had a revelation.

I. did. not. care.

It didn’t have to be perfect. I didn’t need it to be clean, or tidy, or exceptionally neat. Who gave a shit if I ate a little bit of cartilage or fat? Got some of the skin stuck under my nails? It tasted so fucking good.

Suddenly, the conversation about the value of sex for human pair bonds in that it creates those feelings of closeness and intimacy via the oxytocin receptors going into overdrive every time an orgasm is experienced — seemed to hijack my brain and drift over into the section that loved ripping warm meat off of bones and I suddenly felt a sort of tapping on my mind’s-eye’s shoulder …

(Erm, just go with it, okay?)

‘I’m ba-a-a-a-ack,’ she seemed to say, that playful smirk that always made me feel as if the world were my oyster. The very same thing that drove me to new heights, to tackle obstacles that took most people down. To ascend to whatever the hell sort of state of being, or knowledge, of understanding, or revelation I wanted to, because I wouldn’t accept defeat. I wouldn’t accept, ‘I don’t know.’ I wasn’t satisfied with, ‘I can’t do that.’

Since I was being called over to finish setting up the chessboard with Mister P and his daughter, he ended up walking over to me in the kitchen, just after my revelation. Completely stunned for the moment, as I shoved my chicken-oil-and-seasonings laden fingers into his mouth, watching his eyes for his reaction.

‘I’m back,’ I said.

Oh, naturally, he had no clue, and I didn’t expect him to, yet. I also couldn’t throw him against the wall, pull down his pants, and take his cock (which is absolutely beautiful, incidentally) into my mouth, letting the rest of his addled mind sort it out later.

There was a child present. Ah, well.

So, he gave the most logical response.

‘Huh? What? From where?’

I didn’t know. I just shrugged, and said: ‘From a very long sojourn.’ It seemed as true as anything else.

Mmm. I’ve not told him how much I like his cock in awhile. How it’s just the right shape, size, girth and texture. He’s supposed to be in chastity, or something. Though, not really just yet. He’s giving me a two-week grace period until the pilot episode is recorded. Mid-June now, it’s looking like. Oh, well. We work with what we’ve got.

I am looking forward to being able to tell him, honestly, that sex is important. The very thing that keeps a couple together. Sex never mattered to me, because it’s not so much an individualised thing. It had, however, been a weapon — for many years, in many instances — used either against me, or learned and honed for waging a war against someone else. I’d quite forgotten that it is also a gift. Something precious, and rare that’s shared between lovers — the very nature of why they are lovers. I recalled this suddenly upon realisation of how deeply I missed him while he was at work the first few days after we’d been regularly kick-starting our sex life. In which I’d had a number of orgasms unabashedly, and without apology. It felt good, and freeing.

Perhaps, I barred myself from sex because of the obvious sway it holds over all of us — myself, included. I didn’t like missing him while he was away. I didn’t like how my mind drifted to wanting to be with him, holding and kissing him, simply being in his presence. It felt weak, and strange.

Huh. Who knew that was love?

And without the sex, it isn’t the same. It’s the sex — that oxytocin-slathered intimacy — that binds a couple together during the tougher stuff. That changes a distant co-habitation into a close, playful, coupling between two individuals delighting in sharing their lives together.

Which would you prefer?

Of course, that’s a rhetorical question. See, even geniuses don’t know everything. (Though, it’s cute that his daughter assumes I do. I’ll just have to step up my game.)

All for now.

(This is a personal journal, after all. I don’t need a perfect conclusion, article-style, fit-for-publication structure every time.)