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.

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.

Because these things are different. And different is quite good!

… it’s not exact, but what can you do?

By the way, this is why I haven’t been on much. Well, one of the many reasons. I’ll fill everyone in later as to the rest.

This is also what apparently happens when editing childrens’ poetry. And BDSM porn. At the same time.

Bitches!

Oh, the hyperactivity can be attributed to the head cold + coffee. One is awesome, the other is not. Guess which!

Asses can be red, and your balls are blue.

I’m outta here; don’t like it? You can stew!

Check out the new HA website. I re-built it in about 2 days using Kompozer by Mozilla. (Because, occasionally, pirated software makes baby Jesus cry. That, and slash fiction of canonically straight characters. And the bullshit that is Twilight, though, if you’d like an explanation, there’s a fantastic one here. (Longer link — just in case your mouse sucks — UNLIKE MINE. Because it’s the new Logitech Anywhere MX, ass-munchers! That’s ‘MX’ for ‘Most Excellent’, I’m pretty sure. What does yours say? Microslop? La-a-a-a-ame! I bet your monitor even says ‘Etch-a-Sketch’ on the side. And not in that brilliant Kindle kind of way, either.)

Oh, and apologies if you’re using a Mac. I’m getting there, okay? Jeeeeez.

Now. There’s your update. You bitches happy now? Good. Because I live to make you happy.

Just kidding. You guys are wonderful. I’ve just been one busy bitch. Busier than Don Everest, AKA ‘The Matador’. And that was one busy motherfucker near the end of Season One.  (And for those who did not watch Tilt, and are more than mildly confused, this is what Mr Everest’s To-Do-List would’ve looked like that day: Breakfast, Liquidate Assets, Play in First Day of WSOP, Go to Tahoe, Whack Guy, Very Late Dinner, Sleep(?), Play in Second Day of WSOP. … Yeeeahh. My thoughts exactly.)

CHECK OUT THE WEBSITE. NOW. Soon it’ll be moved to huntingalice.com, too. And won’t that be wonderful? (The answer is, ‘Yes’, in case you were confused.)

More … when I feel like it? Get around to it? Something like that. Also, yes, we’ll be Podcasting again soon. When? SOON. Deal until then.

Mm. Coffee. Head cold. Blegh.

<3

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.

This one is of particular significance to me, as it’s very much -about- me. As some know, (and perhaps, some don’t) I was diagnosed with Asperger’s as a child — around 8 or 9. It has made certain things of my life interesting. I can’t say it was ever truly severe, though, my mother worked with me extremely diligently to see that I was able to overcome most of its drawbacks and social shortcomings.

The one part of me that’s always baffled me is the portion which I’ve only been able to call, (most humourously) Vulcan. (And, maybe some Jedi for good measure — naturally, without the awesome accoutréments.)

So, without further explanation — a scene from a restaurant. Specifically, my last all-employee meeting in a restaurant at which I worked prior to my relocating to LA.

–

Well, this month has certainly proved an interesting one. I was sifting through some old articles and things on my G-Docs and came across something of which I was particularly proud. I had something of an activist streak throughout my years on this blue ball — waxing, and waning. It’s not gone completely, but when nothing ever really comes of the work … well, y’know. You lose heart.

I wish I could say something came of this, but, naturally, it didn’t. I was tempted to send it to the Stern show — from where I originally heard the adverts — but it seemed also a needless sort of venture. So, here it remains in my keep; and now, for your eyes, too. Written about two years past, with a lot of fire and hope that it might do something. (For those unaware, Ashley Madison is a service that is deliberately designated to find unhappy spouses extra-marital partners. You can hazard to guess that went over so well with me …  .)

Without further ado …

–

‘An Open Letter To Ashley Madison’,

To Whom It May Concern,

I had to say something. I wasn’t sure in which subject it would best be categorised, if any at all.

Your site enrages me. Enrages. Not because of who you are, or what you’re doing, but because it is the most honest representation of the state of world and human relationships today.

As a non-practising psychologist, I find this both appalling and fascinating. Those dear to me have suffered loveless unions; I myself was once so trapped. I believe your agency takes the same stance that the Netherlands have done regarding their citizens’ use of illicit drugs and propositioned sexplay. They don’t deny the problem; instead, they provide for them, providing safeguards and taking precautionary measures. It is therefore true that there are far less deaths from drug-overdose, as well as sexual assaults, there than in the US.

Radical — of course, your site is radical. Radical is not necessarily good, nor damaging. And, yes, those who wish to stray will do so regardless of who is lending them a hand and providing ease of access — which, you clearly do. The death of decision-making does lie in a settled point-of-view. I agree. And the fact that such a business, profiting off of, dare we say, ‘home-wrecking’ exists — and thrives — just seems to further my mystified stance on the theory of personal happiness today.

Should one suffer in a loveless, sexless marriage? No. No one should suffer, and no certificate, nor a band of gold should sanction that. Women are raped more times than we can blink within a thirty second period around the globe, a staggering number of those being wives. Is then, your service a type of shelter from the storm? They have long-since given up the belief they could ever leave their controlling husband — is this their saving grace? The possibility that love may still exist at the end of the tunnel? Their reward for enduring so much pain for so long? One is left wondering.

But what of the clueless, stunned, and bewildred spouses, learning one day that their supposed beloved, their life-mate, has years-long been loving another? They, and their soon-jaded, adult-dysfunctional children, should there, all-forbid be any, could, sadly, be thought the lucky ones. How many live in a state of insidiously blissful ignorance? Believing, each morning that the one to whom they gave their heart, holds theirs still, the reality being that they have since been replaced in their beloved’s affections, and perhaps, only they are unaware?

I explored the concept of open-marriage to potentially settle this ostensibly endless debate. Just maybe, if all were made aware, there would be less pain, less suffering, seeing that the deception component has been removed. My own research, and that of many others conducted over years, indicates that there’s absolutely no difference at all. The depression is as great, the agony as profound.

Where, then, does a service such as yours really come into play? You claim not to encourage infidelity, and furthermore, facilitate it. These are disclaiming words, only in the realm of your legal department. Things that must be said to ensure blamelessness and liability solely on behalf of the poor individual seeking such services to begin with. How, at such an impasse, then, could one ever hope to maintain or achieve a balance?

I have an idea.

Your base of operations is in Canada, though you offer your services to the US as well. You are doing well; you have a strong membership, and seem to be withstanding some of the first disastrous swings in the economic downturn. So, let’s return to the other-side of the coin for a moment.

There are scores more couples; brides that once graced aisles in visions of satin and lace, roses perfuming the air, believing this day to be the beginning of their own private faerie-tale; grooms that sought the companionship of a woman he longed to make his wife, to share his burdens and celebrate his victories. Two people that joined forces to tackle the world at large as a unit rather than separate parts. Two people that still believed in whatever form of ‘love’ that may or may not truly exist, marketing ploys and bed-time stories notwithstanding.

You know, just as I do, that there are countless numbers of them who cannot afford counseling, more or less your services. You may or may not know, however, that there are struggling, but surviving, organisations dedicated to providing them with the counseling they need to maintain their family unit, rekindle the flame, and recapture the magic they once saw spark in each other’s eyes, the future they once cherished with boundless hope.

These organisations are not as financially strong as your own, but they are doing these people a tremendous service you are not: helping them put in that last, necessary final fight. If they then decide to part regardless, one can only hope, amicably, they will always know they gave it their last shot. Then, your service, and its safeguards, might allow them a means of searching once more for whom they may still hope is indeed their ‘soul mate’, whatever they fashion him or her to be.

Why not support these charitable organisations? Offering to them what they do not have? Assisting them in the fight to keep love alive rather than accept its defeat, and further cloud the issue with deception and imminent misery?

Someone always suffers, even if it isn’t your membership base. Do think of them, too.

You mean well. It’s difficult in a world such as this, full of its paradoxes and misgivings, not to accidentally pave that hellish road with the best of intentions. But please, understand, without truly helping your would-be members fight the last of the good fight, all you really are offering them is not the promise of a new beginning, but a prayer for the dying.

Thank you for your consideration and time. Despite your views and mine, I wish you well.

[name removed],
Author; B.A., Psy

So, we’ve all been in that particular spot. Someone we know, someone we care about — someone with whom we’re good friends — suddenly gets re-categorised into the ‘why am I blushing? Why is my heart beating this quickly? Why am I Goddamned fucking melting?’ folder.

I remember when it happened with my fiancé, Mr P.

Ahhhhh.

He was with his crazy girlfriend at the time, but it brought out that softer, romantic, definitely submissive side of him that, being his co-worker sharing his office, I’d never seen. As a result, I (somewhat legendarily now) poured myself an extra cup of coffee … having completely forgotten that I’d just done so.

Yeah.

Because my head was so caught up elsewhere. No one had ever affected me like that before — to the point where I still couldn’t forget about them years later. He just got to me. I don’t believe anyone will ever affect me the way that Mr P does — but that doesn’t mean every now and again someone can’t come somewhat close ….

Enter my co-star. Oh, bloody hell. Rational thought just … takes a little holiday some of the time. We writers are all more than just a little cracked anyway, so to find a fellow lunatic is always a bit kismet. That being said, it got me to thinking about this whole Roulette mumbo-jumbo, just what it is, what it was supposed to mean, and what I’ve really been doing with it.

Not much, is the short answer. Question is — why? When deciding to become a domme, and creating my (what is it, third?) alias, I did not do so lightly. Oh, of course, I went through all the classic configurations, finally deciding to stick a bit closer to home and go with something at least French. And, being with a professional poker player, (though, anything even moderately themed sounded retarded) I ventured to explore all gambling possibilities. What’s French and a game of chance? (Well, unless you count the ridiculous house edge, but that’s neither here nor there.) Yep! Roulette.

Ah, but a name has to mean something. It has to be a part of you, or allow you to express that which you’re having trouble doing as yourself, using the name you were given, saddled with your past, and all it entails. Roulette … I mused. What could I do with Roulette?

The answer did not evade me for long … .

What couldn’t I do with Roulette? Nothing.

First, it’s about choosing what sort of domme you wish to be. What the overall theme will be of your play; the sort of service you’ll offer. The kink you prefer. That was where I had the most trouble. I couldn’t begin to choose. I couldn’t be … locked into any sort of persona. I wanted to be dark and light. Cuddly and austere. Sadistic and sweet. And outside of being ‘Mistress Schizo’, I couldn’t figure what the hell would give me that kind of freedom. What would possibly allow me to be the psycho and the psychotherapist? … A spin of the wheel.

Its absolute earliest origins are in my first round of NiteFlirt calls. I realised how liberating it would be to create an identity where I could embody any persona that someone brought out of me. Of course, the reality is always a bit different from the theory. Predominantly, when you’re pretty much a square as far as ‘the scene’ is concerned. More traditional than most of your friends and contemporaries — even if you’ve the capacity for doing otherwise.

Well, welcome to otherwise.

I didn’t arrive at this juncture easily; really, it’s taken a lot of finding myself still awake at sunrise, full of thoughts I can’t begin to decipher. Some past experience — in wondering what to do, and especially, what not to do. A bit of history — hell, even some genetics. Alas, I came to realise that what was missing in my life was, well, me.

Okay, okay, okay. Less cryptically, I discovered that I’d created Roulette only to do virtually nothing with it. At every opportunity I was given, I shied from playing with others, berated plenty for sticking their necks out and hardcore flirting with me, (or, rather, attempting to) and, just in general, never really branched out to where I could truly explore what Roulette really meant to me: the ability to be whomever I wished to, essentially, with whom anyone I wished. Of course, where’s the urgency if it all remains a compelling hypothesis? If there isn’t really anyone to take it from the drawing board to the playing field — what’s even the point?

Well, erm … yeah. You might say several events took place in the right sort of sequence to get my brain whirring with the possibilities. First, I collaborated with some fantastic folks — Alice and Chainmaille Mike of ‘Alice in Bondageland’ ( … it’s like Wonderland, but with kinky bondage) — on a very memorable shoot last month, and I’m very pleased to now count them among my good friends. (Naturally, once you’ve felt a dude’s saline-inflated balls, it’s hard not to be pretty comfortable and relaxed with each other. Ditto for changing into various domme gear and then going at both of your respective submissives / significant others — on two separate occasions; first Mike, then Mr P. After a certain point, you’re all just pretty chill about everything.)

The whole thing felt really … nice, though. Due to the fact we were all shooting porn together, there was this decidedly affectionate openness; we’d stay up wa-a-ay past what should’ve been our normal bedtimes chatting up a storm about various topics, sharing secrets, and confiding in each other. Strangely enough, it was actually Mike with whom I first came clean about the conflicting emotions I was feeling in the platonic, though very close, relationship I have with my co-star / collaborator. Since Alice and Mike stayed with Mr P and myself while they attended DomCon-LA this year, we all had the opportunity to hang out a few times.

I’ll never forget the first time, though. Mr P was already at work, so the three of us were doing various things. At one point, my co-star left the apartment to retrieve something from his car, and Mike, having already heard the beginnings of my bemoaning then earlier that day, turned to me and said, ‘Is that the … ?’ But he didn’t need to finish his sentence, as I was already wincing and rapidly bobbing my head in an almost too dramatic nod. (Insert heavy, melodramatic sigh here.) Mike’s expression was classic: understanding, sympathetic, and really just what I needed at that moment. He came over and put his arms around my shoulders, and rested his chin on my head. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had such a distinctively affectionate guy-pal hug. Hell — I hadn’t even realised until then that I missed them so much.

By the time my co-star got back, there was a slight change in the air. A new confederacy that had formed — harmless, but meaningful. I felt less … alone in all the chaos that was raging through my head. I could silently slap my forehead, or make to silently scream (when he wasn’t looking) and Mike would pat me on the shoulder, and offer a listening ear when I no doubt needed to vent — a lot — by the end of the evening.

There’s this hidden confusion in opposite sex friendships — no matter how you slice it. If you happen to heap attraction on top of it — good luck. It can grow nightmarish fast. Now, I’m hardly saying that it isn’t possible. I have tonnes of wonderful guy friends for whom there’ve never been romantic feelings on either side, even if there is a definite affectionate undertone borne of familiarity of years. But without that sort of understanding, there tends to be a question of boundaries. Acceptability. Propriety. What’s crossing a line, and what’s not. (Again, I’m reminded of saline balls.) Because of the circumstances into which Mike and I were placed, a fast friendship with a relaxed feel developed quickly and naturally. But most of us in the vanilla world don’t get to enjoy this speedy determination of boundaries, lines, and dynamics. It takes a lot longer, and can be ultimately more complex — and confusing. (Which is why my co-star and I’ve been saddled with unraveling quite a mess of things present in our own dynamic.)

You may remember a post I made a few entries back — about that which comes out in a scene which was unexpected? Or, specifically, we said something we later somewhat regretted? You guessed it. Mr P had made a sort of revelation which led me to confiding my own, and it took a few conversations to really understand where the hell any of it was going.

What it’s left me with is this:

The ultimate compromise between the need for expressing all aspects of yourself while still maintaining the strength of commitment and intimacy in that chosen relationship with the love of your life. (Sounds pretty tricky, doesn’t it?) It probably is, and will be, but we’ll see how it goes. While there may periodically be throughout our relationship (and eventual marriage) others that bring out rare or oft-hidden facets of myself, it’s me and Mr P for the long haul — and everything in between.

I’m not even sure if this has definition or defies it. I’ve recently heard of a local young woman who’s also a domme and engaged, and fully poly-something. (I wonder how that works out. I also don’t want to mislabel her, being there are so many different variations of poly-dynamics and relationships. I had no idea.)

So … I’m learning. Should definitely be interesting. Especially the next event I’m able to attend. For the first time — as Roulette.

I’ll keep you posted.

Oh, and as for the rest …

Eh, what can I say? I’m a chicken-shit. Been a very long time since I’ve explored any of these interpersonal dynamics which are clearly categorised under the ‘fringe’ side of things. I’m not really sure how to present it to other people. More than anything, one with whom I would have such a relationship. (With its own unique boundaries and definitions and the like.) Those who are actively poly and have been for quite some time laugh at my inability to do so. Ah, well. I yam what I yam — and up until recently — I was pretty staid.

The new-found adventurousness has definitely injected a nice dose of super-hot kinky sexiness into my relationship with Mr P, though. A decidedly nice side benefit or byproduct, heh.

More on that to follow soon, I’m sure.