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

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

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

Allow me to explain.

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

And … I did the wrong thing.

I clicked it.

(more…)

Like many others, I hate assholes. I’m an enforcer, or ‘punisher’ personality, as they say, so I’ve come to terms with my own driving inclination, and at times, need, to take vigilante action against those I’ve perceived ‘doing wrong’ according to my own subjective morality. (That’s a crucial element, incidentally.) Of course, this was more of an issue in my adolescence. Eventually, I grew up; in doing so, I learned that there’s a time and place for everything, and as much as I’d love to don skin-tight latex and set about punishing all of those men in the world that deserve it ( … hey, wait a minute … ) I have to accept that this is neither sane nor very feasible. (Though, what woman doesn’t occasionally fantasise about being a dominatrix superhero? I mean, I know I’m not alone in this.) All jesting aside, there are those less evolved and immature enforcer types who’ve not yet gotten the memo. Recently, I had the (mis)fortune of briefly working with of them.

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

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

So, I kept that in mind and proceeded with caution. (more…)