thinking [ m ] thursday

I want the pain that comes after the no, after the stop, after the protests.
I want the pain that transcends the physical and becomes this far away thing that feels better and better the more savage it becomes.
I want the pain that leaves reminders – stripes, bruises, scratches.
I want the pain that takes me out of my head.
I want the kind of pain that feeds my love and recharges my soul.

The thing is, though, when I invite pain in I do so reluctantly, sparingly, greedily.
It scares me.
More accurately, I scare me.
After all this time, all these years, all my life, I should have stomped the hangups.
I should be able to embrace every last thing and stand tall and proud in my desires.
Instead, I am scared.
I worry that something I like, became something I want, became something I need.
Like an addict, will I always want more, one step further, a little harder, a little longer, a little more?
Will it ever be enough?
Will I ever be enough?
And so it is that I try to shut it down before I cross the line. As much as I desire the line to be erased, I fight hard as hell to stop it before we get there.
I want to give over to Sir and what I am too insecure to give, I want Him to take.
And in the taking, I want His soul recharged.
I want my tears to free Him as they free me.

I worry about Him, too.
Sometimes I think Sir thinks I am a delicate creature.
Or that He is too kind.
I worry that His confidence in me is less than stellar.
Maybe He thinks I won’t safeword.
Maybe He thinks I won’t know the subtle change between hurt and harm.
Maybe He worries about His own hangups and projects them onto me.

I can hear it know, the chorus chanting “communication is the answer”.
I know that.
We communicate.
We communicate to no end.
We talk, we work, we adjust.
It has been a rough few years.
Family things, work things, setback upon setback.
Some things remain constant.
Love. Marriage. Trust. D/s.
But the play part of D/s has changed and shifted – some lovely changes and some that I deeply grieve..
It is life. Nothing is static. Everything constantly changes.

I am ready for more.
I am ready to get this dialed in.
I am ready to sink back into what I am.
I am ready to drown in Him.
I am ready to let it all go, again.
I am ready to hurt.


Number nine, number nine.

You two! Over there in the corner! Taunting me, reminding me what I’m not getting.


You guys! Wound up in the drawer! Teasing me, laughing at what I can’t have.


You there! Online, the hundreds of you! Driving me crazy, making me cry over what He doesn’t want.


You words! Silent, hanging ideas! Mocking me, poking fun at the things He won’t give.


The rest of you! In the closet! Yeah, I’ve seen you, you’ve made appearances, but you don’t stick around.


I miss you all. Come back or go away. Stop tormenting me with your mere presence. Please.

Which leads me to (naturally! ha!)…

Tomorrow is nine weeks.
Nine weeks I’ve had these boobs.
Nine weeks I’ve had issues.
Nine weeks of no real exercise.
Nine weeks of pain.
Nine weeks of sad.
Nine weeks of feeling not good enough.
Nine weeks of waiting.
Nine weeks of slow down.
Nine weeks of wondering.
Nine weeks of worry.
Nine weeks of stupid feelings.
Nine weeks of extreme neediness.
Nine weeks of constant reassurance.
Nine weeks of  missing things.
Nine weeks of desperate.
Nine weeks of not normal.
Nine weeks of trying to explain.
Nine weeks of not getting it.
Nine weeks of ugly.
Nine weeks of attitude.
Nine weeks of darkness.
Nine weeks of woe is me.
Nine weeks of fuck it all.
Nine weeks of begging to be numb.
Nine weeks of talking.
Nine weeks I wasn’t at all prepared for.

I’m ready. I’m ready for it all. I need it.
I am scared I’ve ruined it. I’m scared the time has passed.

Don’t fret…once they stop hurting, I think I’ll like the boobs. I just hope the price isn’t all of everything.