Of Mice and Monsters III

 

 

 

375697_447625055259147_572186625_n1

Of course I knew he might be into S&M when he asked me at the beginning of our relationship to enter into a BDSM contract.   I was walking in with my eyes wide open.   He said that the use of kink would build trust and bring us closer.   Closer than vanilla couples.    That, appealed to me after having been wounded by a would-be good guy in a “normal” long-term relationship.  He said it may involve some light bondage and pain but nothing that I wasn’t comfortable with.   That we would never do anything that I wasn’t comfortable with.  Which all felt like I was going to be in control of what going on.

The oldest trick in the book:  The illusion of control.

I was green at that time and knew nothing of this subculture.   I didn’t know jargon like: SSC (Safe, Sane, and Consensual) and RACK (Risk Aware Consensual Kink).  He was certainly not going to tell me either.   That was the point, to leave me in the dark and to leave him with all the knowledge and power.

In due course I did learn that he like to inflict pain.  He like to spank using his hand.  He like to use a paddle, crop, flogger, whip, cane, nipple clamps, hot wax, Ben Wa balls, anal plugs, ropes, blindfolds, handcuffs, ball gags, whatever the hell he wanted.  Bloody yes he had all the tools a good dominant doing BDSM would have in his bag-o-tricks.

He asked me one night to go pick out some porn to watch for the evening.  This was awkward for me because at this point in my life, I had only seen maybe a few porn movies period.  He had an extensive porn library.  There was very little of what you could consider soft-porn. You know, mom getting pile-driven, doggy style in the bedroom.  I mean there was one like that and maybe two MILF type genre CD’s.  But the vast majority were really fucked up stuff.    Titles like: Granny’s Gone Wild: depicting elderly women getting poked, Transsexual 3-way Fun, Gangbangs 3,  Incest Fantasies, Down on the Farm,  Raw Pussy Hardcore Beatdown, Teens Bound 2 Cum,  Forced Fucking,  Hardcore Bitches-n-Pets.   I was in absolute shock but tried to look outwardly like I was okay with this.  I mean, I was such a people pleaser at this point in my life, God forbid, I might offend him by looking like the wind just got knocked out of me.

After viewing the titles, I deferred to him to pick one out and he picked one of the more violent films.  We sat naked in bed and began to watch.    The movie began with the young girl literally being first verbally degraded by two men.   I cringed.   Then it escalated with her being slapped across her face numerous times.  He sat motionless.   Then they began beating her down.   Kicking her a few times while she begged for them to stop.  More intense slapping, choking her, all the while degrading her verbally.  I watched in horror, not just at the film but more so at him.  For as he watched, he quickly got an erection with each scream she made, each plead, as the violence being inflicted upon her increased, the harder he got.   Conversely, I was so calcified from watching as if reflexively, I did put my bathrobe on.

I realised at that moment, I was sitting in bed with a sexual sadist.

And yet, my emotional connection to him wouldn’t allow me believe that.  I wanted to believe that this was just some sort of small piece of him.  That this couldn’t possibly real. Because he had the capability of being sweet.  Gentle.  Caring.  Yet this, what I was taking in right here, right now was incompatible with that sweet man.   This was a dichotomy.   One that I could not explain.  So I stuffed it away down into the recesses of myself where I could not even hear my own thoughts.

However, somewhere in me, deep down, I knew that the dream I had with this man of marriage, a home, raising kids, and a dog named Scruffy was all about to go right out the proverbial window.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Confessions of a Germaphobe

 

germs-1

I slide in on the heels of a middle-aged woman, so the door swings open and I never touch it.

I reach for the automatic paper towel dispenser, pull off a piece and head to the bathroom stall.   Naturally, my hand does not want to touch any part of the handle of the stall while opening it or closing it.   So I use the paper towel as a barrier between the door and my hand as I open the bathroom stall handle.

Next I begin prepping for the “hover”.  Women develop great muscle tone in their legs by hovering over the toilet seat.   Because I have germaphobia, I can’t use the outer layer of toilet paper provided,  because God knows what might linger on that puppy.  Blowback, splatter, or spray.  Things that can’t be seen with the naked eye.   What if the person before me had explosive diarrhea?  dear God….microscopic fecal matter or worse blood borne pathogens lingering.  My thoughts race a thousand miles an hour and my heart beats a thousand beats per second.   I want OUT of this horrid public bathroom that smells like a raw sewage backup with febreeze misting in through the air.

I have to unravel several sheets of said toilet paper round and round many times and then discard that before I can even think of it, as “safe” to use.  Then I’m clear to for take off, ready to void.

Oh and that’s the other thing, pooping? Ummm no. I would rather prairie dog it til’ I get home before I’d use a public rest room.  That’s pretty much a cardinal rule of “no can do” with my OCD/ germaphobia variant.

Once I’m through, and am all buttoned up, I grab another piece of toilet paper to grab the door handle with and let myself out of the stall.  Before I exit , I throw that into the toilet and turn around quick-like and kick the flusher handle down with the bottom of my shoe.

I return back to the automatic paper towel dispenser to get a piece, with which to turn on the water faucet at the sink and also use it to pull down the soap dispenser.  I then wash my hands.   I return back to the paper towel dispenser to get more paper so I that I can dry my hands and grab one extra square to let myself out of the bathroom.

It is a well-choreographed dance like movement in an operating theatre.   A waltz I know well after being diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) in my late teens.  I have it down to a science now and can do it so quickly I do not think about the routine.  I get in, and get out in nearly the same amount of time that the next person does.

Once back in college, I felt a sense of shame about having this lengthy public bathroom regimen, knowing (at least intellectually) it was irrationally based behavior.   Come on, if someone was watching, it looks bat-shit crazy.

Then one day I observed one of my professors who held a PhD, using the same bathroom, who had just had a bowel movement and left without washing her hands.

I no longer felt ashamed after she walked out.   I believe I may have washed my hands an extra time, just because.

Kool-Aid Jones: from Pulpit to Pinterest

You better believe that if renowned narcissist Jim Jones were alive and well today, he’d be reaching far more numbers of vulnerable and impressionable minds by writing a blog from an upscale flat in London than he ever did in the jungles of Guyana.  He’d still have his loyal following of devotee’s with their troubled pasts of trauma, broken childhoods, broken marriages, and broken dreams.  He would naturally espouse to have vast knowledge on how to remedy all that ails them.  He would peddle his special brand of elixir or “how-to” and offer to turn their lives from misery to sanctity and freedom.  All that he would ask is that they just put their faith and trust in him, their fearless and self-ascribed leader .

Like any good narcissist, he seeks unlimited success/power/love, admiration.  He has a grandiose self-worth and believes himself superior to others.  He has a lack of empathy well-hidden behind a seamless veneer of charm and charisma.  Has a sense of entitlement and possesses interpersonal exploitative behaviors.

In today’s day and age vampires have adapted.  They have no need to fear the daylight, for there are dark sunglasses and sunscreen.   So too, the modern-day Jones would dispense his Kool-Aid differently than his predecessor.   The pen has always been mightier than the sword, or in this case, the cyanide.   Our modern-day Jones would trade preaching for blogging.  He would use volumes of facts about narcissism offering to help others’ gain understanding.    Jones may perhaps don the Scarlet Letter and admit publicly to being a narcissist.  This would do two things:  through his blog he would both normalize and desensitize the topic of malignant narcissism as well as foster a cheerleading team for himself.  He could ensnare victims by creating an online support group via the comment section of his blog and most of them would naïvely walk into it and never seeing it for its dark potential.   His harem, a coterie of would be stand-ins vying for place as his next primary source should that crack at bat ever happen.   The real coterie’s purpose to him? anything he wants.  Since many subscribers have their profile linked to their social media, at his disposal are their emails, photos, and sometimes phone numbers.   He would most likely spend hours writing, cultivating, and pruning his blog as it would be no doubt a great source of ready-to-eat supply.     Simply put, narc heaven.

By the time our Kool-Aid Jones blog gets into the minds of subscribers, his words have already become like a slow-acting poison.  Eating away at them long-after he is gone.

Wait, he seems so benign our Kool-Aid Jones, is there really a need to run?