Of Mice and Monsters III

 

 

 

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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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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?

 

 

 

 

 

Compass Rose

It’s still the same I suppose. Every spring as Easter approaches. I drive past the various Churches, with their steeples acting like beacons, sending their Celestial signal up towards the heavens. I pass there aching to go inside.

The ache rises in my chest as I pass, and then my heart sinks as I sit glued in my seat. My blood runs cold as I nervously think that ‘maybe I am unforgivable’.  How dirty I feel. Less than. Not quite good enough to stand next to any of the people donning their Sunday best.

I ache for closeness with Him like I once had. The only One who ever deserved my whole heart, who ever deserved my obedience and love.   He was the only One who would never betray me.

I can’t remember when I had stopped talking to Him.   Some call it praying.  But it was more than that to me.  It wasn’t rattling off a bunch of rote prayers, though that was how I had begun.  We were close back then.  It was like a friend that was sitting at the foot of my bed, just as real as you are reading this now.  I’d talk about everything.  Then listen.   Oh yes, He would answer.   He spoke through my intuition, I believe.  Sometimes I would ask for a sign.  Sometimes He would give me one:  a gentle cool breeze on a hot night or a small butterfly dancing at my window just as I would ask.

I had stopped going to church.  No one particular reason really and not in anger either.  Then a few years later I had stopped praying.   Other things had seemed to take precedence.  It was like one day He was just gone.  You see, it wasn’t an event, rather it was more of a process. Like most good things in life that slip away.

When I tried praying again?  it felt empty and perfunctory like I was running through mathematical computations.  Something was severed.   And I knew it hadn’t been severed by Him.   That pain of knowing what I lost has been unbearable.  The emptiness, nothing thus far can fill.

A thousand miles I have strayed off that chosen path on which I should have tread, maybe more.  It is easy to get lost out there in the darkness. Still easier to stay lost.

I don’t know how I will get back to Him.   I’m so far off course and a compass rose made only of hope in my grip.   I hope that He finds it in His heart, to forgive me.   Hope that this prodigal daughter can come home.   Hope that lost Faith will be found.

 

 

About You

I left out the “”About You” section about me here blank.  It feels too much like a personal ad, and that triggers me too much.

The last time I put a personal ad out online it was a fucking disaster.  I ended up with a reply from one man who referred to me in the third person.  “I need me a female between the age of 19 and 25 and require it to be 5′ 5″ and 120 pounds.”

Oh I’m sorry.  Did you just say “it” you sick son-of-fa-bitch?  Because I’m going to wager that the last time you saw a ‘female’ was the storm of 78′. Yeah remember? as you dragged her dead corpse behind your oversized-duel exhaust jacked-up truck with that long metal chain after you chloroformed her and clunked her about her head with a crow bar? back to your Branch Davidian Style compound for a night of good ol  Square dancing and necrophilia fun.

Mmmmmm, yeah….does that ring a bell now?

Men who refer to women as “it” and “female” as if they are specimens scare me.  There is a level of objectification that is just downright frightening.  Almost as scary was the reply I got from a man living in his mom’s basement.  No, he wasn’t down on his luck, he had never left…..like ever.  Very Norman Bates-esque.  Any man who feels comfortable banging his date while his mom listens to her squeal like a pig…..well, the cogs just aren’t firing right upstairs.   Just sayin.   A little too close to home I’m thinkin, in a cousins with dozens sort of way.  (shivers).

I always thought the perfect man was Fred Rogers.  He was my hero.  You know Mr. Rogers Neighborhood?  I go to an Al-anon meeting with a woman who knew him and she said he was just as nice in person as he was on the show.

I cried for a long time when he died.

*Raises glass to Mr.Rogers*

“Normal” is a setting on a washing machine.

I don’t know exactly what normal is supposed to be.  But I know I’m not it.

Normal isn’t sitting at Thanksgiving dinner while everyone else is yapping about how they upgraded their living room with the latest and trendiest color themes, while you are recalling yourself being tied and blindfolded to a tree in the woods while your Daddy Dominant whips you with his flogger and cane til your tits have welts wearing nothing but a pair of stiletto heels.

“Ummm yes, pass the green beans Uncle Bill.”

Normal isn’t sitting in your apartment knowing your “Daddy” is probably out with some new submissive in a motel somewhere, because he hasn’t answered his phone in several hours and his AA meeting only lasts one hour.  And normal sure isn’t spending half the night casing the local motels when you drove by the AA clubhouse and proved your theory was correct, your sponsor and friends says he never showed.

Yes Mom, I’d like some gravy on the turkey.”

Normal sure isn’t dumping said boyfriend after three years because that’s what normal people do, but you’re not normal, you’re a love addict, and he’s your “fix”. Every time you try to leave, it feels like your dying inside.  So you’d rather have lit cigarettes put out on your flesh than feel that pain…..and you’ve done that.  You’d rather drink until cognition ceases to function, and you’ve done that too….. than feel that pain.  You’d rather have Daddy take his cane to your flesh until you bleed, and not safeword out, to prove you’re not a wimp, than to risk him leaving.  You don’t want to risk him finding some new younger, version of you with a more pert ass and a new boob job; so you tolerate his sadism because you know that’s one thing “they” can’t do.  They, don’t have your history, and won’t be able to tolerate or allow him to do any of the things you can physically withstand because he is a sexual sadist.  Normal.  Yes, this is normal. THIS! staying in this feels safer to you, than to feel the pain of him leaving you behind.

“Yes Grandma, I think I will pass on the pecan pie, I’m trying to watch my waistline.”

“Normal, is a setting on a washing machine” someone once told me, “and that’s about it.”  They went on, “there is no such thing as normal.”  I took some comfort in that, I really did.  But deep down, I knew that I wanted to be.  Somewhere deep inside me, the healthy seedling in me was germinating.  I started setting limits with him.  Taking small steps, because the truth was, I am not a masochist.  I hate pain.  I only endured it so he wouldn’t throw me away.  He always promised me that if I did these “things”, I would be his good girl.

The way it rolled off his tongue….it was as if the promise of coming home has been re-awakened right then.

Maybe this Thanksgiving, I’m a tiny bit closer to normal than last year~

In plain sight

I stand there before You,
aching for Your
love.

Your affection.

Your approval.

i can’t believe after all this time,
You’ve
never seen me.

in my pig tails and patent leather
shoes,
standing in the doorway
wistful and willing.

but You cannot detect me.

for i am hiding behind the wallpaper
where all
little girls hide…
the ones who survived.

layers upon layers cover me
redecorated as
years pass,
yet i remain forever unchanged.

frozen in time
beneath this woman
veneer.
waiting and hoping
You will take me home…

Back pocket girl

When I was only eight years old I remember walking around the neighborhood
just before dark. I would peer into the homes just around suppertime. I could
smell wonderful things cooking as they wafted through the air. I would
occasionally stop and see a family sitting down to eat through their front
window. I’d stop and stand there, eyes transfixed. “Should this be what a family is like?” I
thought. They seemed so peaceful, happy even, smiling as they ate together.
There was no belt on their kitchen table. They’re allowed to talk during dinner.

To be loved, I wanted that so badly……. that it actually ached inside my little chest.

I knew I wasn’t cute enough, smart enough, or good enough. I held fast to the idea that one of my teachers might “see” how badly I wanted rescuing. If I just was nice enough, they might take me home in their back pocket and give me a new life. But…. that never did happen.

No one ever knew the shit that went on in my house behind the picket white fence.

Months turned to years and my fantasy of finding a “home”,  someone to adopt
me and rescue me from the hellish existence took on new form. As I entered
womanhood, I stumbled rather curiously into my own untapped potential of
sexuality.

However sex to me was a perversion, a remnant of the past, that I wanted
to stay buried. Wreckage of painful childhood memories, its unspeakable trauma and
hidden scars, left sexuality for me inexplicably fused with terror.

Men looked at me now, all fully developed and seemingly wanted me or so I
initially thought. The opportunity for love came rushing to the forefront again. But I, I was a quick study, I inherently knew, they didn’t
want me, they wanted what was between my legs. And so began a deep-seated anger. I
resented men. For I wanted their love, their affection and they…….they only wanted sex.

Sex; used to hurt me as a child.
Used as a game, a weapon, to exploit me, humiliate me,  abuse me.

How on earth would I ever find a home now? How on earth since I wasn’t
a “cute” little girl anymore I pondered, if I would only be seen as a sexual thing, was anyone
ever going to love me.

I hated my body, it had betrayed me.

I hated myself for being such an unlovable damaged piece of shit.

My dream of finding love seemed as elusive as it ever had before, and fading
fast….