Slave Humor

I got a vast and deep love of music from my family.  My mother had speakers that were taller than me and would literally shake the walls.  We couldn’t have given a flying fuck what was happening anywhere but in our little play bubble.  We performed for my mother’s attention.  In my case, it meant i had to dance.

To this day, if money never became an object, i’d build a soundproof room.  Perfect for play.  Perfect spot to climb into and blast music as loud as i want without bothering anyone else.

My last room ended up being directly next to my mother’s karaoke room.  And it went on all night long, shaking, laughing, drinking, crying.  she’d come into my room at various drunken intervals.  To tell me she was in love with me, and cry, and tell me she died if i left her.  Then she’d come back, more drunk, to tell me how repulsive it was that i let butch women fuck me.

The music though, was pretty fantastic most of the time.

There is a lot of music i can’t listen to anymore.

i can play Nina Simone and it doesn’t hurt so much that it brings up the past.  I’m listening to her right now.  “Do What You Gotta Do,” is on.

The last track i bought was a new artist, Natalie Taylor.  Surprise, surprise.  The first three tracks were “Control” (What would happen if you let go of control?) followed by “Won’t Stay” and “Run Away.”

When i discovered that, i thought it was incredibly funny.  It made me think of the newspapers the Catholic Church has, where they tell you to not see movies like “Stigmata.”  When I saw, “Sister Mary Explains it All,” I had nightmares.


If slaves had one of those newspapers, i am betting the Natalie Taylor Album would be out.  Followed by Nina Simone’s wondering how it feels to be free.  Heh.  Quite possibly, “Don’t Let me be Misunderstood” would make the list.

When i got frustrated with the Navy Seal man being a prick, i’d go jump up and down on his bed while blasting, “Master of the House.”  Because i was a very charming princess.  Heh.


Shame spiral

The shame spiral has only one direction:


It’s a mystery fun house of filth, fucked up memories, the family whore at five, the child no one-and i mean no one-wanted other than him.

My brother was wanted, and i showed him literal unconditional love, and it wasn’t enough.  i followed a facebook link to “The Human Experience” on youtube and a man was crying when it explained that unconditional love saved him.  And i thought, “well, yes, dammit, that’s how it was supposed to work.”

My inner cynic chimes: “Love conquers all?”

You know what i believe in?

That a person will move heaven and earth to get what they need, what they lust after, what is longed for.  And that you better hope you keep those things meshed over time, or that what is driving you on is such a base need that it’s always present, like the need to breathe.

i’ve explained, expressed, waited, wanted, longed, listened, encouraged, offered.  i’ve wrote, texted, begged, avoided, set aside, look nice, smell nice, eager.  Nothing changes.

The thing that has had to change was me.  Adjusting expectations is just being realistic.  Mine have been dialed down, and down, and down, and now off.  i’ve suffered.  That is not dramatic.  It’s suffering to feel an animal starvation.  To be pushed aside.  Ignored. Treated with indifference.

You know what the opposite of love is?


i turned it inward.  Gained weight.  Confusion. Still, i’m not invisible to other men.  Not at all.

And now i have no desire for her to touch me, sexually or s/m.  It’s strange, alien.

We did a needle demo Tuesday, and when blood trickled down my back, she wiped it up with her finger.  Later, i asked a friend in the front row if Sir Raven licked it.  She laughed.  “No, but she thought about it.”  In true Sir Raven form, we never practiced and have only done needles together once in four years.  Not only that, but i never did needles with anyone else, deliberately saving something so intimate for being owned.  i have a list, and thats the only thing she has taken any advantage of on my “saved” list.  But once.  She worries about the fibro.

Anyhow, she wrote up notes, and left them at work.  And she broke her glasses the day before, turning the whole experiment into a trust exercise since i knew damn well she couldn’t see me.  So, in case we are counting, that’s one blind Master and one blind slave.  Doing a demo.  On needles.

Fortunately, she listened when i gently suggested she do the health lecture but skip the gloves.  We didn’t need to add sensory deprivation to the list of things we were swimming upstream against.

Thankfully, we are never ever late, and had plenty of time to set up and go to the bathroom.  i partially opened the needles and made sure she had water and then sat where she told me to.  As it turns out, everyone there was super new, and i was the first demo some had seen.  i wish i had been a stunning model for them, but i’m just me, plain.

At the end, Sir Raven kissed me, deeply and with passion.  She hasn’t kissed me like that in such a long, long time.  Combined with the slow mental burn of the needles, i nearly had a tear slip down my cheek.

i can’t even say why.  i don’t know.

i’m just trying to keep busy, blandly watching, and holding down the fort.

My heart literally hurts.  It has for weeks.  I’m watching myself come unraveled, slowly, painfully slowly.

There is no time for this.  Sir Raven is up for another promotion, a lot of changes coming, and she needs to focus on moving through that.  i understand that and so i hold down the fort.  Cook. Clean. Organize. Wash. Wait.

i didn’t mean to start a war

At the moment, i’m obsessed with the song, “wrecking ball.”

i remember writing in here once that i was hanging by a thread, desperate for release, and she said it made her think of me as a science experiment.  How much longer can you hold on?  One week? Two?

i have turned myself inside out, in ways i never imagined.

i’ve been asked a number of times if i’m afraid of losing myself.  i have two answers.  The first answer is that i’ve done a lot more finding myself than losing.  i don’t elaborate to say that it’s when i’m exhausted and keep going, when there is just the expectation that i can hold everything up, keep everything going- and i do it.  It’s there in the late night exhaustion, wondering what else i can be doing.  Or doing better.  It’s there when i’ve been hanging by a thread, long months of need built up, moments of simmering rage under the pleasant demeanor.  Inside of the letting go, being mindful, being soft-i am strong in a way that feels honest to me.  And that?  That kind of power is real.  It’s grace under tremendous pressure.  It’s mission accomplished satisfaction.  The degree of self-control a slave needs is so consuming at times that it’s no surprise, really, that so many of us are perfectionist driven control freaks.

Someone less driven would let go of the thread.

My other answer is that by the time you are sure you are experiencing a division inside yourself, something familiar in a not good way, something that tells you for sure a core value or idea is being hammered at, letting go of the outcome helps me.  To let go i have to be content either way, and that means a detached observation is going on, full buggy tilt.  My inner observer has donned a lab coat and checked off little boxes all over the damn place, determined the DSM Code, and damn near billed myself.  Heh.

Seriously though, the losing yourself isn’t a thing that happens in one second.  You just look around one day and realize your identity is tied directly to something that is making you sink under salt water, burning lungs, rage.  And you find that you are rather curious too, about how long you can hold on, now that the BDSM part of our lives means nothing to me.

Mentally hold on, under water.

It’s strange.  i just don’t want to be touched. period.  Doesn’t matter any more.

i think of the Yellow Wallpaper and laugh.  i remind myself to try and paint, but the last time i tried that while i was letting go, i painted and cried for three days.  Right now, that seems like a lot of energy to spare.

i research, cook, clean, do laundry, buy food.  i also spend time staring at nothing.  Praying. Trying to see beyond the mists.

Sociopath Hunt

So, my grand coming out for “I come from a family of sociopaths, and here is some great stuff that came out of that…” paper for Ethics class earned a perfect score.  Imagine that.

All of my friends, 98% of whom are sociopaths, immediately told me to “make something up” and turn it in.  i remember having to do that in reply to writing prompts, trying to imagine what a “terrible, no good, very bad, horrible day” would look like in a normal house.  And i had nothing.  Sitcoms.  My brother watched the Simpsons constantly, which i had learned to tune out.  i watched the History Channel and documentaries.  Always reaching up.

i was pretty sure that writing about being woken up by someone furious that something wasn’t perfectly done by me and being called a “lazy bitch” and getting slapped around while cleaning up a mess that wasn’t there when i went to bed shouldn’t be written about.  We didn’t need to have another meeting.

One professor remarked i should avoid and refer all sociopaths.  i chuckled.  Only one person objects to the actual word applied to themselves, which is fine, but still diagnostically meets the criterion.  So, i should refer or avoid my tribe.  Great.

The reality is we are moths to flame.  Predator and prey, i come unwilling or sometimes half-willing, other times more than willing to fight back and will go for your throat.  i won’t hold your darkness against you.  i’m not afraid.  i can effortlessly separate a bad act from a bad person.  i can even understand things that sexual objectify me, and absolutely enjoy the game.  Particularly at times when hands are tied.  i enjoy the dance most of all when i know i’ll be in over my head.  It’s exhilarating rather than the lingering fear most people would have.  i was trained out of this early.

i don’t mind the walls that were eradicated.  i don’t mind the losses to my individual sense of self.  If i know the end goal, i’ll tell you how to get there fastest and can’t be bothered to try and evade it.  The few hard and fast rules i’ve found for every sociopath i’ve known is the need for honesty and loyalty.  There isn’t anything i could do that would be worse than outright lying about it, unless the reason is to protect.

Being raised by wolves has it’s advantages, and prevailing cool logical over emotional reactions has its strong advantages.

I’m just no match.  You’d think i’d be the best person to see whats coming.  Nope.  Never. Not when it only effects me.

i feel a desperate, wild, clawing at the wall kind of need to understand.

What is the attraction to me?  Why? These things? There is really not one damn thing special about me.  Really.

Fake it til you make it

So, how long can you fake it til you make it before you become a fake?

How long can you survive on a promise?  What if it’s a promise you made yourself?

i know damn well that doing anything besides putting one foot in front of the other, turning my face into a smile, cleaning, cooking, remembering her wine, trying to appear fine until i am, well…(deep breath in, let it out)

Okay, i can do this.  Even if i have to talk myself into it a bit.  Even if i have to cut off parts of myself.  Even if i’m not feeling like enough.  Even if i have to slice and dissect and fix me.

i know if i don’t keep trying to put one foot in front of the other, i won’t be able to meet my own eyes in the mirror. Though, Truth be told, i’ve stopped looking.

My sense of loyalty is in overdrive, mainly because i’m a beta wolf, and we will viciously defend and protect and care for our Alpha mate.  Waiting.  Having faith.

Another alpha, including the alpha female, will vie for position in the hierarchy.

The Marine told me once, that when a Beta female wolf dies, the entire pack mourns the loss.  i had laughed at the idea.  There are a lot of things far more valuable to me than my own life.  Plus, i wrote my first suicide note at ten, and the guidance counselor remarked that she couldn’t tell if i was a prodigy or-

and my mother inserted-idiot savant-and everyone around the room agreed.  There had been a whole meeting about my note.  Some of the idiots said I read too much, and i thought that was one of the stupidest ideas ever.  I was in adult books, memoirs, and non fiction, mostly.

All of that glorious and untapped potential.  Discarded as unimportant.

i’ve got a lot of experience in “fake it til you make it.”

i’ve got a lot of experience in teaching other people, mostly special education kids, how to care about getting a routine right.  Life has a shit ton of routine.  Sadly.  Sometimes, it was drilling it over and over again.  Sometimes, after months of doing single digit math, your kiddo comes in one day and it’s just gone for him.  You go home and cry.  And then brightly start over the next day with counting.  You praise.  You guide. You are pulling through the thick mud some days, exhausted, soaked to the bone.  You just outlast them every time.  You do exactly what you said and find out what they respond to.  The same things i expect from a Master, knowing how exhausting it can be, but also the sweetness of success.  Few things in life feel that good.

Most people respond better to positive things, incentives, token economy.  A few of us….and anecdotal evidence over the years aligns…made me aware that it seems like those of us who were failure to thrive seem to understand nothing except negative reinforcement because its so easy for us to shut down.

So, half the stuff inside of me says to shut down inside.

i don’t even know that i really care anymore.

Therapy isn’t magic.  It can’t force you to care.  To be totally frank, i don’t know what the hell i’d do if a client came to me and told me about that teeny girl abused like i wrote about the other day but felt nothing for her.  What i feel is she should have done better and it wouldn’t have happened.  Or at least figured out how to hold my head up anyhow.

There is just no feeling there.  The only child i could turn my back on was myself.  Shut down.  

The other part of me thinks about a documentary i watched on dolphins, which explained that they do not really have a separate sense of self but understand themselves through a connection to their group.  They have an advanced part of their brain, associated with the idea of a collective consciousnesses.  When they were talking about dolphins. they sounded in rapture with the idea.

But a girl who that fully resonated for is to be fixed?  No thank you.

The scientists and people who had relationships with dolphins all said that it would be painful for them to be separate.  They shut down, perform, and occasionally act out.

Sounds like how i feel at times.

Friends help you get through it

Dearest Friends,

The emails, texts, calls, fb shout-outs, and hugs over the phone have been felt.  Deeply appreciated.

i have been in the midst of some Major Life Shit going on and been trying to put out the fires.

Meanwhile, at home, everything i know how to do is not enough.  i’m sick again, this time a mundane bladder infection.  i keep thinking how i just can’t handle seeing one more doctor, for any fucking thing, one more time.  i’m so tired.  i’ve tried to force my body to fight it but after five days of horrendous cramps, i’m ready for the antibiotic.

This made have helped lead up to some rather blunt conversations but hard conversations need to be had.

i’m sick of the noise in my head.

On the plus side, it was lovely having Sir Raven home.  i took some long and delicious naps, because there isn’t a part of me listening out for her or her text or call.  You know?  Well, anyhow, that was really nice.  She cooked dinner and cleaned up a few times, which was unexpected but also appreciated.  Not to mention, the lighting in this apartment is bare bulb, which causes a blind girl conundrum-force everyone to live in the dark or deal with painful glare and additional confusion because you look like taking abstract art.  i have long thought that we needed some kind of solution, be it something that diffuses the overhead light or the floor lamps.

The best part is we understood each other right away when she asked if i was going and i asked if i could stay home and clean while she was gone.  She doesn’t like to watch me clean so if she goes to the bedroom, i’m good.  i just sort of try and play musical rooms with her.  It’s far easier to do it methodically, wiping walls down and then doing all floors.  i can’t do it that way when she is home though it’s what she wants when she isn’t here.  Look.  Don’t ask me.  i have absolutely no idea what that is about.  Maybe it’s yet another hidden social class thing?  Like its rude to watch the maid on her hands and knees?  Puh-lease.  i’ve done it with men watching in five star hotels.  i’ve had men call me back, with another “mess” and then hand me fifty bucks.  That money was nothing in their world.  It was food for my family in mine.

i digress.

So she surprised me with two floor lamps and it’s so much nicer.  It was so thoughtful.  i always want to sit in the kitchen and take pictures of her but she always shoos me away.  Our kitchen is just too small for that.  Heh.  A table fits in ours, so by some standards we have a huge kitchen.  i’ve seen a few apartments with kitchens that roughly resemble airplane prep areas.

Sir Raven and i have We had some heart-felt talks.  ❤

i’m trying to stay calm and focus on my health right now.  Somehow.

Sir Raven wanted a no swearing rule, which made that “fuck, fuck, fuck, don’t say fuck” skit go off in my head.  She kept saying, “language” and i evidently was doing it anyhow.  And then i was singing “fuck, fuck, fuck, don’t say fuck,” somehow in my outside voice.

i seriously wasn’t aware of that at the moment, for one thing.  But then again i’m having some anger management issues inside myself.  Just trying to seem calm and shit while you are absolutely not is taxing.

i need a vacation.

For anyone tallying up the swear words in this post, don’t bother, the blog doesn’t count.

Going to the place that’s the best…

Unlike what most people imagine, my experience with the Biker gang wasn’t fundamentally different from my gender rigid role childhood.  While i most fervently hope that there is one single Club House in the Sky, where all of our fallen brothers and sisters went before us and are waiting for another reason to have a cook-out.  i hope heaven has miles of clean ocean and rows of Harley’s.

My biological father is a biker.  The very best memory i have of him is wrapping my arms around him and sitting so close on the bike.  i didn’t have to let go.  i couldn’t stop smiling and swallowed a bug.  He called me Angel.  He smelled like leather, sweat, and a bit sweet from his pipe.  i wanted that bike ride to never end.

My mother said the only time she was happy during her pregnancy was on the back of his bike.

She also told me she’d get angry and literally kick his bike over.  It wasn’t until i was becoming Property that i understood what a truly heinous act this would be.  Any woman should expect to be beat bad enough to be praying to die.  It amazed me he hadn’t killed her.

So, biker is in my blood.

The first-and last-man i was with Owned me.  When i say, “Owned,” i mean that.  He moved me out to five acres of land, in a shack, two hours from anyone i knew.  The closest neighbors were close to a mile away.  i was unable to make phone calls, since everyone was long distance.  There was only one person outside of Wayne and the kids that knew where i was.  By design.  He taught me that men were very elegant creatures, and if you give him a chef in the kitchen, a lady in the parlor, and a whore in the bedroom=happy man.  So, the first order of the day, was for me to learn to never resist him in any manner, passive or not.

i also had to have a basic understanding of the hierarchy and what role women played in that.  i found it pretty interesting that a lot of the women would outright mouth off as they fetched the beer.  The men would all guffaw at her in unison, all except the FNG, or, officially “the prospect.”  Even the mama’s and whores could laugh at anything funny.  The FNGs knew better than to stand out.  Women had only one way to rise up the rank: be chosen by a man of position.

Back in the day, my Owner Wayne was Secretary.  It was an important position, but in his main group, the hierarchy had remained intact despite any current official ties to the Outlaws .  He informed people of my status by introducing me as “his ol lady.”  Most of the men were decades long friends now, in their forties and fifties, laughing about all of the shit they were still doing and getting away with it.  Unlike Hollywood portrayal, Bikers are no more one dimensional than any other human being.

Waterbed was the biggest, burliest, strongest man i had ever seen.  His body was built for sword fighting.  He had piercing blue eyes and a full red beard.  The poor got his knick name from his ol lady leaving him and taking literally everything in the house except for the waterbed.

i kept wanting to call him washing machine.  Heh.  He absolutely melted around his daughter, who was around five and in her bossy stage of development.  So guess who was wearing the princess hat?

My Owner was a poet and interpreter for the deaf.  Another man was a lawyer.  Several owned Construction Companies or did skilled labor.  A few were dirt poor, like we were, living in dilapidated houses.  All of them had various degrees of trauma, most having seen Active Duty or hadn’t been called up yet and had close friends die.  i think a lot of the guys would have lost what was left of themselves without their brothers and sisters in leather.  i hope they are all going to the place that’s the best.  i’m sure they are.

The women were all allowed certain access to sex.  It’s the only time i’ve ever known a group of women who universally got nailed daily or more often.  i can literally suck a man off in my sleep, wake up, fix coffee, get cleaned up, and am ready.  It was simple without a choice.  It was also a huge stress buster.  Between that and the pot, i was much better.

And then he went from belt beating me to punching me.  He punched me while i miscarried his child.  We dissolved everything.

Two years later, i showed up unannounced at 1am.  It was raining lightly and the earth smelled happy.  He let me in and i reflexively went to the frig for a beer, opened it, served it.  Finally, he broke the silence.  “Hello Babe, it’s good to see you.”

i told him i was in the middle of packing my mother’s house of shit by myself.  That i hadn’t slept in days and hadn’t packed anything up yet of my own.

The glint in his eyes told me he knew why.

i swallowed my pride and i asked him if i could leave and go back home to Florida.

“I’ll have to think about that,” he replied, and steered me into his bed.  There was no way out of this thing i had to do.  Since i had to do it, i might as well try to stay in my body and give him pleasure.  When i woke we were intertwined,  pressed tight together, and i realized that his arms would never be home again.

i knew what his answer would be.  A part of me wanted to pull on my dress and boots and leave.  Instead, i cleaned up and used his toothbrush while i made coffee.  His eyes were grey now, sad.  “You were always a good girl,” he says.  I instantly thought of all of the foolish, young, headstrong, stubborn things i had done.  i had to smile.  He always wiped the slate clean after i paid, and i was willing to pay whatever it cost in welts and tears to get there.

Simply, i loved the man.

He Owned me until that morning, when he gave me permission to go.  Consistent to the end, he produced months of surveillance on me.  Photos.  Times i was driving (3am)!  Things no one else knew unless he had me watched.  It wasn’t the first time, thankfully, because let’s just say i didn’t react well.  By now, i knew to expect it.  As i walked out the door, i heard him ripping the back patch i wore.  i turned to face it.  We both were grief masks.  He kissed my forehead, led me back inside by the hand, and we shared a joint together.  He turned on some music and we laughed about how i researched using the last twenty years of “Easy Rider” for gaps in my understanding.  We laughed about the time we went to a national park to get high and go skinny dipping while trespassing.  We talked about him stumbling drunk and still able to fuck.  We laughed.  And when we parted, he said he see me at the great spirit in the sky.