Apr 062017
 

*Taken from notes I wrote on a phone, I am leaving this unedited. I believe this was when my ex husband and I were practicing rope with some of our closest friends, and he wanted to see if he could rig a predicament bondage with a suspension and Doxy wand, where I could put down my foot to take away some pain of the suspension but it would cost me. 

**I wrote this August 2015, half a year before we divorced. 

You’re really sexy babe he said as he tied my legs to the pole, knees bent on the floor, thighs parted.

It was a reassurance in the midst of my shyness, of my uncertainly in a room full of people watching, spread in such a manner in just my underwear, a thin sliver of pretended modesty. He whispered it before he bent me over, exposing me more, so vulnerable feeling except his words of praise, of proudness, of appreciation of the trust I placed in him, bent me over until my face hovered inches above the ground, the chest harness of rope wrapped tightly around my beating heart stopping my face from hiding, showing my body bent, never a flattering angle for a stomach and mine especially felt awkward hanging curled in such an angle. Yet his eyes never left my mother’s hips, my muscular thighs, my rear end invitingly titling up with such ease of access, the small of my back.

He saw beautiful and I felt the warm glow of approval.

Apr 032017
 

*For the month of April, I am going to purge my drafts of my off-and-on reconciliation attempts with my ex-husband last year. They are still painful, and will be incredibly rough drafts, as I am literally purging emotions and some bittersweet memories. I may also mix in some current stuff just to give myself a break, or to reflect where I am now.

** After we separated, I heard “he’s not that smart” repeatedly. From almost everyone. This was written three months after our separation.

Now, I did hear this a lot when when we were together, but I heard it constantly once we separated. Sometimes it was said as a comparison, for example, he wasn’t smart enough for you, or I don’t know how you tolerated someone so far below your own intelligence. Sometimes it was said as way of balancing out his better qualities to more neutral ground, for instance he was so nice but an idiot.

I am not discussing how he was an idiot for leaving me – though I heard that too. I am talking about his overall intelligence level.

What is it about talking about a person’s flaws and faults, or insulting them, after someone leaves them? To make them feel worthy of more? I felt worthy of him, and even at times didn’t feel that I deserved the happiness he gave me so would sometimes self sabotage the relationship. And by people critiquing him afterwards, they were still insulting my own intelligence by choosing him to begin with.

A far more productive comment I heard is that he would do (x, y, and z) which didn’t work with my personality, or which hurt me. Facts  and actions, not judgments or opinions on character defects.

And honestly, I didn’t find him stupid – a fact even our mutual friends can’t believe (and didn’t believe even when we were together). So telling me that he is not intelligent doesn’t make me feel any better about separating from him- it actually takes away the validation of my sharing my life and future with him.

I may be guilty of this destructive soothing verbiage towards loved ones as well, but I hope I learn from being the recipient. It isn’t soothing, it’s insulting, and it makes me feel the need to defend him rather than make me feel better.

Apr 022017
 
Sinful Sunday

[jwplayer mediaid=”7163″] When my friend Yuè Lǎo took this photo, I thought of Type O Negative’s song, Christian Woman.

A cross upon her bedroom wall – from grace she will fall
an image burning in her mind – and between her thighs

A dying god-man full of pain – when will you cum again?
before him beg to serve or please – on your back or knees

No forgiveness for her sins – prefers punishment
would you suffer eternally – or internally – ah

 

Apr 012017
 

*For the month of April, I am going to purge my drafts of my off-and-on reconciliation attempts with my ex-husband last year. They are still painful, and will be incredibly rough drafts, as I am literally purging emotions and some bittersweet memories. I may also mix in some current stuff just to give myself a break, or to reflect where I am now.
** The following was written two weeks after he requested the divorce.

He’s rewriting history.

“I didn’t choose her over you, I chose the area, my career, being close to my family”

I guess he’s conveniently forgotten when I showed up to his doorstep with high-paying job interviews lined up ready to move in with his family for a couple of months until we could get our own place in the area.

Good thing I wrote down things (which granted is going to be bias), because he’s completely rewriting history.

He told me, as I traveled back to our home to gather our things and questioned how I was to packed everything, that I should spread my legs to get moving help. Then he criticized my slutfest and said I was disgusting.

And then he was upset that I won’t sleep with him this weekend and telling me that he’ll help if I have sex with him. It is our stuff that he is talking about, while mostly mine, I packed up anything that had meaning to him, that was sentimental, things he didn’t even ask for (because the only thing he asked for was rope making materials).

“Throw it away, I don’t want it,” he told me when I requested about pictures.

He’s throwing out the truth to deflect his own actions. I hope that I do not the same just to make myself feel better –  how easy it is to rewrite history.

***He told me that first quote repeatedly the 7 months we were on and off in reconciliation attempts. A few of those attempts I was willing to even move back up to his area and walk away from the safety (and small support) of my hometown again.  

Mar 212017
 

I love storms. Every time it rains I have all the windows open and am most often sitting the doorway to the outside, watching it, listening to it, smelling and connecting as much as I can. I am surprised I haven’t lost my love of storms.

My tempest.

From solitude to engulfed in booms – the varying patterns of this shift are frightful at times.

There’s no place to go in a thunderstorm to escape it; I can push myself further out into the storm or take very little comfort in the return a house that offers no solace. It is not silent and it cannot be drowned out yelling for it to stop.

A thunderstorm is loud, powerful, demands attention, to be heard.

I seek warmth amid the warning winds: want to be touched and possessed, feel the gliding against my body; with lightning as a companion I light up. My body and my mind crave that delight of visual and utterance.

Where otherwise there may be soft silence, I feel awake and ignited with the booming thunder, blind except for the brief flashes of lightning.

The thunder rolls and sometimes a small shake in the ground can even be perceived in the ground. I can look up and see nothing. Rain is sensed, smelled in the distance, felt in the oppressive weight in the air. It covers all my senses, makes my skin damp. It signals a downpour, body feels just a drop or two and then suddenly water pours from the sky.  I can feel myself getting soaked, the lightning exposing far more than the tips of the trees swaying violently, little hidden amid storm. The rain pounds down to the earth, becomes a very deep awareness that fills every sense, the thunder creates a shudder and a groan. My heartbeat will pound to the eruption. The crepuscular does not confuse me, it is a language heard and felt through every nerve, rendered violent but mesmerized with dark erotic fantasies. I am left humble by how it provokes a physical reaction, perceived darkness that demands attention far more than shadowed whispers. I will feel goose bumps along my skin, and my own body tremors slightly. Still, the thundered rolls, but it becomes a background noise so far away, more of a relaxing soothing background sound.

I like things that take, that demand, that awaken, that can be felt everywhere; I like the signal of what’s to come, the roar of it as its there, and the echo that it leaves behind.

Mar 172017
 

Trapped like a once beautiful bird in a cage that since wilted. Once I viewed you so shiny, like a toy or jewel worthy of my attention, but your glittery gold has rusted and stained. In a full forest, you’re obscured. Quietude instead demanding for my fingertips to stroke and thrum the golden streaked body.

You were once Spring with sweet blossoms perfumed, once exposed naked in the heat, Fall with the vibrancy of a last desperate attempt at life, and now are barren of gifted illusions and fool’s paradise; fruitless. You leave me cold. Indifferent.

What happened to you?

Passionless.

Surely it wasn’t I, an exception of enchantment passing seasons of beauty? Soft sustenance and opalescence that we procreated?

You don’t thirst for permanence that is almost forgotten, buried deeply, by me, do you?

How sad, tragic, pathetic, worthless is that? How could you hang just to drop from the weight?

You should not be depleted as such. Empty. You seem to have gone down in flames whereas the heat and ashes have absolved me like a phoenix flying the coop. You were a torch, a spark, glowing vibrant with life now ebbed, dull, chilled, monotonous.

Where are you now?

I care not to search; I lost you and there is nothing to lead me back.