Blocked

My creativity
is constipated.
I strain
to release
a poem.
I sit
back
in my desk chair,
I try to
relax,
I recite
silent
incantations
as if
saying
the Amidah,
trying to
channel
Apollo,
trying
to yield
more than mere
pellets of
passable
prose.

I switch metaphors,
a poetic
psychopharmacologist
searching for the
right combination
of magic meds.
I stop pushing.
I lie back.
I open my legs.
I beckon Apollo
with pert red curls,
crying cunt,
pale round belly,
and teasing tits.
Like a forest deer
drawn to a salt lick,
he can't resist
the musky scent
between my thighs.
Even a god must
sometimes submit.
He submits to his lust.
He descends from Olympus
and lands close beside me.
He doesn't waste time.
He sees that I'm wet.
He throws himself on me.
I am bait and victim
rolled into one.
He thrusts.
I moan.
I yield.
And as he cums,
filling me with his immortal seed,
precious poems flow from my gasping lips,
surrounding us with ribbons of gold,
petals of roses and carpets of fern.

When a sadist is a sweetheart

Or maybe he's just oblivious.
Or thick skinned.
Or used to the idea that submissives are a pain in the ass.

Another day or three of progesterone, depending on how tolerant I can be of the shaky state of my intellectual and emotional health. I'm going to try to hold out until the end, I've upped my antidepressants which may help, but I'm not proud of how kvetchy I've been. Especially over the holiday weekend.

But the sadist, who can be quite stern and controlling, doesn't seem to be distressed at all. Maybe, dominant that he is, he's just used to ignoring any little mews, squawks, and whimpers emitted by anyone he owns unless it would amuse him to respond - or unless he thinks a line has been crossed and the offender firmly dealt with.

But that doesn't seem to be the case here. And it's true that he does spoil me... so while I led off this evening's chat session with a crawling mea culpa for being such a pain, he assumed I was apologizing for telling him about my session with the dentist. (A front top crown is being replaced.)

I haven't felt very creative since I've been on the progesterone, although I did manage to write one good poem for my Master over the weekend. But he says don't worry about being creative, I did a good job, concentrate on feeling him touching me...

Oh yes.
I can do that.

Thank you, my Master.

Yes, I'm OK

Well, more or less. I didn't realize I'd been absent for so long! But every few months I have to take this nasty progesterone for a week and a half, which makes me tired and dull-witted and depressed.

Plus, I've been playing on craigslist. I've been feeling very lonely on weekends, when I don't have as much contact with my Master, and when I don't have a sweetheart with whom to spend time. Being on nasty drugs just makes it worse. So I write these odd ads. Sometimes they are deliberately obscure, just to be obnoxious, because I am angry.

I am angry at the stupid and lazy men who answer my ads.
I am angry that I'm alone.
I'm angry
and I cry.
Because I'm on these stupid drugs I cry

I'm angry and I cry because they aren't John.

In fact, even John isn't John by now... this fantasy of a man, memories of only the best parts... what I want is the impossible. What I want is a perfect combination of the philosopher and the sadist. Which of course is not likely to happen.

Smart and sweet and sadistic and sexy.
Confident and dominant and available.

But I keep trying.
And I am endlessly disappointed.

Still, I never give up trying...

The Siren

I feel an overwhelming urge to flirt. I want to taunt and tease, present myself, parade myself, make men think they can have me, and then lure them to their destruction.

I was playing on craigslist again this weekend. I truly wonder why I do it. I toss out these clever little posts, like bright and confusing homemade flies designed to lure the fish to the hook. I tell myself I'm looking for love. Or at least a boyfriend. Or at least someone to date. But I know that, in the end, they will never be good enough, none of the men I catch will be good enough. There is always something wrong and I stop trying to hold their interest or I just stop answering. One way or another they drift away.

I advertise for someone who won't bore me. And they always end up boring me. Because in the end, they are not what I want.

They are not the philosopher.
And they are not the sadist.

I don't say this with sadness. It is a very matter-of-fact statement. The philosopher... well there, enough said, I loved him, I still do I suppose. As for the sadist, my tormentor, my inspiration, my owner and my demon muse... you just have to take my word for it. The man reeks charisma. It drips all over the floor, he should have women with mops following him around, they would gladly follow him around, they'd gladly clean up the trail of charismatic cum he leaves behind. It's odd, I can't pin it down, but there it is. And as odd as our relationship is, I am truly not ready to do anything to jeopardize it.

Oh, if I were smart, I'd be on a safari for a boyfriend. A man no older than 50, healthy, financially secure, at least a little sexy. I probably have another year or so before I start showing true signs of aging. There are all sorts of ways to be a whore, and if I were smart I would be selling my body and my soul for security in my advancing years.

But since this is my last shot, these next couple of years, I don't want to look back and remember being cautious. I want to flirt and flaunt and lead men to lose themselves in lust. It makes me tingle. It makes me feel sexier and sexier. It makes me feel I am serving my Master by discovering that I am indeed what he says I am - an unbearably sexual creature made to feed men's desires.

Well, he says I'm made to satisfy men's desires. And when I am serving him, that's what I will do. But on my own, I will tease them and taunt them and frustrate them, which will delight me such that I will stand naked on the rocks and display my nakedness to the sea and the sun and sing my songs of randomly fucking and lure all the ships to their doom.

This was the weekend

This was the weekend we might have been together.

We weren't.

And yet, he kept me with him.

He gave me an assignment.
He gave me a gift.

He gave me the freedom and the offer to call him as often as I wished. I was to - had to - was allowed to - call him yesterday and today as I often as I wished. I was to call him and arouse him and incite him and fill him with my voice and my submission and my breath and my desire and with memories of how I have served him and thoughts of how I will obey him and reminders of my body beneath his and images of my body despoiled by others.

I was a good girl, an obedient pet, an inspired little whore. I left so many messages that I filled his mailbox as he has obviously kept my words to fill his car on the drive home.

And at 2:05 this morning, he phoned me. He phoned me and called me his good girl and said that next time there was a chance I could come with. I don't know whether next time means next year or next month, but anything from him that implies confidence in the future is yet another addition to the box I keep of his accumulating gifts.

I don't know the details. He'll tell me more later, he said. For now, I know that I pleased him, I gave him what he wanted, I did what was required.

He should be on his way home now. I wish he had time to stop by and show me how much I aroused him. I wish he would call me from the car, and tell me how much he wants me to serve his cock, how much he wants me to take his pain, how much he wants me to show my obedience and devotion.

Of course, what I want is irrelevant. And I have learned that when I give him what he wants, I am fulfilled.

This was the weekend we might have been together.

And this was the weekend we were.
In our own way, every moment of the day or night
I was with him and he was with me.

Working towards Pre-Raphaelite

Working towards pre-Raphaelite.
Looking rather tame here,
right after my sweet and smiling hairdresser
made my hair obey his command.
Doms use canes and floggers.
Hairdressers use blow dryers.
Either way, we capitulate.
He took the photo for me, too,
re-arranging the curls just so to properly display his work.

It's come a long way since
the philosopher ordered me to grow it out.
I still miss asking for permission
before making an appointment to have it cut.

Maybe when it gets a little longer
I'll arrange a photo shoot
recreating the pre-Raphaelite classics.

Followed by some odalisque nudes.

Any of you artsy photographers want to volunteer?

He still can make me cry

There is pain worse than spanking.

He finally wrote back last night.

I wrote to say we were all okay, that none of us had been hurt in the awful collision between two Metro trains (Metro = subway, tunnelbana, tube, le Métro, the T; 9 were killed). It happened on the Red Line, the line I would take, our end of the line I would take if I didn't work a mile and a half from home. So I wrote to say we were okay. Because we were all getting messags by e-mail and on Facebook from friends out of town, asking if the whole gang was okay.

So I wrote to say we were all ok. And that if he ever wanted me to stop sending all these little messages, just tell me.

And this morning, for the first time in 3 months, there was his name in my Inbox.

And I started to cry. Damn, you can count on me to start crying.

It's not that I really thought he was dead. Not really. But you don't have to seriously believe that someone is dead to worry about him. And in my heart and in my soul I've been very very worried about him.

There are many kinds of love.

Yes, I say I love the sadist, and I do. But not like I love the cats and not like I love chocolate and not like I love Stockholm and Paris, and not with the protective fierceness with which I love New York. I can't describe how I love him. But it's not romantic love. It's a love born of intimacy, of creative collaboration and because my nakedness before him comes not from a lack of clothes but from the way he can see straight through me and out again. Which is why he can and will get me to do anything he wants, willingly if trembling with fear and amazement.

But the philosopher... the way I loved the philosopher... past tense? Who knows. I'm writing now and I'm crying again and maybe it's just crying for lost dreams, for fantasies of something that never could have been... but when it worked... and when we were together... could I have been making it up? I don't think I was making it up... There was a comfort I'd never known before, and perhaps may never know again. but what I wouldn't give to have him here, to be curled up on the couch or the futon or the bed, doing crossword puzzles or watching a movie or planning an extravaganza of a meal and cooking together and cleaning together and bringing his tea which had better be made just as he likes it and kneeling by his side and the box of pinhole cameras is still sitting on the floor in the study and he said very little but he's glad we're okay, he's glad I'm okay.

It takes a long time for a broken heart to stop hurting.

My Master paid me a visit today and I've asked if I may publish here the poem I wrote for him and I asked if I could cum but I haven't heard back from him since he left and anyway I'm tired.

I'm exhausted.

And yes, of course, after "lunch" which was really serving him and then stuffing my mouth with a little chicken before running back to the office, my mouth stained red from his kisses... after lunch I thought of him all afternoon and floated and worked on the poem and deliberately shifted in my seat so I would feel the pain from a not all that terrible punishment spanking which I deserved because you don't try to negotiate with a dom and especially not with a sadist. But I came home and I was exhausted. Absolutely drained. And then I sat down at the computer and started crying and realized why.

So yes. He wrote back. This little message which indicated that he was aware of what had happened down here and wondered how we were. And of course I was impulsive and wrote back about how relieved I was to hear from him. I'm much too emotional, but I've decided that there's no point in trying to cover up who I am.

So that's it. He wrote back. He's glad everyone's okay. He's glad I'm okay.

But it's not what he said.
It's what he didn't say.
It doesn't mean much, I'm not taking it as meaning anything.
But it's a comfort.
What he didn't say.

He didn't tell me not to write.