Cast of characters

My life is complicated, my feelings intense. My story's confusing, to me as much as to anyone else. But I, at least, have the advantage of minute-by-minute updates. So for the benefit of those of you who have wandered over here for the first time, here is a short cheat sheet.

First, there's me.

OK, I take that back. When you're a submissive, you don't come first. You come last, you live at the bottom, you live at his pleasure. You live where he lets you. You cum last - or whenever he lets you. If at all. Right now, I'm waiting for permission.

Still, it's my blog.

So first, there's me.

On paper, I'm old. I'm a baby boomer. I went to college in the 60's, during those liberating days of the Sexual Revolution. I protested the Vietnam War. I went door-to-door raising money for the Mississippi Freedom Summer. It was a heady time, and a scary one.

So yeah, I'm old. I have this really big birthday coming up. There's no point in my being coy about the number, as I've already mentioned it on this blog, but give me a break, I don't feel like saying it again right now, and the big day will be here in just 2 weeks.

I'm old, but I look really young. 15-20 years younger than I should. I have red hair, and it's still red, and it's still all mine. Red pubic hair, too. Trimmed, not shaved. And red. We won't talk about the white highlights, ok?

Thanks. You can stay.

I'm Jewish. A 3rd generation Jewish atheist, Communist on one side and Socialist on the other. A mixed marriage. Don't laugh, that's not a joke. "Jewish atheist" isn't a joke, either. And now? I'm not sure. My rabbi says I'm a pantheist, with not a trace of disapproval. I suspect he's a bit of one as well.

I love ritual. So does the philosopher.

The philosopher. He's the second character. He's my . . . I'm not quite sure what he is. I told you my life is complicated. He . . . he's the man I can't give up on. He found me through a craigslist ad very nearly 2 years ago. He keeps trying to break up with me. It doesn't work. He was my first dom. He's a philosophy grad student. He's only 38. His hair is red like mine. I haven't seen him since last May. He . . . I love him. He wants me to see other people. He cares for me. It's complicated. The future is misty. And he is always there for me when I need him.

I love him.

And then there's number three. I call him my demon muse. Sometimes I call him the fiend but these days I don't feel like calling him that any more. He is my muse and my teacher and my mentor. He's my dom and my collector and my tormentor and none of these words or even all of them together quite describe what he is to me. Ours is not an ordinary BDSM relationship.

I have never called him by his real name.

He found me on FetLife. He found me and set his trap and I was his within a week. He wanted me for my writing, and he pushes me to make my writing better. And now it is better.

He is a sadist, is my demon muse, and he pushes me. He teaches me and pushes me and shows me who I am. He teaches me about pain, and he teaches me how to please him. He teaches me about my submission and about how much I want to give. He opens me up and leaves my soul bleeding on the ground and I moan and sigh and thank him and when it all flows back together I am stronger than I was before.

He is a sadist, my demon muse. He torments minds as well as bodies. And a month and a half ago, something went badly wrong. And that was it. It was over. I fumed for a week and then enjoyed the sense of freedom and tried to move on.

Except I could barely write poetry any more. The inspiration was gone. The fire from how he caned my brain was gone. I started to panic.

I couldn't write. And that wasn't all. I missed him.

And then suddenly he returned. You don't need the details, just that he returned. He contacted me, you don't have to know why, but he contacted me and the poems started bursting out as if they had been piling up behind a steel blockade.

So there we are.

I serve the philosopher by largely leaving him alone, except for occasional e-mails to which I don't expect a response. I leave him alone and he knows I love him and will do anything he tells me to. Except give up. I won't give up. Maybe eventually, but not now. Not yet. Not until the damn dissertation is done and we can think about what comes next.

I serve my demon muse by doing whatever he tells me to.

There are two more characters, who dominate me more than anyone else in this story. They dominate me with love and need and needle-sharp nails in my thigh. When the others let me down, these two are always there.

I love them.

Their names are Marko and Ketzel.

And now you know it all.

Everything else is commentary.