But then, she says, quibbling over words, who's to say what is my "real" life? Parental health problems that demand my attention? Or the order from my demon muse, presented as a reward, that today I may (may? I have a choice?) ruminate on the term "slave"? Something else that demands my attention.
The sadist always demands my attention. And who, then, is to say that his perpetual presence in my mind, his persistent effect on my profuse pelvic secretions, is not as much a part of real life as the fact that my aged mother is in the hospital after a bad backwards fall?
So far, so good with her it seems. She fell on her back, she hit her head, there's something with a vertebra... hell, it's the weekend, they won't really do anything till Monday. And then maybe they will send her back to the nursing section of their continuing care community, where she will probably get more attention than in the hospital and my dad can be at home and her friends will come fuss over her... and I won't have to go up to visit until next weekend.
I know I sound cold. Please don't think me cold. There's a lot of self-protection going on here. I left to go to college and have done my best to keep a healthy distance ever since. Oh, nothing like sexual or other physical abuse, no alcoholism, none of that. But... Control. Manipulation. Disapproval of what my sister and I actually were, what we ourselves wanted - clothes, careers, dance classes. Clear ideas about what was appropriate - which didn't always make sense. White gloves to ride the subway? OK, yes, it was the 50s and all. But really.
So I've got my walls. I protect myself. I try not to fight with them and I don't tell them more than I absolutely have to.
And in my continuing efforts to find myself, to protect myself, to escape from the effects of the controlling people who raised me, who never spanked me but who were masters at emotional manipulation, I seek out men who will control me, who will manipulate me with the judicious application or denial of names such as "my pet" or "kitten", and who will, indeed, spank me. Who will cane me until I cry. And who will fill my mind, will fill my life, with their words, with their silence, until everything else is dwarfed by my adoration, my obedience, my awe, my love - you are free to assign these emotions to the proper recipient as seems fit.
This is my Real Life, as much as anything else. These two men, each playing his own part, filling almost every need except the one to has someone here with me right now so I can snuggle.
But then, I do have the cats. The main way I serve the philosopher right now is to make no demands. So I have the cats.
Oh, and that word... slave... considering that by its official definition it is illegal in the US, and that there seems to be no one with authority to grant a self-appointed governing body the right to define the terms for a consensually non-consensual relationship between two people, and with an eye towards the Humpty Dumpty quote you can find on my sidebar, any two people should be able to define and use the term within their own relationship in any way that is meaningful to them.
So says I, whom the philosopher once called his slave kitten.