I want to make you hard. I want to make you wet.

Even the most submissive writer has a dominant streak.

I will admit to mine. Like any good dom(me), I want to manipulate your emotions, your physical responses, using the knowledge I have gained over time about what moves you, what arouses you, what will make you comment, what will make you touch yourself, what will have you crawling back to my little blog home day after day so that I can play with you again and again.

Of course, I have my own tastes. My own preferences. While to my Master I am (among other things) a little whore to be lent to his friends for his own amusement, while to my Master I am a little whore who must think of only their pleasure, not mine, here what I will do to you is bound by what pleases me.

There. See? That last paragraph... calculated... how many of you were turned on by that fantasy (as long as, perhaps, it only remains a fantasy) of the one who controls you giving you to another for an evening? Think of your talents being shown off. Think of living up to the stories that have been told about you. Think of concentrating on giving pleasure to the one who is using you, and therefore making the one who holds your chain very, very proud.

Or perhaps you would like to contemplate something else.

What if you were the one to whom my Master said - here.
Take her off with you for a few hours.
During that time you may treat her as if she were yours.
Whatever you'd like.
Enjoy her body.
Kiss her.
Caress her.
Fuck her.
Your choice of holes.
Any or all.
Or perhaps you'd like to hurt her?
Spank her.
Whip her.
Cane her.
Tighten your hands around her neck.
Leave her body covered with bruises.
Make her beg you for mercy.
Or do you have a soft spot in your heart for her?
Perhaps you want to make love to her.
Gentle, sensual, orgasmic, thoughtful.
Whatever you want.
Man or woman or anything in between.
Have her.
Use her.
Fuck her.
Enjoy her.
Hurt her.
Whatever you want.
And then tell me about it afterwords.

What if you received that invitation from my Master in your Inbox.

Did any of this make you wet? Let me touch you and see. Let me touch you gently and see. Let me sweetly suck your tits, nibbling, while I fondle your cunt and pull you down to lie next to me. Explore me as I explore you.... searching mouths... responsive nipples... hands here and there... legs tightening around each other... pubic hair weaving together... my clitoris wishing it were a cock so it could nestle deep inside you...

Did any of this make you hard? Do you want to stop my talking with your tongue? With your fingers? With your cock? Do you want to bury your hands in my long thick hair and pull my head towards you, towards your mouth or down into your lap? Do you think of my body and then think of leather, of chains, of rope, of spreader bars, of anything you could use to immobilize me as you seek to explore the edges of the pleasure you can extract from me?

Did you think of gagging me?
Oh, don't think of gagging me.
Don't waste hearing the song of my screams.

Did you think of fucking me?
Do think of fucking me.
Think of diving deep inside
my mouth and cunt and
tight little butt hole,
with tongue and fingers
and vibrator and dildo
and strap-on cock and fleshy erection.
Make me moan,
make me beg,
make me cry and
make me whimper.
make me grunt
and scream and pant
as you grow wetter,
as you grow harder,
as you grow wilder,
until you cum,
until I cum,
until my Master
sitting in the corner
or outside in his car
listening on the cell phone
gives his approval
of how I have pleased you
and gives me permission
to kneel at his feet.

Oh no... I'm not horny tonight...

The new flogger

He has it.

My Master is now in possession of my new flogger.
Of his new flogger.
His new flogger made to his specifications.
His new flogger made to use on me.

He broke the first one on my butt last November. The tail section flew off the handle, and ever since he has been whipping me with the lashes held in his powerful hand. He's gotten plenty of pain out of it, at least as far as I could tell. Because as we all know, it doesn't take much to get a scream out of me. I see videos of other submissives being caned or flogged or tawsed, and for the longest time all you hear from them are grunts. Me? A big scream right off the bat, or at the very least a small scream for a mild potch in tukhes.

Still. A flogger... it draws me... he will hurt me and I want him to hurt me even though I don't actually crave the pain.

I crave his pleasure.
That is all that matters.
His pleasure.
And he wants to hurt me.

I will lie there on the bed, of my own free well, or else tightly bound because that will please him but still of my own free will. My eyes will be open and I will be looking up at him and at his grip on the flogger and I will know that he will hurt me. My arms will be spread and my legs will be spread, wide as they will go, and my tits will be the target and my cunt will be the target and I will struggle not to protect myself and I will scream and sob each time he strikes me and I will beg him to hurt me.

He will have the new flogger in his hand and I will beg him to hurt me.

Now that's a pretty dumb thing to beg a sadist to do, don't you think?

But my plea will be honest.

What, after all, can one give a sadist?
I give him my love.
I give him my body.
I give him obedience
and vulnerability.
And I give him my pain.
Willingly, lovingly,
I give him my pain.

I've said before that all that matters is what he wants. At the beginning, as I fell under his spell, I thought OK, right, whatever, the whole thing had me so turned on and beside myself that I just went along without really thinking about it. It took a while to sink in, and then it took a while to gain meaning, and then it took a while to become real.

And now it is.
It is very real.

The only thing that matters is his pleasure.
He owns me.
I obey.
I offered him my service.
I offered him my suffering.
And I learned that my greatest joy comes from his satisfaction.

I'm not worried about the flogger. I will suffer for him - he will enjoy my pain - but probably the greatest gift will be my willing acceptance of the torture. Tonight as we talked I was wishing I weren't sick, I was wishing he had been here with me, I was begging him to hurt me.

Because what can I give a man who has given me so much, who has taught me so much, who has freed me from my chains while wrapping me in his own?

I give him my love.
And I give him my trust - by giving him my pain.

The flogger was designed to be used on me,
based on an intimate knowledge of what I can handle.

I will struggle against the pain.
I will suffer from the pain.

And when it's all over,
and he calls me his good girl,
and I take his cock in my mouth,
and I swim in the sweet scent of him,
and I channel his orgasm...

I will know that he treasures the gift of my pain,
and that I am his treasured pet.

I love you, my Master.

One small typo = one big sin

I made a mistake.

You would think it a very small mistake. Nothing more than a typo. One little letter that made one day into many. Not such a big deal, you would say.

But that is in your world.
In my world, it is a sin.
One little letter
is one big sin.

So I was scolded, in so many ways. And I probably would have been caned, except that I'm home with a very bad cold and we never risk spreading germs.

I feel really awfully sick. Stuffed sinuses, runny nose, cough from the drip, chills now and then, sore throat, utterly exhausted... I sounded so bad when my supervisor called late this afternoon that she was the one to tell me that I shouldn't come in tomorrow either.

I was in no mood to be scolded. I was sick, and Monday night started a round of progesterone which does nasty things to my mood. I take my relationship with the sadist very seriously, I in no way look at it as being a game, and when I say he owns my body and mind, heart and soul, I mean that. It isn't something that we turn on and off.

But this afternoon, I nearly had to gag myself to keep from saying aw, c'mon man, enough already, it was just a mistake, I blew it, I didn't see it, I read it over and did the spell check and I was sick and exhausted and unfocused and I didn't see it and c'mon, stop already, you know damn well that I know I'm not supposed to make typos. And why. Give me a break!

The words were at the tip of my tongue. And if it had been last summer, perhaps even last fall, they might have slipped out. And that would have been it. The end.

But they didn't slip out. I struggled and wrestled and worked my way out of my inner tantrum and back into my submission as his fury poured out of the phone. I held on with my fingernails to the crumbling edge of the cliff until I managed to pull myself back up on the ledge. And oh! Once I was there I looked out over the beauty surrounding me and said yes. It is all worth it.

You might easily think that in some ways I live a very unchained existence. There is so much that he does not control. But bit by bit I am willingly offering him more control. Of my own free will. Because I want to. Because it feels right.

I do what is required of me, exactly as instructed, grateful at being given the chance to serve. And when I mess up I accept the consequences, however painful to my body and heart, however extreme others may think them.

Because I deserve to be scolded.
I deserve to be corrected.
I deserve to be punished.

And in the end, not only does it mean that I give him what he wants and expects. In the end, not only does it mean that I become a more valuable and pleasing property, a treasured pet.

In the end, it is better for me.
I realize my potential and dance in the warm sun of his approval.
For such joy, autonomy is a small price to pay.

Writing for the gold

I know how they feel, those Olympic athletes.
So much pressure, such high expectations.
Their public, their country, their parents,
their coaches... oh, the coaches...
They know them best of all, do those coaches.
They know their potential.
They've seen them perform.
They expect their best
every single time.

I don't care how you feel.
I don't care how you hurt.
Get out there and ski.
Get out there and skate.
Write for me, my pet.

They may be pilloried by the press.
But athletes don't have to worry about
a spanking from the coach if they don't
live up to expectations.

At least not as far as we know...

Handing over the keys

Bit by bit, I am relinquishing control. Piece by piece, I am handing him parts of my life, checking off areas of autonomy that really belong to him, and presenting him with the keys and combinations to my body, mind, and time.

He didn't ask for them. He has said from the start that my private life is mine, that I may see and date and... do other things with whomever I wish. He was always quite clear about that. Did he know it was inevitable that I would reach the point of preferring that he be in charge in even these areas? Knowing the sadist - probably.

Still, this is my choice. I say "Here. You decide." And oddly, despite the risks inherent in that abdication of control, I feel safer than ever.

I am his property.
He treasures me.
And I trust him more than I do myself.

He calls me his pet

Pet.

I don't even know what that means.
To "the community" (the self-appointed experts).
To him.
To me.

Does it define the level of his control? of his ownership? Or is it purely a term of affection, and to be cherished as such.

It doesn't really matter. When he addresses me as "my pet" I go all warm and soft inside. I melt. He could do anything with me. And those few times that he calls me"angel"... better than the sweetest of caresses.

Still, I'm curious.
"Pet."
I am his pet.
What do you think it means?

There are no words

Surrender

the snow has returned
tentative at first
then setting up tents.
lone tiny stars
unionize, gaining
color, gaining
strength. they change
all they touch
the way you have changed
me. you fell on me,
disguising your weapons,
seducing with charm,
disarming my fear.
i am not the same.
my outlines are rounded,
my will is collapsing,
my body's desire
expects no relief.
i hallucinate caresses,
your fingers fondling,
caressing, passing
over my pallor,
defining my shape and
my soul. i am yours,
and whatever you will me
to be, i am.


Written for my Master, the sadist,
and published here with
his permission and his praise.
Everything I do is for him.

Has it really been 2 years?

Two years ago, I opened submission & metaphor with the following post. I called it In the beginning...

Sex and words, passion and metaphors - w4m

Literate woman seeks intelligent man for creative erotic correspondence. Just saying how big you are and where you'd like to stick it won't do it. Must be comfortable with adjectives and metaphors. Let's create elaborate scenes, described in detail, exploring the heights of passion and pushing our fantasies to their edge with the power of our words.

I admit it, we won't get that special deep satisfaction and release that actual physical contact brings. But in some ways an on-line sexual conversation with a stranger can be even more intimate, revealing, and risky than jumping into bed, as we share our deepest longings and fantasies in a way that doesn't always happen face-to-face or body-to-body. So seduce me with the strength of your intellect and the power of your imagination, and I will open myself to whatever adventures you can conjure up, throw myself into your fantasies, and draw you into mine.

Age, location, race are all irrelevant. Your goal is for my heart to beat faster, among other obvious physical responses, when I see your name in my inbox, and for you to feel the same at seeing a message from me.

In your reply, give me a taste of what you have to offer.

"and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes." (in honor of the author's recent birthday)

[posted to craigslist Washington DC on Saturday, February 3, 2007 at 8:06pm]

This was the craiglist post that brought the philosopher to me, as well as harry, dominick, and Evan. It brought me the philosopher, and it changed my life.

All but Evan were Doms, and Evan enjoys control and other things that certainly turn up in BDSM circles. I asked if there were anything in the post that made them think I was open to being dominated, controlled, bound, hurt, and none of them saw it. At least not consciously.

A couple of years later I showed it to the sadist. He said the ad screamed submission, and had his name all over it.

He always sees things that others don't.

It is tempting to write about the past. About all the changes in the 2 years since I started this blog and the 3 years since I ran that ad. But those years had their chance. If you're new here and you're curious, here is a post from about a year ago that gives a snapshot of where we were then. Or where I thought we were. The three of us.

The philosopher.
The sadist.
And me.

As for now, I am posting a poem, separately, which will show
where I am now.
Who I am now.
Whose I am now.
With all my heart
and all my soul
and all my joy.

I love you, my Master.

Elsewhere

Nothing to say.
Absolutely nothing to say.

And yet I feel I should say something, you know... I don't want you to worry about me. And really, I'm quite all right.

Of course, you have to factor in a week spent more or less in isolation due to the snow. And the stubbornly loitering effects of a cold that has me waking up stuffed every morning. And the disappearance of the sun. That doesn't help my level of creativity, either.

And on top of that, the snow delayed the delivery of my latest batch of lithium, and I've been stretching them out to one every other day. Since the lithium boosts the effectiveness of my other meds, here's yet another blanket smothering my moods. (For those who are concerned the pills are on their way, and I'm hoping they will arrive tomorrow. Tuesday.)

My other creative output is choked by writer's block. Maybe it's spilling over. I'm trying to finish the first draft of a story and it is resisting. I know what some of the issues are, issues specific to the story, and am trying to trick myself into renewed producton. And I haven't gone completely dry. There have been some poems, along with more than the usual intense declarations of devotion to the sadist.

Ah, yes. The sadist.

[she disappears into a reverie]

Yes.
Where was I?
There.
I was there...

And since then,
I haven't
been
quite
here.

[she smiles contentedly.]

I think I'll go back there now

Want me

Do you think that you want me tonight?
I want you to want me tonight.
Think of me nakedly posing.
Think of me standing there,
kneeling there, whispering -
how will you use me tonight?

Think of my body tonight.
Maybe you'll spank me tonight.
Think of me screaming my suffering.
Think of me moaning
and writhing and begging.
How will you hurt me tonight?

Maybe you'll fuck me tonight.
Think of my pussy tonight.
Cum on my tongue as I suck you.
Think of my pain as
you batter my butt hole.
Think of the welts that
you'll leave on my bottom.
Think of my nipples
that beg to be tortured.
Think of my eyes
that show you my secrets.
Think of my mouth
that melts as I love you.

I'll be your good girl
tonight.

Hooray for hypersexuality!

It's official! According to today's article in the New York Times about the coming update of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders:

[A] new description of sex addiction, is “hypersexuality,” which, in part, is when “a great deal of time is consumed by sexual fantasies and urges; and in planning for and engaging in sexual behavior.”

Now this sounds pretty good to me.
In fact it sounds just like me.

Hypersexuality.

Much better than sex addiction. That just sounds icky. Whereas hypersexuality sounds very suitable to an instinctual, creative, and poetic soul such as myself. It's sort of like "hypersensitive." Not, though, hypersensitive as in much too likely to have a temper tantrum. Perhaps I was like that once. OK, I was definitely like that once. But my Master has most pretty much cured me of that. I can't even conceive of a submissive being a brat. It doesn't go with being submissive.

she slaps her own cheek lightly.
stop digressing.
maintain focus.

OK, where was I?

Hypersensitive.

Hypersensitive the way an artist is, seeing things, feeling things, skin and nerve endings and brain cells all tuned to pick up the slightest hint of inspiration and stimulation.

Stimulation.

I've taken down the walls.
Taken off my clothes.
Opened my mind and my
body to the beat of life and
love that fills the universe.
It comes to us as desire,
an unchained, sparkling
desire. I stand here
naked before you, I raise
my arms and my tits
rise too, and I say to
the world and to God
who is everything -
Yes!
Just as God is in
everything, so is sex.

And with this loving naked
body, I embrace the term.
Hypersexuality.
I seek no treatment,
I require no cure.
I welcome what I am
and kneel before my Master.
Hallelujah.

A word from my Master on my birthday

We spoke today, for a long time, courtesy of Yahoo Messenger.

Thank you, Yahoo Messenger.

A sweet and lovely conversation for my birthday.
Sweet and hot and... very sweet and hot.

I told him that I was happy even though I was spending my birthday alone. I said I was beautiful, and told him about Remittance Girl's post, and about what I wrote yesterday, and how you were all sending me birthday greetings. Then he asked how his blog fans were.

I had to remind him that he said I couldn't write about him.

And so he sent you this little message:

You may write that I pride myself on discovering your beauty and hidden destiny and even more on keeping them for my collection.

A very lovely birthday indeed.

I love you, my Master.
You fill my life with pain and poetry and joy.
And this year and always, I am yours.

Sexy and submissive and yes, I'm 61

Remittance Girl started a recent post with the following excerpt from a Twitter exchange (and no, of course, this isn't RG talking!):

There comes a time when wrinkly women should cut their hair [...]

I read on for a few lines and then just couldn't take it any more.

Now, OK, I admit that I'm not as wrinkly as most women my age (61 tomorrow, February 9th, there's still time for you to buy me a present). And I'll admit that many wrinkly women have grey hair, which some snotty men might think unseemly to display in large quantities. Me, I think of my paternal grandmother with her hair down to her tukhes, still blond at the bottom and white at her scalp, with every shade of her natural aging progression in between. I never thought it was anything but beautiful, and adored combing it, reveling in its smooth oiliness and sheer profusion.

So I have nothing against long grey hair. It can be a crowning glory, no matter what the color. But it so happens that I don't have grey hair. I have red hair. Real live long natural red hair. Sexy as shit and just begging to be seized. It is a dancing halo, and a waiting handle. Wrap it around your fist and drag my head down to your cock or haul me across the room and throw me onto the futon...

Ahem. Sorry about that. Now what was I saying?

Hair.
Long hair.
Long hair on old ladies.
My long hair which is sexy as shit.

I suppose 61 used to count as old. Certainly, 61 used to look old. Even now, 61 can sometimes look old. Not me. I'm beautiful. I'm young and beautiful and sexy, not just because my Master says so and therefore I'd better believe it (which I admit is true). But because he enabled me to see it.

Thank you, my Master.

My long hair I owe to the philosopher, who ordered me to grow out my dyke haircut even before we met. And he was right. Both because long hair suits my face better (which he didn't realize) and because long hair is sexy. Not to mention useful. He wanted to use it for hair bondage. He could have a fine time with it now if he ever wanted another shot at it. But that's not likely. Even a birthday e-mail is unlikely. But he left me many gifts, and this long hair is one of them.

Thank you, John...

So Tuesday I turn 61, in a city still buried in snow and expecting more. I think that's a fine way to celebrate. The clean white snow makes everything look bright and young and beautiful and new. The sun's rays bounce off the sparkling white mounds and leave everything they touch laughing.

I want to go out into my back yard and dance naked in the snow, the sun's rays bouncing off the sparkling white mounds of my sexy-as-hell breasts with their attention-demanding nipples. Beautiful hair, adorable tits, outrageous nipples, and a hot, moist, tight pussy that just begs to be used.

Not bad for a 61 year old woman who wears her hair too long for decency.

Happy birthday to me.

Still beauty

There's a special beauty to everything after a big snowstorm. The air is still and clean, the shadows are sharp and clear, and the light... the glorious sun magnified a million times by the triumphant white blanket that covers the ground.

I don't even mind the shoveling, although I admit that it was daunting to contemplate tunneling my way to the street when the snow reached up over my knees. 31 inches or so. But all on my own I made it out to the street before taking refuge with an 80 year old neighbor 2 doors down who, being around the corner, had not lost power. As happy for my company as I was for hers, she plied me with coffee, a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, and delightful conversation as we sat on the floor in her sun-filled dining room while my BlackBerry recharged. It felt so good to be taken care of!

Being without power for a day and a half was rough. When it finally came on this afternoon, the re-functioning thermostat read 47 degrees. Fahrenheit. Last night I slept in all my clothes under a massive pile of blankets while the cats' ears grew colder and colder.

I went to sleep at 9:30. It was too dark and cold to do anything else. Part of me wasn't ready to sleep. I wondered if masturbating would settle me down and warm me up. It's nice to fall asleep after an orgasm. But I don't own my orgasms, so this was not an option, and I was in fact too cold to even feel like it. So I burrowed down under the layers and wrapped myself in thoughts of the sadist. His body would have kept me warm in so many ways.

As I drifted off, my cunt smiled at memories of his flogger.

Beneath the snow

The world outside my window is disappearing. Hour by hour, shapes and sounds are becoming muted, melting under the crystalline blanket of tiny, six-pointed stars that obscures everything we thought was real.

Inside, my secret life persists.

Inside my house.
Inside my brain.
Inside my heart and my cunt and my submissive soul.

I am feeling an odd safety in my weather-imposed isolation. It feels like the safety the sadist inspires in me. A protection against everything except what is important. All that remains is what is real - what is real to me - what is real to us - while everything becomes muted. Becomes non-existent.

There was just some sort of explosion a block or two away. The lights have been blinking. Perhaps a transformer blew. Here, we still have power. Just in case, there are now tea lights dancing in my bedroom window.

Whatever happens, the cats will keep my body warm tonight.
Whatever happens, my Master will keep my heart warm tonight.
Whatever happens, the flames will keep on burning.

A sadist's vulnerability

The blog: Intelligent Submission
The post: Your Taboo, My Fantasy

Melissa, a very intelligent submissive and welcome new friend, speaks of the attraction to fantasies that others would turn from in horror.

In my comment, I spoke of the extreme scene so beautifully described by the sadist, the paraphrase of which had some of you in a panic over my safety.

She replied:

One of the ultimate signs of true intimacy is the desire and ability to tell your lover your deepest fantasy, no matter how taboo or far off the map. The fact that The Sadist shared his fantasy with you speaks well of his trust and intimacy with you. Not that what we do isn't plenty intimate, but to be able to tell someone about something most others would judge us for...well, that's just nothing short of incredible.
[...]

Perhaps it is within the realm of the extraordinary intimacy of D/s that we are able to share our deepest darkest secrets.

In response, I wrote:

Yes.

He knew he could trust me with it.

People speak of the vulnerability of the submissive. But the dom, the sadist, they too make themselves very vulnerable. The acts they commit, the submission they demand, the need they reveal for pain inflicted, power displayed, bodies yielded... they are ripping open their hearts and their brains and saying: "Look! This is who I am. Obey me. Respect me. Fear me. Love me. Just do not scorn me. Do not laugh at me."

As you say - it is an extraordinary intimacy. And it goes both ways.

Everyone agrees about the vulnerability of the submissive (I am using that as a blanket term for submissive, slave, pet, what-have-you). We offer our bodies and our hearts as someone else's playthings. I think there may be an aspect to our make-up that leaves us particularly vulnerable to having our hearts either skewered and roasted over a blazing campfire or else sliced very thin and sautéed in butter, then served with a delicate wine sauce while our tormentor laughs at how we took off our clothes and walked into the frying pan. Our vulnerability is ridiculously obvious, and for many sadists is likely the characteristic that makes our torture so delectable.

But doms and sadists have their own secrets. And merely by enacting with us their long nurtured fantasies of pain and degradation, they give us a glimpse inside the souls they try so hard to hide.

We both reveal ourselves. We lose each other in the eyes of our partner and see things that are deeper than the other can ever know. And yes, despite the defined imbalance of such relationships, we are partners. It is through our combined contributions and our mutual trust that we create the magic that arises from our union.

I guess it's really over

I finally did it.

I threw out the oatmeal boxes.

Have I ever explained the origin of my name?

When the philosopher and I were getting to know each other, mainly by e-mail and eventually by phone calls in the exactly 6 months between when we met on line and he crossed my threshold, he sent me a picture taken from his office window with a pinhole camera. I knew a bit about pinhole photography, loved the effect, and was especially excited about developing pictures in a darkroom, which I'd never done. It was in my blood, though. My dad used to develop pictures in the bathroom and hang the negatives from the shower rod.

So the idea developed for buiding and using pinhole cameras while he was down here. A healthy idea, really, to have an activity other than making our in-the-flesh debuts as BDSM practitioners. Especially since he would be visiting for a few days.

Now the most convenient base for a pinhole camera is a round, cardboard oatmeal box. And he felt we should have around 10 cameras. So... (I really do need to make another batch of oatmeal cookies from what's left of the contents of those boxes.)

The weather was thoroughly disgusting that August weekend. Hot and muggy and grey. Not at all ideal for being outside, taking pictures through a tiny hole in the side of a cardboard box. (Well, actually, the hole was made in a piece of Coke can attached inside the oatmeal box. Very complex construction.) We experimented with my SAD light boxes, and found we could use them to do indoor photography, and created some very cool still life shots.

We used the cameras on at least one return visit. It was fun. We were making progress, although still had trouble with over-exposures as, being over-cautious by his own description, he often left the aperture open for too long.

And then it was over.

In many ways, it's my fault it was over. I couldn't take the stress any more, mainly of the silence, of his dissertation, of his stress. I thought I could, but I couldn't. And perhaps I was doubting that anything would really be different when and if he did finish his degree. Perhaps he really wasn't cut out for a relationship.

Worst of all, I didn't have the guts to break it off. I couldn't bear to let it go. I couldn't bear to let him go. So I became totally insufferable until he was the one to pull the plug.

I never stopped wishing it could work.

But it's heading on a year now. I write him every so often, and he only answered once, when I told him we were all safe after the fatal DC Metro crash. He has never told me not to write. But I finally stopped. Was the last message in September for his birthday? I can't remember.

I miss him.

I kept hoping.

Even with all my feelings for the sadist, I never stopped missing the philosopher. And never stopped hoping it could work out after all. Even though I knew it never could.

I'm trying to give up.
I'm trying to let go.

My house is a toxic waste dump. It's overflowing with clutter. Every weekend I think I'm going to make progress, and then I end up too exhausted and too busy and fixated on the sadist and doing his assignments to finish my to-do list. Which is too long anyway.

But this weekend, I did manage to make a decision.
I would get rid of the cameras.
If I remember correctly, that's 10 small ones and 2 big ones.
I would just toss them out.
Tomorrow is garbage pick-up day.
And tonight I removed them from their printer paper box
and I tossed them in a big black garbage bag
and I put the bag outside.

I still have the special light he brought to use while developing. And the underpants he bought last time he was here. And the pony tail I kept after the first time I cut his hair. And his pre-haircut picture is still on top of the bookcase in the study, right above where those cameras had been sitting for months and months, lined up like eggs in that printing paper carton.

I haven't really let go.
But I'm letting go of the cameras.
Maybe this weekend I'll bake some oatmeal cookies.

I loved you, John.
And maybe I still do.