Choosing the Beast

 It didn't really end that way, of course.

That whole turn-into-a-prince thing.

And frankly, the prince seems rather insipid,
his face exaggerated in its handsomeness,
his clothes too ornate by half.
He seems too full of himself.
Lacking humility.
Lacking vulnerability.

Vulnerability can be as lethal as raking claws and tearing jaws.

And la Bête (the Beast - it's a French film, Jean Cocteau, you really should see it if you haven't) - la Bête certainly has vulnerability. You can see it in his eyes. Especially when she catches him after he's been feeding on his prey. He is mortified to be seen in all his need. And clearly now believes there's no hope she can ever love him.

Don't try to change your beloved into someone else, they always say. It won't work. It can't work. It's bound to lead to disaster.

But behaviour can change. 
Attitudes can change.
Adjustments can be made.
Acceptance can be found.

What would be a truer ending, then?
No unnatural transformation.
The magic of her loving him as he is - that's magic enough.
Why water it down by giving her something else?
It's all about sex, anyway.
Learning to love his animal nature.
Don't prettify it.
Sex can be sweet and gentle.
Sex can be rough and wild.
Passion, need, they take many forms.
We need to embrace them all.

But Beauty,
la Belle,
better perhaps were she spared the sight of your teeth
shredding the corpse of your latest catch.
She'll gladly leave a portion of the forest to your hunt,
and you'll try your best not to rip out her throat.

Seems a fair exchange, don't you think?

But both parties need to sign the contract,
and nothing can happen
if la Bête persists
in saying the cause is lost.

Verboten - Sturm und Drang

Nothing heavy today.
I have a job.
To serve him.
To serve his pleasure.
To ease his stress.

So nothing heavy today.
No discussions about whether we'll survive.
Just sweet, light, softly sexy words
to remind him of the delight his treasure brings.

To remind him of his mistress
and his loving little girl.

Cautious.
We were cautious.
And he's clearly disturbed about himself.
But at least he played along.

And who can resist a fantasy about a vintage Cadillac Eldorado convertible?

I refuse to issue a DNR

His fears are the same as mine.
I knew they would be.
The foundation is shaken.
Bricks will fall off.
One problem gives rise to another.

All day, we each lived with the dread.

Tonight, he finally wrote.
He said he'd been feeling like a doctor watching a patient to die.

I can't believe it's hopeless.
We've been through so many crises.
And each time we come out stronger.
Closer.
More intimate.
More open.

Even he,
this dom,
this sadist,
has opened more and more peepholes into his vulnerability.
Which only made me love him more.

Damn.

I can NOT believe we're doomed.

Come on, Doctor.
Don't you have a new wonder drug?

Pathology

We've been talking.
Seriously.
About safety.
Physical safety.
Mine.

What happened this weekend wasn't all that bad.
But it scared me.
Not just what he did.
What scares me more is this.
Sometimes I don't know who he is.

It doesn't happen all the time we're together.
It doesn't happen all the time he hurts me.
And sometimes, when he hurts me,
he takes me to that place,
and then we are closer than ever.

But not when the beast shows up.
The beast knows only hunger.
The beast doesn't give a shit about intimacy.

It's an illusion, of course, to speak of the beast. It's a convention when we use that other name he has for the predator within. Even to say "within" is softening the truth. Which is the man and which is the mask? Or do both of them constantly wrestle inside him?

I've spoken of this before. Of how this isn't a game. When I say "we don't play," I'm not being snobbish about those who use that term for their S&M interactions, or those who go to clubs and do their thing in public. (Well, OK, maybe a little, which isn't worthy of me and for that I apologize.) I've tried to give you the truth of it. Of who he is and what I am risking, without another incident of people rushing in, trying to interfere, wanting to track me down, call the police. Wanting to protect me.

Don't even bother.
This is my life.
This is our relationship.
And we're trying to find away.

He is trying to protect me.

There's a sick irony to it all.
It's because he cares for me that he wants to hurt me.
Really hurt me.
But because he cares for me,
really cares for me,
he doesn't want to harm me.

The problem is, he can't always stop.
The problem is, he doesn't always know he's crossed the line.

So we talked.
Seriously.
By e-mail.
Which makes it easier for me to be honest.
Though it's so hard to be honest.
Because how do you tell someone you love,
someone who cares for you,
that sometimes you don't recognize him?

Because of course the underlying message is obvious:
when you don't recognize him,
you don't love him.

He likes to hear me say I love him.
He says: "Say it."
And I know what he means.
This time, there was something different.
"Say it," he said,
after I had.
"But this time, without the 'Daddy.'"

So I said it.
Not: I love you, Daddy.
Just: I love you.
No honorific.
No obscuring title.
Just a naked declaration
and his desire
for a naked declaration.
There was a statement in there.
But already, he was going into his dark place.
It was like a werewolf movie,
watching him change,
watching the hair sprout.
And soon it became very hard to honestly say the words.

So we're talking.
And tonight he made an offer.
Trying to find something that might help.
Something that might make problems less likely.

Of course I've read all about it.
Because this isn't just a matter of enjoying kinky sex.
And as far as I can tell,
there's no effective treatment
and there is
no
cure.

But there's a difference between this man and what you may read about in case studies. He does have a conscience. He does have regrets. Once he realizes, once the obscuring fog clears, he does have regrets.

He likes to pride himself on being a predator.
A master manipulator.
But I don't feel that's what he's up to here.
He's offering a sacrifice.
Whatever I feel is right.
And the sacrifice entails another sacrifice.

No more overnights off-site.

Does that mean he would ever spend the night here?
I doubt it.
He never has.
Can't see it happening.
And maybe it's safer that way, too.
Maybe those very long visits present more time for going off-script.
Because of course he plans his visits carefully.
Not that he can always stick to the plan.
But there's not that much room for improvisation within a couple of hours.
Not like having all night -
and then the next morning
for a quick rough fuck
with a crack-of-dawn hard-on.

But can't you see?
Can't you see how this man of the masks
is tearing at my heart?
Because he cares that much
that his dreams make him sick,
his fantasies make him worry,
and his deeds
make him curse
what he is.

And even given who he is,
what he is,
the limits of who we are together,
he has done more for me,
does more for me,
more to show me that I am cared for,
more to prove that I am treasured,
than anyone -
ANYONE -
who has ever said in so many words that he loves me.

And so we struggle on.

Because there's one pain I'm not ready to face:

the pain of walking away.

Split personality

The man who touches my heart
when he says he enjoys my company.

The man who treasures me,
admires me,
and tries to protect me.

And the beast.
The beast who scares me.
The beast who breaks free of his bonds.

They confuse me, these two.

I love the one,
but not the other.
And then I'm not so sure about either.
Which is perhaps the scariest of all.

But which makes sense.

Because the man and the beast,
Daddy and Master,
these four and more
are one and the same.

And I'm kidding myself to think anything else.

Poor Daddy.
Trying to protect me from himself.
And he can't.

A very small vacation

I'm sitting in an armchair by the window of our room in a dumpy Holiday Inn. It's a good thing he doesn't like a lot of light, as 2 bulbs are dead. He's not here, anyway, being out with friends.

He's fretting, though.
He'd rather be with me.
He enjoys my company, he said.
 I know that.
Just as I knew I was his mistress.
Being a mistress is more than being a readily available pussy.
It's more than being a sex slave.
Though I am that, too.
Being a mistress
(not to be confused with a Mistress!)
means be enjoys your company.
Means being part of his life.
In whatever limited way is possible and appropriate.

I remember the first time we were here together.
Two years ago.

I remember waiting in the room, cold and naked, huddled cold and naked on the floor between the beds, waiting, waiting wondering what was lurking at the end of the wait. And now? He snuck away between engagements and met me in the bar downstairs. In public. In the bar. Sitting and talking, recounting his day. Enjoying my company. One ill-advised kiss beside his car and then he was gone, sending texts that he wished he could escape his friends and be back with me. To hang out. Not just to have his cock sucked.

Still.
Waiting, I am content.
Calm and confident and content.
I feel safe, too.
He is taking steps.
Precautionary measures.
Measures to protect me against the beast.
Steps to bar the beast from the room.


I am pleased.
And relaxed.
Relaxing after my work week in California.
I sit in the armchair
feet propped up
reading a book he told me about.
Reading a book he bought for me.
Reading a book that is exercising my mind.

I am happy.
I am relaxed.
And he will be here soon enough.

(Had to reformat this post once I got home. Blogger didn't recognize my iPhone's line breaks.)

SIRI is mine!

No, not the woman in my iPhone.
We haven't gotten that personal yet.
In fact we've hardly talked at all.

It's the other SIRI.
This one.

From LELO.
In purple.


The name "Siri", by the way, is Scandinavian, as is appropriate for a pleasure object (their term) made by a Swedish company. It is short for Sigrid, and means victory, wisdom, and beautiful. And it certainly was a beautiful victory to finally get one.

Free.
To review.

I was away at a conference this last week.
For work.
And I worked very hard.

Plus there was a long flight, and a 3-hour time difference, so I'm massively tired. Not a good thing just before running off to meet the sadist for our usual June hotel rendez-vous which got moved up to this weekend from its normal end-of-month date. At least it won't be 105 degrees this time! (That's Fahrenheit, for those of you using the other system. It equals around 40.5 C)

Anyway, someone at LELO had the not-inappropriate idea of having a booth at what was basically a medical conference. It was a bit of creative positioning which in fact made a lot of sense, and their booth generated both a lot of sales and a lot of talk.

There must have been a lot of vibrators going past the TSA agents on Thursday and Friday...

I bought (at a VERY reduced price) a little set of silicone balls to help with my Kegel exercises, and then - after explaining who and what I was (in a lowered voice, as I was there in an official capacity and didn't want people to know that I was also a sex blogger!) - begged for SIRI to be mine.

I probably begged harder than I had to.

So watch this space for a review, which will compare SIRI with my current standby, the LAYAspot.

Which reminds me that I do still owe EdenFantasys a review of the last toy they sent me. A very nice toy, too. Time to just get it out there - and BEFORE I do the one for SIRI. So keep an eye out for that as well.

And maybe I'll tell you a thing or two about my getaway this weekend.
If you ask really nicely.
Can you beg as shamelessly as I can?