Mental paralysis

I have so much to say. I have so much to say and the urge goes dry between one corner of my brain and another. It's like masturbating on Prozac back around 1990, when I was told oh no, it's very rare for it to have any effect on orgasms. I'd be horny and I'd touch myself and I'd feel myself rising, and I'd be just below the top and then I'd hang there, as if approaching the last hump of a roller coaster, stuck before the final descent. And to add discomfort to frustration, I'd be dry because I already had the damn symptoms of perimenopause and back then had neither estrogen nor Astro-Glide.

At the moment, the problem is progesterone. A hefty dose of progesterone for 12 days every three months to protect me against already-detected nasty effects of the estrogen I take non-stop as part of the pharmaceutical arsenal that keeps me in a condition approaching sanity.

Progesterone may protect my uterus but it does my sanity no good whatsoever.

I've had 9 of the nasty buggers so far this cycle. Every 3 months I suffer through a week and a half of progressive softening of the brain - which is a whole lot better than and supposedly nearly as effective as living in a state of permanent mental mush. At least, thanks to the lithium, I'm spared the emotional storms that used to beset me during this period of hormonal torture. But it distresses me that I can't concentrate.

I do want to write. I've been reading Carol Ann Duffy since she was declared the British Poet laureate, and have found some wonderful poems, and a new little motto to post here, followed by a wonderful comment from the sadist about what we share. And yes, it includes the word "we"... It occurs to me that he has rarely used the word "we."

I did write a truly fine poem for him Friday night, inspired by an extended volley of correspondence while he was out carousing. I have offered it elsewhere for initial digital publication, and will let you know when/if it goes up. It is a very honest, very naked statement, and it pleased my demon muse greatly.

Speaking of naked, I will be receiving a visit from the sadist this week. Perhaps even tomorrow, or maybe Tuesday... there are so many parameters that can derail our plans. I will serve his pleasure again. [she sighs contentedly] He ordered me to conduct a dress rehearsal this weekend (ok, an undress rehearsal), and I have been keeping his assorted requirements in my head. It would be too much to hope that my performance will be perfect this time, but I do aim for improvement. I am his pet, I am his treasure, I am his poet and his whore, and I do so want him to be pleased with himself for having found and caught and trained and re-trained me.

As I'd hoped, sitting down to write here did manage to get some words flowing, even if not the ones I really wanted to give you. Those need concentration, which I still don't have. I'm not going to take my progesterone tonight, so I can focus properly tomorrow on serving my demon muse the way he demands. I do not want to disappoint him.

I feel like I should leave you with something stimulating. A bit of soft-focus erotica. Or perhaps something brutally kinky. All those scenarios that the sadist inspires with his little comments, which he claims are not mere fantasies and which I snatch up and embroider for his amusement and mine, praying all the while that his intentions don't run to the extent of my imagination.

He has yet to follow through on any of his ideas. One long-planned escapade involved a whole weekend out of town together, and my presentation as a gift to his friend, our prospective host. Its probable failure is due to events over which we have no control. It was a somewhat scary idea at first, but then I developed a fondness for it, and now am disappointed as well as irate at the cause of its abortion.

Alas. Thinking of those plans has caused some itching and twitching and even a small measure of flooding from my ever eager cunt, but only there. No flooding of the imagination. So I'll leave you to use your own imaginations, of my forced masturbation and serial orgasms on the car trip out to the other end of the state, of how he would have presented me to his friend after months of preparing him for his gift, of what probably would have been some very satisfying, if vanilla, hours of sex with someone I am assured is very good to the ladies, before being returned to the sadist for the torture and intensity I crave.

It would have been such a lovely weekend...