Murmurations of Me

What a glorious day, warm (yes, actual heat) sunny cloudless skies, crystal clear ocean, and peace - no, no peace, fucking tourists everywhere, Irish ones which is even worse, thinking they own the roads and every place they stop. 

I live in a beautiful place, rough, rugged, wild and untamed. Roads meander through the landscape, cut into cliff faces and askew on mountains. Each little hill, each corner gives another breathtaking vista to admire and make you gasp at the incredulity of wilderness and what it has to offer. Narrow roads with grass growing in the middle, the “off the beaten track” ones that give you a true glimpse into the beautiful undulating topography that is Ireland. And every bastarding one of them is filled with ignorant, self-righteous, undisciplined, incapable-of-reversing idiots who believe they own the place and have right of way. 

All through this pandemic, my life has barely changed. I adore where I live, the moodiness of the ocean is fascinating to me - the barren landscape surrounding it interspersed with vibrant colours depending on the season by plants whose survival astonishes me, let alone how they flourish and take over such a place,  giving us swathes of colour so intense an artist could never capture it and be believed. The description “50 shades of green” doesn’t hold a candle to the intense burning that gorse has in full bloom giving an air of fire on a hill or a mountain, nor the deep purple hue on a hill filled with heather bursting with heady scents and buzzing with honey bees hard at work producing jelly-like honey so musky in taste and so healing to eat. “Sea pinks” are a lilac colour, their stems a pale green both in stark contrast against the stone walls they manage to sprout from currently growing in abundance and delighting the senses, their soft petals brushing gently along the sides of my car as I dodge yet another idiot who doesn’t know how to drive on country roads.  I apologise to those petals softly, praying I don’t bruise them, before I open my window and delicately roar obscenities at the ass who, as usual, can’t reverse before I get to take the steering wheel of his fucking car to reverse it out of the way so I can unearth my own car from the drain I just buried it in trying to dodge him. 

I have a glorious (yes, correct description) friend here this weekend who came to “cheer me up” because she thought I was down as I’d been distant and quiet. She arrived late Thursday night having travelled for seven hours on motorbike after a day’s work, all for me. (Yes, I’ve been distant and quiet, because of this site!!!)  So I took her on a few tours around here, letting her see it in all its glory, or attempting to in between bouts of prolific swearing.  She laughed, I swore. 

So this morning, before anyone rose, I disappeared. I took myself off in the quiet of a Sunday morning and sought my peace. I blogged about that already...!  This afternoon, I disappeared to the garden with a book and some sunshine (yes, it really was warm!!!) and ended up asleep breathing in the dandelions and clover in the lawn which I refuse to kill. I woke stiff as a board, stretched (and regretted it as everything creaked) but felt human enough to face another tour and more tourists. Big mistake. 

So now you all know, I’m patient to a point, but I blame this blog on the gin. Important note: I don’t even like gin, but for some reason a glass of wine just wasn’t enough this evening... 

Where to begin...

That overwhelming feeling of being lost, lost in your mind, lost in your body, not knowing what day it is (or even caring), those maudlin days of transient existence where you just are because you have to be - not down, not depressed or upset or sad; no, just a little lost. 

The roar calls me first. That constant never-ending white noise that people seem to crave, it’s part of me, all the time. I start to walk towards it, the silence in my head broken intermittently by cars, people chatting, cows bellowing, sheep bleating. But I can still hear it, waves gently lapping against the rocks creating waves of that heady roar reverberating through my body through the ground beneath my feet. 

My pace quickens, I can taste the salt in the air, see the soft mist rising not far from me now, hear that roar. The sun burns my head, yet the wind is cold against my face.  My body is hot under all my layers, begging to feel the coolness of the breeze against my skin. 

People. Damn people. Everywhere. I keep my head down, hoping not to be seen and engaged in pleasantries. The sand yields under my feet, I have to balance carefully to pick my way to my place all the while praying no-one has found it before me. 

My thighs ache from the exertion, first fighting to keep my footing in the sand, now on slippery rocks that are clearly laughing at my efforts of being agile. You’re old, just use your hands too...

I peek down. It’s empty. I smile a contented familiar smile, the one you unconsciously do when you meet your closest friend you haven’t seen in a while, my safe smile. My ass finds my spot, my hands caressing the smooth welcoming softness of the cold hard rock beneath. My eyes are drawn to that point between rock and water, that ebb gently caressing, nudging, hinting at something bigger and greater, teasing the surface with its wetness.

The roar is loud and clear, safe in my soul.  The ebb is increasing, I can feel little splashes on my skin, my lips. I can taste what’s coming. Quickly I start removing layers, the need to be close to it an ache inside me.  Folding, wrapping them all up to keep them dry. Then opening myself to what I want, what I need.

Just a t-shirt and some jeans, nothing else, my body heat fighting to stay, the cold caressing the surface of my skin sneaking under what little clothing I have left. Goosebumps all over, hard nipples having a staring contest with the sea. The first spray hits my feet, droplets running between my toes. I’m angry. It’s not enough. 

The low somber roar turns to a growl, challenging me. My hands on my thighs feel damp, yet not a droplet to be seen. “Come on”, I whisper, “show me what you’ve got”.  A deeper growl in return. Droplets between my fingers now, adding dampness to the thighs they rest on, leaving lines like arrows pointing to an increasingly damp core. 

“Please, I need you now”, tears as I beg for more. A resounding loud roar fills me up in response, the salt water mixing with my salty tears, the mist encasing me completely, my hair curling from the moisture, the sun burning through the crystals on my face and arms, a soft dampness settling on my body, taking me home, wrapping me up in its arms and reminding me “I am”. 

Reading through this morning’s soliloquies, a common theme seems to be emerging. So I’m going to share my two cents on the matter! We all are self-analysing who we are, why we are who we are, who others think we are, and why we do the things we do; ultimately, who we should be. The simple answer is: we’re human. 

I’m me, and I’m finally acknowledging that I am. There is no right or wrong, no driving force behind my actions or wants or idiosyncrasies. I’m just me. Yes, my life is and will always be influenced by others - that’s normal. Yes, there is that innate human urge inside me to “please”, to achieve, to always be better. But I’m me. 

Yes, I have my list of desires, mentally, physically, emotionally, sexually. Yes, I know I’ll never be “happy” alone. But I’m content in the knowledge that I know that now. I make no excuses for the life I’ve led, I have no regrets for my actions/inactions this far, I haven’t done anything wrong. I regularly ignore that incessant voice in my head, that feeling deep inside me telling me to run or freeze or ask more. But that’s not wrong; that’s human. 

I’m me, I’m human, I’m at peace. 

That hazy suddenly asleep moment, still a little alert, vaguely still aware of external sounds, blissfully content in cosy bedclothes moulding ur body and settling into every curve, drifting softly away into nothingness... 

A sensation rouses me, confusion, did someone just touch me? Stop being silly, you’re home alone... There it was again, I know I felt it this time, a feeling of rough stubble against my inner thigh. I pull my pillow closer against me, my brain thinking it will provide safety, trying to hide my nakedness before I look down. I peek, but I can’t see. Hands rub either side of my hips, grasping me gently but firmly, guiding me to my back, insisting. I have a death grip on my pillow now, alert and terrified of the unknown.

”Don’t move.” Two words. The hands slide under me, massaging my ass. That rough stubble is back on my thighs, a soft tongue kissing, licking, a chin pushing, insisting, both working their way up. My legs tense and I try to roll away, the hands grip tighter.  A low growl this time: “Don’t Move”.

The lips move higher, teeth grazing my skin now too. My body betraying me, aroused but hidden,thighs clamped together tightly, pillow still clutched hiding the rest. His mouth moves left, finding the soft spot just inside my hip. His teeth sink in as he takes a bite, holding for a moment before he releases. I gasp, try to roll away from it. “Don’t. Move.”

His hands have started becoming more intense under me, teasing and stretching my cheeks apart. His mouth finds my other hip, replicating his assault but followed by a lick, a kiss, a soft brush of that rough face against my soft skin. A whimper escapes my lips this time, my body defying me completely and pushing towards him. “Don’t MOVE”. 

All I can feel is his breath now, the heat on my skin moving over my body randomly. One moment on my thigh, the next on my belly, the next on my hip, lingering over my pussy. I can feel my body betraying me fully, a slow steady trickle taken by gravity along the groove of my ass. He stops. His fingers feeling what my body has done. I hold my breath, and my pillow, my heart so loud I’m fully sure he can hear it. 

He pulls his hands away, I can feel his body shift. I throw my pillow away in an effort to escape until I hear the words again. “DONT. MOVE”.  I’m frozen, paralysed, though by what I don’t know. I force myself to look, Those eyes, insisting, pleading, demanding, begging, full of questions and searching for answers in mine. I don’t hear his words, I feel them, said in a hoarse whisper “don’t move”. My body replies: muscles relax, all fight gone, he sees my eyes respond, the lust in his mirrored in my own.

His searing look never leaves me, daring me to look away yet hoping I won’t. His body moving over mine, pushing my legs apart. His face is above me now, just inches from mine. I feel him between my legs, his body settling against mine. His hardness meeting my softness. His face comes closer to mine, his breath against my lips, his eyes almost out of focus of mine but not quite. I try to push my body up to his, to welcome him inside, pure want coursing through me to feel him deep inside me as his tip lies just inside. I feel his lips move against mine, a final warning that touched me “Don’t. Move”. His eyes dark. And then bliss...

Morning ramblings of the Irish woman again, although this one has been rolling in my head for quite some time. 

Horses:

I’ve put the word “breaking” as I have purely because I despise it so much. It was a term used to identify the breaking of a spirit or a character of a horse until he/she submits and accepts a rider. “Training”, although not as harsh, equally gives me chills but not quite to the same extent. 

For those of you non-horsey folk, there are so many varied beliefs and understandings on backing a horse, so many ways and intricacies of psyche for each individual trainer, no method right or wrong in my opinion; just different. Although, in my opinion, each horse is different and should be treated as such: an individual. 

My own personal method I stand by, and have done for many years. First you allow them to come to you. I will sit, field or stable, for hours and sometimes days until the horse approaches me. I allow them to circle me, smell me, observe me. Next I will stand, and again the same process. Now in a horse’s mind, if they step towards you and you back away, that establishes their dominance. This is the complicated bit. Do you stand your ground, or do you back away. It all depends on the animal, their character, their body language. Some need to feel that dominance, so I submit. Some, if you give one small step back, you will never get them back.  Eye contact is also a big factor. I will never challenge a horse with my eyes unless it’s necessary. I choose to keep my eyes down, unchallenging, accepting, non-threatening. 

Next is feeding. I’m a huge believer in leaving them a little hungry just long enough for them to depend on you. Horses are creatures of habit: even when the clock changes for daylight savings!!! Feeding is a complicated process, they must wait until you allow them to approach and eat. If you don’t establish this early on, you’re screwed lol. 

Then we have grooming. This one is, to me, the most important. Within a herd, grooming is a bonding process. I’m not interested in a shiny sparkly gleaming horse, that’s not why I do what I do. I’m interested in showing myself as their equal, someone to be trusted with the most sensitive and delicate parts of their anatomy, a horse who will allow me to touch them everywhere and not once fear me - they guide me to where they want to be touched by replicating the grooming process on me. If their muzzle moves up on my body, I move my hands up and so on. 

This entire delicate process for some takes just days, yet others it can take months. No two are the same, each with their own seriousness, their own scars, their own characters and quirks and playfulness. Some are mares, others geldings, and then there are stallions. Some are young, some middle-aged and some are old. Yes, they’re all one breed, but each is individual...

This is all bonding, this is the beautiful trust I establish before I ever ask a horse to “work”.  If you have trust, you can ask them anything and they will strive to achieve for you, please for you, look for you, adore you. They won’t do this from fear; they will do this because they love you as much as you love them. Of course you will have the ones who buck and bronc when you first get on, but gentle murmurings and delicate touches of reassurance are usually all that are required. They are flight animals after all... The very occasional firm hand is needed for the ones who do it out of play, reminding them that their behaviour is unacceptable whilst under saddle - for those I usually find another outlet for their play so they know the correct time and place to just let loose. 

Each and every one of them could kill me in a second at any stage in this process if they so choose.  Each and every one of them has survival mode ingrained in them. Each and every one of them has chosen not to.  Why? Because they trust me.  Because I’ve taken the time to ask them questions, and given them the opportunity to respond. Because if they ask me a question, I answer theirs in return immediately without hesitation truthfully and honestly. Ultimately, because I treat them with the respect they deserve and expect the same in return.

Now then, I’m sure I’ve bored you all senseless with the meanderings of my mind on this topic. But I need to ask a favour: read all of that again, but replace me with a Dom and the horses as a sub... We’re fight or flight animals. We’re delicate but ferocious. We choose to submit because we want that bond, we want that connection, we need you. 

There are two beautiful sayings I adore in regards to horses, but for now I’ll share just the one and leave it with you to mull over:

You ask a mare, you tell a gelding, you liaise with a stallion. 

This is most definitely not something I’d ordinarily share, but I can’t not... 

The elephant in the room:

I can only speak for me, and I certainly don’t want to imply the same of others, but for me sex is “taboo”, as in my own sex, my own self-pleasure. Now as someone with an extremely high sex drive who “indulges” as often as she eats, that’s pretty damn tough to deal with. I’m not inexperienced, but I’ve only had a handful of partners and certainly am not promiscuous (though I’m quite envious of those that are/can be...)

My issue is this, and I would love to hear other subs’ and Doms’ opinions on it, if u feel so inclined as to indulge me:

I need orgasms, and I need them regularly (and yes, I know the word “need” shouldn’t enter my head as a sub...). But when I have one, alone and indulgent and oh so blissful, I’m immediately wracked with guilt afterwards. Why? Quite simply because of the sub in me.  How dare I pleasure myself when I’m designed/created to pleasure another? I can hear you all screaming at me to just enjoy it, but that’s easier said than done with a mind like mine... 

That brings me to today, Thursday, a morning of blogging and journaling down and a magical pm in my inbox (and no that’s not a euphemism for something else lol), that made me feel empowered and pretty damn horny. He probably knows who he is, and no I’m not hitting on you, but I drew my inspiration from you today... I put myself first.

I’m a weird one, I don’t like self-penetration either digitally or with toys, but today was different. So the cobwebs and the mothballs were quickly and vigorously removed and sweet golden hues washed over my body and my brain for what seemed like an eternity - and then I found peace... I left what was inside, inside, found my cuddliest pillow, and drifted off into the most blissful nap I’ve had in years with no guilt. 

I dreamed the wettest dreams I’ve ever had, fantasies I didn’t know I had were unleashed and indulged, I have no idea just how many times I orgasmed or even if they were real (although the bedclothes say they were), and I awoke with my heart pounding, my body hot, wet with sweat and more besides, spasming and writhing and clinging to my poor pillow. Still, no guilt. So as I’m sitting here having my warm hug of a mug of coffee, bedclothes in the washing machine, muscles aching from an hour in bed alone, blissfully content and spent and all those warm fuzzy feelings pouring through me, I wonder: do any of you feel guilt in self-pleasure? 

Note to self: maybe turn it off before you go to sleep with it still inside you next time...! 

I wake up before my alarm once again, and in that moment between sleep and awareness, that little piece of excitement takes hold as I remember this site. I stifle the urges inside me to reach for my phone, instead going about my morning with an enthusiasm that has been lacking for quite some time now. I can see the notifications on my phone, a warm flush creeping up and down my body making my hands clumsy as I try to work. 

Then I check the time, see I have at least an hour, make my pot of coffee, breathe deeply for a few moments, and dive in. 

That warm heady flush of excitement turns to a hot throbbing painful ache in every ounce of me - messages or blogs? My lips touch my cup, my first cup, taking in a long deep needed gulp of caffeine. I describe it as a warm hug every time I have one... Blogs it is

I read the words, I check profiles before i click in to get a sense for the person writing, maybe a recording so I can read it in their voice - and then that sensual part of my brain goes into overdrive as I absorb every beautiful thought that person has deemed me worthy of reading - it’s like they’ve given me a pair of headphones to their soul. Their thoughts spill into my ears, like my coffee down my throat, giving me another warm hug. Smiling happily, aroused, sated, content, lustful, eager, fearful - ugh so many emotions and feelings coursing through me just from words. 

My breath catches as I look at my inbox, wanton excitement coursing through me with a mix of dubious caution as I click in. Again I check profiles first, getting a feeling for who has taken the time to reach out to me - I’m a teenager all over again; shy, apprehensive, cautious, unsure of myself. Another cup of coffee, another warm hug sliding down my throat. That excitement never leaves though. I’ll need a shower, a significant puddle has already formed. 

I can already see the ones that won’t work. I can already see and feel their need being so much more than I can offer in return to truly be of use to them. I can already see some that want to remain online, and though that makes me feel somewhat safer in my communications with them, I know I yearn for that look, that touch, that ultimate feeling of belonging. I’m growing stronger in my self-worth every day reading those blogs, feeling the strength of strangers and feeding on it. My soul is obese with self-righteousness each night as I read the last one, fuelling me up for sleeping, dreaming, fantasising. I click and open the first, and the dance begins...

I try to see my reflection in the words I read, get a sense of what it is I’m looking at. I use a mirror as a representation of a “dynamic” all the time - two identical souls, just the other way around. I smile, he smiles, each for their own reason. I cry, he cries, each for their own reason. Have you ever walked in the street and reach an arrow part, confronted by someone walking the opposite way? You both go left, you both go right, that awkward sensational moment of fear and hilarity combined. I dream of the day I do that and He will stop me and just look at me and see me. We’ll both know. That’s my mirror. So in the musings of these messages, are we responding to each other or simply acting independently...? 

The one who has made me smile is there. He’s changed the subject again. This one will be tough - we’ve gone from morning coffee conversation of daily life and hobbies to “kinks”. I love that word, five little letters that encompass such a vast array of pleasure condensed into a single syllable. I say it out loud, letting my tongue wrap itself around it before another warm hug slides down my throat. How many people get to discuss their wants and needs in such detail just as conversation to see if they’re compatible? Wouldn’t life be so much easier if people felt empowered enough to tell a prospective partner they want to be taken and used before they leave the house every time? Would relationships last longer if that spark remained lit as the potential possibilities of an hour in the bedroom that night were discussed over morning coffee?  

I read his list, his wants -v- needs. The pain causes me to catch my breath in my throat this time; the loss and the mourning begins... I can’t be His. But it’s ok. It’s not that I’m not enough, and it’s not that He’s not. The mirror fogs up as I realise our dance has ended. 

Last cup of warm hugs. I pause and think of Him, what He might just look like, what colour the eyes will be because that’s all I’ll ever see. What his voice will sound like. If he’ll write to me and reawaken my soul like so many of you have while I get my warm hugs in the morning. I open my inbox again, my dance card. A slow waltz is next, and the band has just started playing... 

Here I am again, rolling thoughts and dreams and aspirations into my words (and my fantasies too of course...)

I come from a family of teachers, although I’m not one myself. They still gather and discuss on a regular basis the intricacies of teaching - not to be confused with subjects, but actually teaching. Now whilst what they do utterly fascinates me, the way they analyse, debate, structure, restructure, adjust, they use core techniques and practices since they were all in college, a lot of questions arise in the broader spectrum of the ultimate educating of young minds. A question that rolled in my head but I didn’t voice for some time was a simple one but I voiced it recently: “how do you teach a child that 1+1=2?” The answer was in surround sound: “First you teach the oneness of one.”

In a way, it was quite a philosophical answer. So here was I in my own little head last night reading the beautiful blogs here and the forums, and the oneness of one popped into my head. You see, with the greatest of respect for all here (and certainly not criticising anyone for their own personal beliefs/understandings of who and what they are), I think there may be a Domness of Dom that I have failed to comprehend along the way somewhere. 

I write my blogs to try and garner a greater understanding of what it is I am looking for in search of my own peace, my own “survival, my own nirvana (the Holy Trinity on a power trip!). I’m the dreamer who dreams while sitting and reading and researching the intricate balance of one of the most beautiful relationships there is. Why is it then when I see my inbox do I inwardly cringe a little and only peek at messages through one eye? Is it irrational fear? 

I have met some truly inspirational and beautiful people here, and some absolute idiots too (in my opinion). To me, the Domness of Dom is the unfettered belief that one is worthy of another’s submission, not that one is entitled to dominate. Yes, the courtship is arduous and long from what I can see, the dance of “kinks”, the moonlit walk of “common interests”, the dinner of “intellect”. But where has respect gone to? 

Maybe I’m attracting the wrong ones, but I have a litany of “your mine”s in my inbox, or “you just need training”. What I’m polite, to a fault actually. I will reply for the most part. What some fail to see is the impact some of those messages have on my mind. Whilst I’m upholding my own morals and standards by being mannerly in my replies, the Dominators (as described above) are not happy, and some make that abundantly clear immediately. What does that do to me? I’m a pleaser, it’s who I am, I’m a sub who craves to please. So expressing your displeasure at our lack of a common goal is difficult for me to handle sometimes. to me, just because we’re not the same or hold the same core value of the Domness of Dom or the Subness of Sub doesn’t mean we need to hurt in retaliation. 

So for those of you wondering, I have researched a lot and have engaged with a few. I am well aware of “how to submit”, even if it does terrify me quite a bit and how it may work my life in a different way.  For me, at least, I can give an equation to explain the Domness of Dom and the Subness of Sub.

For me:

Dom + sub = worthy

I am worthy of your dominance, you are worthy of my submission. We are each equal. This may not come from the same school of thought as you, but that’s ok - we were all educated differently after all... that doesn’t preclude us from having a conversation though... 

The pain... that beautiful wonderful whole body experience that takes me to a place where no-one else exists except me, myself and I (the Holy Trinity of self).

Ive been ignoring quite a badly torn rotator cuff for months. I had the imaging done, was told if I didn’t have injections I was facing a potential surgery in the not too distant future to ensure I still had full mobility. In the same breath, the doctor asked me what I did for a living to have caused it. I had no idea what I’d done to it, just that it ached when I slept or did certain movements, so said as much. He leaned in and asked again, but this time added he had never seen as much damage to a shoulder (not just the rotator cuff) short of a 70yr-old man that had worked at physical labour since his teens. So I said it was probably horse related. He asked if I was still working with them, I smiled and said it wasn’t work. He then asked “how can you do anything at all when you’re in that much pain?” I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing at all.

I waited for his report, I did my research, I went back to my own doctor to ask what to do. I was told injection first and hope for the best. So off I trundled today to have the injection. It was the same doctor today... 

So I saw a smile in his eyes as he walked through the door, his mask hid the rest.  I smiled in return, though I know it didn’t reach my eyes. “Ah the lady who feels nothing! Well you’re going to feel this!” So we idly chatted, he prepped me, explained what was to happen. I saw the needle, the size of it, looked where he had said it was going to go. He told me to look away, I didn’t. I saw him poke it in, how deep it went as he guided it with the imaging machine, watched the screen and watched the needle. He suddenly stopped and said “omg, I’m so sorry, I can stop if it’s hurting”. I looked at him and asked why. “You’re crying.”  And I was.

”Oh it doesn’t hurt, please keep going,” was all I could muster. And it didn’t. I barely felt it. How could I tell him that what he was doing wasn’t hurting me, but that what it meant, the pain he was going to take away, that was what was hurting me. That dull ache was going to disappear; that one thing I could depend on making me feel human, alive, real, me - he was taking it away from me. He sat after he was finished, let me put my clothes back on while he turned his back, gave me as much dignity as he could to allow me to gain some bit of composure. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I sat down again when I was finished assuming he had directions to give me. 

He turned and looked at me, but this time his eyes saw ME. There was a softness and a hardness in his, almost a judgement and a gentle sympathy at the same time; a criticism and a concern. I held my breath, waited, and then it came “why did you wait so long to go to your doctor about this?” The answer was simple: “I didn’t go to her about this, I went to her for something else and she noticed the swelling.” He was completely taken aback. He looked down and paused before the next question came, I wasn’t expecting this one: “are you ok?” And I laughed. My shoulder was starting to hurt more, he had told me it would, and the Holy Trinity feel powerful when I replied to him: “to someone like you, I’ll never be ok.”  

I was leaving the room when he called me back. “Turn up the music so no-one can hear you scream.” I looked back at him, blank and confused. “And when you think you’ve finished screaming, scream some more.” My smile reached my eyes this time, though I quickly dropped my gaze. 

I sashayed my way out of that room, down the corridor, out the doors. I tore my mask off my face, skipped back to the car. Spotify was my closest friend all the way home. He was right, and the Holy Trinity loved every divine second of it all. 

Second pot of coffee in and I’m finally strong enough to put my mind and ramblings down... it’s a step, an enormous leap for me actually, to be so “selfish” as to indulge myself. And therein lies the confusion: that constant internal battle that has overwhelmed my life. 

I’m a sub. That is who I am. Some people are straight, some people are gay, some people are trans or bi or non-binary. I’m a sub. But I’m a sub who has suppressed and gotten by with pleasing others in day-to-day life and satisfying that urge inside me just to hide who and what I am. I’m the one that will read and research and know every last thing about something going on in ordinary life for someone else, just so I can get my “good girl” from a random friend or family member or even a member of a group or committee I’m on. They don’t understand why though, and that breaks me sometimes. But I digress... 

My battle: I’m having to put myself first in all of this. I’m having to analyse my wants, my needs, my kinks, my cravings. I haven’t done this before. I have never in my life put myself first. There, I’ve said it. This is the source of my confusion. This is singularly the most confusing aspect of all of this for me. People ask me here: what do you want? I don’t know... But the fact that I can’t be what some of you want, that’s almost more difficult...

The “battle” begins in the mornings... What would X want me to do if I entered a dynamic with them? Will that affect my life and being a mum, being a friend, being a confidante, being a committee member? Its making me try to categorise every aspect of my life into necessary and unnecessary to see if I can fit them. I can’t handle disappointing someone, it breaks my heart and soul into tiny little fragments all the time.... I’m in “control” right now, I have to be, that choice isn’t there nor has it been since I’ve been a mother. How do I make that work in a dynamic? How do I finally put myself first and just let go?