Lost

I need him
Like I need music, like I need song, like I need movement every day so that I don't turn to stone.
I need him
His kiss to breathe, his lips to know, an addiction in my blood.
I need his hand to hold, his touch to lead, his voice to calm my soul.
But he isn't here.
And there is no promise that makes his moon able to touch my sun --
Leaving me waiting, crusting, cresting
Unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to see.

This is one of the most profoundly uncomfortable and painful things I've Iver had to walk through. 

I will be traveling in a day. In hours. Going back to Texas.

My first D/s relationship began in 2020 and lasted online, for about a year, until he found someone vanilla that suited him better. I was devastated.

I had given up everything, including my will. But it was not enough. He will tell you that it had nothing to do with that, but, I can’t let it go. I can’t submit how I feel about it.

He tried to be there for me in the aftermath of my destruction, calling often.

I always answered the phone.

I still answer the phone for him, will choose him over others, not because I still love him, not because he earned it, but because the need to respect him has never faded.

A lot felt wrong after he chose another and I took a path that would consume me.

The next person I met also ended up choosing another. (And no, I don’t blame you or hold that against you. It was right for you at the time and I was in such a rush to cover my bleeding wounds with something, anything. That’s not your fault.)

There were a couple of little online things, that burned hot and left scars.

And then there was the first man who was all in – he wanted to be with me, and would make sacrifices, face hardship, cross the country, to make it happen.

And That was all I saw.

He was married, but poly. She was okay with me. We talked. I made sure. I warned them both that I wasn’t really poly, but I would try.

I did try. But not, quite what they were both hoping for, because from the first I wanted my territory separate from her territory and I would not, could not budge. I suck at sharing. I really do. And I’m also highly competitive when it comes to attention.

I want it all.

And I was broken. Such a mess. Still in this state of crying every other week about my first love, disgusted with myself that I had tried to rush into something right after, and hating myself for how weak and biddable I had become with men I had never seen.

That first relationship opened me up and left me open. I still haven’t managed to close the doors and windows my first online Dominant created in my psyche, how he took a need to please authority and amplified it, how he took desire and …freed it.

See- five years later and I still feel him.

But then there was the four years with Sir, and his wife.

The four years that dug into my soul and crossed some of my most sacred boundaries. NOT boundaries that have anything to do with kink. No these were life choice boundaries that involved my history, my possessions, my property, my family and my finances.

And yet, I obeyed.

Not only that, I had my Sir’s back. I stood firm, I found ways to keep going, I got work, I scraped the bottom of the barrel for needs and wants. I was there for him in a way no one in his life was.

Until I was drowning and realized that not only would that situation never change, but other promises would never be fulfilled. The final blow landed in May of 2025.

I cried.

And then I made choices.

Our lives were entirely entangled, and I had let him into everything. I loved him. At one time, I had made the choice to trust him.

I chose trust. I allowed love. I learned… much.

When I met him I thought I didn’t need…emotional support, strength, another’s will or order to keep me going. I was a service submissive; I was an honorable obedient slave. I was a sex addict. He provided ease for the last and I provided the attitude for the first two.

It pissed him off that I didn’t need him, crave his emotional reassurance, and his physical presence the way he craved mine.  He didn’t want me to work. Didn’t want me to leave the house. Invaded my space whenever I tried to set a schedule and work on a project. Used my services to help his wife and his sons when he needed time to work on his projects.

But he loved me. With words and with body and with small actions that spoke massive volumes. He appreciated everything I did and often argued with me about doing too much.

He didn’t want me to work. But no one else could get or hold a job. So I worked.

But things got bad. I couldn’t keep up.

I worked a full day. Sometimes two jobs. And sucked his cock and fucked him almost every night he spent with me, and often in between.

We had an arrangement. It was every other night with me. He took turns between beds.

I don’t know what he was doing with his wife. I do know we had sex like a new couple, and I wanted, needed that physical touch, because this was where I was fed. This was my emotional need. To touch him. To be with him. To feel skin.

I have now learned that the more he loved me the less sex he had with his wife, that she had become submissive to the point of being unresponsive and he had lost all desire for those types of encounters.

So, when I never intended to, I also hurt their marriage.

They have been together 30 years, but there are things there that I should not say. I’ve already said too much.

I love him.

I submitted to him.

I let him bankrupt me.

He apologized. This man sees what he has done. He has always been an amazing communicator, who admits when he is wrong, admits when he has anxiety and confronts me with my own issues when the time is right.

We have talked about how because of certain mental issues that his view of what is the truth and what is reality are two very different things. And yes. I realized this, guessed this early but I was covering bleeding wounds and also on a self destructive bent of “kill the stupid sub bitch inside of me that got me into this mess.”

Sometimes. Often. I still want that stupid bitch dead. I hate her. As if she were an alien seed in my gut I can not eradicate, as if she takes over, her need roaring to life, and burning everything that matters, like fucking self-control and honor, in her need to get a hard dick inside her mouth, pussy or ass.

All this to tell you, this man, who I left in August, is now very sick.

Born with sars, badly abused by parents, teachers, a community, used in childhood experiments on medications for epilepsy, sharp shooter, fisherman, carpenter, creative, story teller, hunter, navy Seal, sniper, proud, stubborn, angry, full of life, passionate, sexy as hell, this man…is waiting for confirmation that he has ALS.

I promised him I would take him to the diagnosis appointment. I promised him I would go home to him, before he was in a state where he didn’t know I was there.

So. That’s what I’m doing.

Because I do what needs to be done.

When I wrote my first spicy romance novel, I stripped away things like religion and conventional propriety to create primal, raw characters driven by the instinct of their masculine and feminine archetypes. I wanted a world where people were unmasked, where they reveled in unrestrained animal magnetism, where they were gloriously whole and true to their character and nature in all things.

I wrote a dominant and submissive relationship because that was my genre, but also because that was my idealized image of connection and relationship. The man was a leader, teacher, protector, and the female was feminine, submissive, willing breeder and nurturing care giver.

I wrote kinky, raw, detailed sex that scorched the pages and created a fated mate bond that connected the characters on the most elemental, united level I could fantasize into existence.

Not once do my characters declare or rhapsodized their undying love and devotion. They don’t say it. They live it. He is her gravity, and she is his moon and stars, and they are united.

Words are so powerful. I used to have a pinned post on my X feed that said, “Words are my super power, I can turn things on with them, and I can turn things off.”

But some words, like love, have lost their power, and the only way to give it meaning is to strip it of all preconceived notions and turn it into an action.

“I love you,” means nothing if it doesn’t come with action. And so my characters never say it. They live it out. 

It’s just a little smut book, to some. Just some stupid lady porn. But to me, that novel was an expression of what a loving, connected relationship between a heterosexual man and a heterosexual woman could look like. Unashamed in their desires, accepted by their culture and community, raw, passionate and liquid with want.

And some of my readers get it. Some of them understood. Some of them found comfort, found understanding, found respite in the fantasy I wove for them.

And me? I wanted to live out that fantasy.

But somewhere along the line my wonderful intentions crumbled, and I turned the words into the porn I’d been accused of writing.

I turned my love as action into a song of pure carnality.

I don’t want to be that person. Just because I can, doesn’t mean I should.

I need to find my way back, my way home. I need to find the path to that place where I was writing to an audience begging to be noticed, to an audience with a dead bed, to an audience that had never been embraced with a love so strong that you could feel the other persons need as it flowed out of them and into you. A place where submission was a willing act of love, not some grand performance of pomp and circumstance. Where the submissive was a treasure, not a toy.

The path is dark. Twisted. Criss crossed with rabbit trails that confuse me.

But I have no other choice.

A love letter to a lonely stranger...

My Dearest,

I long to see you, love. To get close to you. To know you in the quiet where your breath catches, where your pulse can hum beneath my fingertips.

I know that I am no one to you, just a jumble of words we’ve exchanged, comments and posts on in the digital of the internet, but I feel your energy, your essence and I want so much just to touch you. Connect with your vibrant alive. I know that it’s bold, but I promise to leave no scar behind. I’ll be careful.

Is it so wrong to want to know you? Be close to you? I dream of the peace we could have as I sit at your feet while you work.

But right now, could you hold still for me, please darling, and allow me to learn you. I’ll take only one hand, just one. The hand that holds your coffee cup. The hand that cups a woman’s breast. The hand that folds and bends, daily, at every work task to earn the living wage, to do the things that must be done.

Maybe if you let me just touch your hand, I can discover you without trespassing in other ways. I can find out the quiet, constant thrum of your energy, the part of you that calls to a woman like me.  

I love a man’s hands. Wide and warm, they carry the weight of your days, the ache of your unspoken, unreached dreams. They hold all your desires, every lonely, ravenous day since you were young is there in those creases. Every time you touched yourself, sought relief, thought of a woman, is right there. Your hands connect me to every groan and every sigh you ever uttered, every wicked thing you watched or read at three a.m.

I don’t judge you. I won’t. And I’m not afraid of anything you might say or do. Please, could you just let me touch you?

Let me touch those lines in your palm as we breathe together. In, out. In, out. My concentrated touch learning your life, your ambitions, your need. Stroking the pathways to your fingers. I hope you don’t mind if I take my time and go slow. Slow.

This is where I would rub into your knuckles search out the pain you hide. Caress it, the bruises, the long workday, the endless dreary repetition, in your tendons, your muscles. Just let me rub, soothe, ease. Let me have that pain, take it into me, as we breathe together.

Our breath would mix. I inhale you. You inhale me.  Two strangers, yet in this moment, I think you might see my bare soul as I seek to see yours. I think you might know me better than I know myself as we exchange air, as the human energy in our existence hums around us. Yours is a sensual storm, I see your cock rise at my touch, but I want more. Can you give me more? Will you?  You can have a quick fuck with anyone, but if you relax and open to me, I imagine that I can give you something special, show you that you are not alone, that you are not worthless, that you and everything you create has value. That you are not unwanted. That the dreams you are working toward can become real.

Don’t move. Don’t touch me back. And No, I won’t touch your cock. Just your hand. Please?

I will follow each finger and stroke, before returning to the thick mounded pads at the base, where I rub, seeking the sore places, the hidden tensions, and I want nothing more than to unravel each of them, muscle by muscle, until you are soft and open under my touch.

Please. Could you, in the secret place of my words and your attention, could you open to me? Trust me.

To help, I’d reach for something comforting, almond oil, perhaps. Make my hands slick so that I can slide easily over your skin. Sweet, woody, slightly cherry, you will remember this scent, and maybe you will remember this innocent, charged moment.

It would be so good as I rub the oil into your skin, when I moan, helpless in my desire to know you. I bring your hand closer to my lips. Hover near your skin, not yet touching, but drinking you in.

Give it to me. Please, darling. I crave the difficult, the valuable—the intimacy of knowing you. It is a lot to ask a stranger, but I promise I won’t hurt you, I won’t trespass where I am unwanted.

We breathe together. In and out. In, out. I watch your throat move as you swallow, to see the flicker in your eyes when our gazes lock, to hear that wonderful sound when you trust me enough to let go, because that’s when the rainwater of your constant raging storm becomes warm, becomes something that sinks into me, connects with me, energizes me.

God, I want that. Just as your strength is in your hand, so is your vulnerable, your surrender. I know you never think to let go, to let anyone carry you, but you work so damn hard. I know you do. Could you let me do that? Pause and imagine it?

You are amazing. I want to map the contours of your being—your spine, your ankles, the curve of your wrist—until every inch of you knows my care. I don’t write this letter to you in an effort to take, but to give, to see you as you are: beautiful, raw, human.

It’s okay to feel the deep things with me.

Your presence is a gift, and I am greedy for it—not for your body, not your manhood, not this time, I want to connect with the soul that rages like a storm, trapped in a man shaped cell.

Still rubbing at each pad on your pam, I take your hand in both of mine, and use my thumbs to explore the rest of that hidden, ignored hurt. I am not afraid of what I see. You are safe here, with me. Let me touch you, learn you, love you in the quiet spaces where words falter and only breath remains. I am yours, in this slow unraveling, and I ask only that you let me see you—truly see you—before the world calls us back.

And then I’ll leave you, let you go having touched something wonderous, the hand of a man.

Yours,

Izzy

This is not my spirit animal however...

Pages from a grungy, aged altered book mixed media art journal. 

Since and amazing amount of people liked my art. Here's more  (two people.)

I am NOT a little. Coloring books do not calm me.

But if he makes me call him Daddy I'm going to lose brain cells, want bubble gum ice-cream, act playful, silly and absolutely ridiculous. 

Still. I am not a little or a princess.

Also, some of my art:

It was just a dream, wasn't it? None of it was real. 

That's why this still hurts so much, because I carry my dead dreams 

The memories of what could have been

Like scars on my back 

Lashes that cut through my mundane reality

and leave deep, painful marks of hope.

He spreads me open
Finds the nerve ending
Of my frantic heated imagination
And kisses the tip
Sucking it to the roof his mouth
Licking it with the flat of his tongue
In stokes that devour to last drips of thick, syrupy honey
All the wet essence
of my fever dreams.