Life, in all its splendor

I am terrified…spiraling..Mr. Vanilla is more than he appears..so much more

I was in my twenties when I started that job and met him. He was older, a little broken, easy to laugh with, and somehow I felt seen by him almost immediately. I worked hard, rose quickly, and for years we stayed in each other’s orbit, careful and quiet about what lived underneath it.

At the time, I was married, and that marriage was built on control, fear, and silence. When feelings surfaced, they did not lead to freedom; they led to pain and distance. So we stepped back. For thirteen years we remained boss and employee, saying nothing, while my life behind the scenes slowly came apart.

When my marriage finally ended, I unraveled for a while. I drifted through a season of self-destruction, reaching for anything that felt like comfort and finding very little of it. Eventually, though, I began the slower work of healing. Therapy, journaling, long conversations, notes on the mirror—the ordinary things that help a person remember she deserves to stay alive inside her own life.

Those years changed me. I became stronger, more self-aware, more deliberate about what I would survive and what I would no longer accept. Then my mother’s life fell apart too, and when her health began to fail, I gave up my apartment, my freedom, and the version of adulthood I had been trying to build so I could care for her. I became daughter, caretaker, friend, and sometimes therapist, because that is what love asks for, even when it is heavy.

Then, out of nowhere, he came back. One text—hey, how are you kiddo?—and something in me split wide open. By then I was thirty-eight, and we had known each other in one form or another for fifteen years. His message did not feel small. It felt like the past reaching forward and asking whether there was still time.

We started dating in October, traveling back and forth to make it work. Then his mother became critically ill, and everything shifted. I stayed with him through those last hard days, and I was there when she slipped away. Grief has a way of stripping people down to whatever is most true in them. He was shattered, and together we carried what had to be carried. In that season, love stopped being hypothetical and became something lived.

This week, he moved across the country to be near me. That alone would have been enough to shake me, but what unsettles me most is not the move. It is how quickly love can reopen every old question I thought I had already answered. I wanted something simple, something gentle, something that did not ask me to stand so close to the edge of myself. Instead I have found something deeper, more complicated, and far less predictable.

So here I am: in love, afraid, and more awake than I want to be. Part of me believes this could become something honest and entirely our own. Another part knows how dangerous it is to mistake intensity for destiny. That is the contradiction I am living inside—the hope that this is new, and the fear that it is not. Either way, I can feel my life changing again, and I am standing still long enough to watch it happen.

There was nothing remarkable about the day. The world itself seemed blank—its sky blotted out by clouds so thick it looked like an empty canvas, waiting for someone, anyone, to give it life.

Moisture clung to everything: the trees, your hair, your eyelashes. It pooled around your feet, mixing with the sodden earth until the ground became a sticky, muddy mess. Even so, there was nothing extraordinary about the day.

You had always loved rain—the harder and more violent, the better. But this was only a cold, clingy drizzle: not enough to stir the blood, only enough to irritate. You kept wiping your beard as wet strands stuck to your face; sweat and rain have a way of doing that.

The earth gave way easily; it was not hard work. The shovel was new, still carrying the sharp edge gardeners dream about. It bit deep into mud and grass with a heavy thud and that tearing sound—the sound you could never quite get enough of.

You kept at it with ruthless rhythm, stopping only to wipe the wet from your face. It had to be done. You had always known this day would come, even if I never believed you. Behind you, the pile of sticky earth kept growing.

Eventually, the work satisfied you enough that you stopped and surveyed it. It would do. It was enough. You set the shovel aside and walked toward the bundle you had hidden earlier. It had to happen. You knew it, and I knew it too, though we had fought it for a long time.

Without ceremony or care, the earth accepted the offering with a squelch and a thud. You stood there for a moment, shovel in hand—in thought, in prayer, in reverence for what you had done? I will never know.

The rain began to ease, and the clouds finally started to break. You looked up with a smirk on your face. You could not let it go; it had to be done this way. The end had always been part of our beginning.

Then you looked down and spat on the unruly mess below you—the only ceremony you would give the occasion. With the shovel in hand, you returned the mound of dirt as rhythmically as you had disturbed it. It did not take long, not in the mood you were in.

When you finished, you threw the shovel onto the mound and walked away. You had bought it for this moment alone, and now that the work was done, you never wanted to see it again.

It was done. I was done—dead and buried. You had always known this day would come. I simply never believed it.

You walked back to the car, sweat and mud clinging to you. That would not do; you could not stand carrying evidence of the deed on your body. You opened the trunk and found another bundle waiting. You kicked off your boots, peeled away your socks, and stripped off your muddy clothes. Wiping your face with your shirt, you pulled it over your head. You did not care. No one who mattered would see.

Sitting there in your boxers, you sighed.

“You are going to get arrested,” I said gently, offering a bottle of water and a towel.

“Fuck off,” you said. “WE are going to get arrested.”

You smiled—the kind of smile that steals my breath and reaches your eyes. With muddy hands, you pulled me on top of you, and we met each other as equals, both of us sighing at the contact. I cried—you cried. And in that moment, the part of me that had lived inside the past was finally gone, buried by your hands.

We had fought my past for a long time. You never gave up and never gave ground. You saw through the lies, the scars, and the silence because you knew I was worth having, even when I could not see it myself. I did not believe this day would come.

So today, as we made love for the first time as equals, I thank you for another seemingly unremarkable day. My past is done—dead and buried by your hands.

I love you.

I…am…dying….:giggle: 

I don’t fail often, I am too highly strung, too focused, too wound up. My world demands more of me than it has a right to. I give it my everything, every day. This isn’t some egoistical rant, it is just the nature of my underpaid and undervalued existence. Add to that my responsibilities as a caretaker, you get tired eyes and quiet acceptance that failure cannot, will not be tolerated.

And yet…I failed a friend. This friend has been gentle, caring, perverted, funny — everything I could ask for. He freely gives and drives me crazy with worry. I love him and his beautiful little. Of all he has given, he asked two things of me—simple, easy things…

I tried, but I failed. The excuses are many but they have no meaning—my priorities were less than and that can’t be. I apologized, I promised it wouldn’t happen again…and then I failed…again. My second apology— meaningless.

I don’t navigate failure well. To be honest, I don’t know how to handle it. My life has taught me that failure is banishment — pack up and leave…get out..you are unwanted. You are useful only until you are useless. So, I did that…I backed away, I banished myself. I degraded myself, I hated myself.

That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t about me, it was about him. I hurt him by failing to prioritize him, and his friendship.

I don’t know how to recover from this, to recover his trust. I wish that I knew, that I could be more…

I don’t know how to do this…

D…I am sorry for not understanding, for not prioritizing, for not caring enough to return the love you have freely given. Help me do this right…

Warning - not for the faint of heart...at your own risk and all that

You know.

You can’t have me. You have seen everything, lived in so many experiences, and satisfied every desire with a lifetime of women. With each new story you share, each revelation about yourself, it becomes clear that your greatest efforts amount to what is mundane for me.

From you, I would demand perfection. I would require absolute control. My reality is uncompromising—I do not seek pain for pleasure; pain is simply an essential part of my existence, as natural as breathing. This demands that you become something greater, the best version of yourself. I will never call for you to stop; my safe word is my final breath. You must walk the edge with me, knowing to stop before crossing into eternity.

You know.

You won’t be able to stop. In your vast history, you have never found someone who would accept everything and still ask for more—someone who turns the safe word into a challenge, pushing you until your rage threatens to overwhelm all control—until sadist becomes dolofónos.

You can’t have me, because I will destroy you just as you destroy me. I can only exist for you as a dream, your greatest unfulfilled longing. But you cannot possess me.

When we are together, we walk as friends, sharing laughter and supporting each other through life’s moments. Yet, you cannot have me; this truth was clear from the moment you saw it in my eyes.

You know.

I will always stand apart from your collection; I will never become one of those who came before or any that come after. Instead, I will remain by your side, supporting you, but always separate. I hate you, and I hate that this is our reality. Still, what a magnificent journey it will be.

For now, you can fully fuck off.

Journal from a Masochist - proceed with caution and all of that <3 

I despise you with every fiber of my being, every twist of my DNA. The mere thought of you causes my fists to clench in anger. Every time you open your mouth, you have an uncanny ability to enrage me. The words you speak fall out uninvited, and while I may understand and comprehend them, they carry no meaning—instead, they are raw, unfiltered emotion. They are laced with venom, sharpened with malice, and saturated with destructive intent.

You feed off my vibrant energy, consuming it with your darkness, your incessant demands, your endless needs. Like a black hole, you persistently absorb, never satisfied, always taking. You take every sound I utter and defile them, reducing them to the lowest form—a transaction for your amusement and satisfaction.

I am left as nothing but the curtain you wipe your existence on after you’ve stolen from my world. Your filth corrupts my grace until nothing remains but a desperate yearning for a mere fragment of your affection.

I hate that you have shared parts of yourself with others. I hate knowing her eyes are so similar to mine. I hate the persistent force you exert, always creeping into my personal space. I hate how you make me compromise my boundaries, how you’ve left marks—visible and invisible—upon me. Do you want to know how much I hate you?

I hate you. I hate your voice. I hate your body. I hate your energy. I hate your intentions. I hate your very existence. I hate the sounds you make, the power you wield. I hate you.

If one more “baby girl” passes your lips……

Forever—such a promise, such a dream, but it is not one I can give. I cannot be your forever, nor will I ever become a forever. What I have to offer is fleeting: this moment, this very second. Hold me now, even as tension tightens around me, my response will not change. I refuse to meet your gaze, to let myself be drawn into the longing reflected in your eyes. Take this time, accept this offering for what it is, nothing more. If you try to force me, grasp me, and make me face your yearning, remember my warning. Your longing can never equal mine; it is a truth that remains unchanged.

For now, my name is yours, this is all I have to give. Someday, I will wander away, compelled by a longing that relentlessly pulls at me, dismantling your forever. My eternal truth whispers: I am a healer. When you are whole, my place is no longer by your side. The wind will tell me when, and my soul will ignite with new purpose. The longing you thought you quenched will devour us.

My heart is drawn to the broken, the bruised, those hidden in darkness. Each time, a piece of me shatters for them, stays with them, until I am emptied and have nothing left to give. Only then will I find rest—alone, at the journey’s end—free from longing, free from wandering.

Allow me to love you in this way, then let me leave. You are ready to begin anew, unencumbered by the darkness that haunted you…Find contentment in the moments we shared and cherish your piece of me – it will hold you forever.

Warning - this is from the journal of a masochist with a sense of humor and a passion for the extreme. Not for the faint and all that. 

Smell

I don’t know when I passed out. You were there and then you weren’t. I smell meat, raw meat. It envelops my nose, wrinkling against the stench. Comprehension starts to bloom…the smell triggering a memory - my eyes flick open in panic, but I slide them shut immediately, the light is too bright…

Touch

Instantly, I try to move my hand to soothe my eyes, to stop the sneeze that is growing. I am caught. I yank on the restraints, eyes sliding open, blurry and blinded..closed again. The other arm is caught too…I sneeze, unladylike like indeed…the restrains pull tighter..they are rough, unrelenting in their duty, I feel my lips grimacing.

My body shutters at the unwelcome sneeze. My legs twitching..they are stuck fast. I am bound then..the smell is strong..

I grip whatever is underneath me. It folds under my fingers, soft and willowy. Am I upside down? No…I don’t feel upside. But I am wrong, I am not right, I am on my stomach..I feel the softness pressing against my body. So, I am naked and caught fast…

Sight

I peel open my eyes slowly this time, the panic rising. The world is blurry and obscene. I blink, and again, working my eyes into focus. Ah..I see now…I am tied to something, posts. Both wrists are caught fast and spread further out than comfort allows…I am a bird, wings spread.

I tilt my head but I can’t see behind me, my neck can’t get the angle I need…the soft thing looks like sheets. They are crumbled around me, pressing uncomfortably into my sides, my breasts, my stomach…it’s like being in a tanning bed…everything aches from the pressure. The wall..I think it’s a wall in front of me is unremarkable, no clues…no help..

Smell

Underneath the meat, I smell alcohol..the medical kind..the shit a true alcoholic will swig in desperation..hollow the stomach. It stings my open eyes. Where is the smell coming from? I crane my neck again to no avail..I can’t see.

Touch

I wiggle on my belly and I feel something crinkling against my skin, pulling. There is something on my back..Is that tape? It moves with my skin, but it’s sharp, not the knife kind of sharp…but the way bandaids in creases fuss at you when they are bent..something stings..it more than stings. Something is wet..I feel wet..

Sound

It sounds like paper…the alien thing on my back. Why is there paper tied to my back? I feel it from my shoulder down towards my spine. It’s tight to my body…but it gives a little when I move..

A growl sounds out of nowhere..it warns me not to move…so you are here…I fucking hate you…you got me again..your tone is calm but I hear the mirth rising. You asshole…

Sight

There is a loud shuffling..a groan and then a terrifying thwack as a large mirror is set in front of me. I can’t raise my head enough to see you..but I can’t see your legs, they are bare. Blood, that’s the meat smell..there it is, smeared against your thighs. You are flaccid, but even there I can see the smeary orangey red. You look like a bad shaving accident…pubic hair sucks..

Touch

My head is yanked up. My hair line stinging with exertion. My neck crunches a little..you know I strained that last time..

Sight

I can see my body. Gawd I hate you…I had one tiny idea…I can see the paper. It’s white at the edges, splotched with orangey red ink. There’s the tape..medical tape..you bastard! That hurts to rip off!

On the paper there is a pattern of tiny holes. I look like one of those god damn mesh strainers..The ink is dripping down my sides..down my ass..the white sheets we bought a week ago are trashed..I fucking hate you..

Touch

My head falls as you release it. It hits the sheets unceremoniously..I bite my lip hard, I taste the iron..the copper. You asshole…

Sound

I hear it..I hear the laughter. You can’t stand it anymore. You hunker down next to my ear and whisper that this was my idea..in a way. I whimper, not wanting to give the satisfaction of a response.

You laugh again..we are celebrating, aren’t we? He beat diabetes.…I was overjoyed when he told me. He wanted to throw away all his instruments, all his testers..I helped..I made one off-color joke about not having to stick himself anymore..and ha..we should rebrand those damn finger stick things as bdsm toys..we laughed..we ate dinner and passed out.

He finishes laughing..raises himself up and smiles at me in the mirror. He tells me to be proud…like those diamond paintings I like so much, he used that damn finger prick to etch a design on my back…the tattoo I always wanted but was too scared to get..

I hate you..fucking bastard..

Touch

The paper is ripped from my back…the fucking tape with it. He lifts my head again, I wince..I cry out and bite my lip again.

I can see no pattern, just the smear of my life, oozing from a thousand pricks. I wince..that is going to bruise badly…

Sound

I make a comment about a 2 year old with a crayon boxing having more skill…my head thumps..

I hear you padding away..growling about how ungrateful I fucking am.

Touch

The ropes around my ankles are cut from their poles..the freed length is grabbed and I feel my legs yanked open. The platform shifts as I feel your weight hitting it.

A hand, I think, smoothes its way down my back. You have always wanted this…I feel that hand on my ass, slick now with life. I know what’s coming..

Sound

I cry out as the blood is swiped from my back. The pain feels like a brush burn on steroids..I can’t imagine how long you were at it..how many tiny pricks..I hate you..

The wet squishy sounds begin…all I can hear is your laughter…my screams while you rake down my back…you fucking asshole..it was one little comment.

Hehehe…every fucking time….enjoy your Sunday 

I have nothing soul-shattering to share. Happiness makes for a poor muse. Instead…I share a giggle. 🤭