Hidden In Plain Sight

 

We thought because there was consent,

it was ok.

I thought giving you permission

was enough.

But it wasn’t the freedom of permission that you hungered for.

You wanted the part of me that was willing…

and wanted to destroy it.

 

I needed you to play the Monster.

And you did so beautifully.

You helped me touch on wounds I couldn’t find any other way.

But what we didn’t understand was that there was no

return for us from that place.

You would always be the Monster…

and I would always be your victim.

Even though we both know that deep in our bones

that’s not who we really are.

 

I don’t need Monsters anymore.

And you don’t need victims.

We played it as far as it could go.

Then lit a match and stood and held hands as we

watched it all burn.

Until you turned to me and said…

‘This is the end of a chapter.’

And I knew by the look in your eyes,

you meant us.

 

 

 

It doesn’t seem to be spoken about often, how difficult it can sometimes be to remain friends with a significant ex. It has taken so much work for us to get to where we are. Many, many, many times it seemed too hard and I considered walking away. No doubt he did too.

For the first time in my life I experienced giving everything to a relationship. And it didn’t work out. To say I walked away pretty burned and disheartened from that experience is an understatement. Remaining single for the rest of my life is still seeming pretty appealing.

So, what is this splinter that has come to the surface?

He is becoming the man I always saw and hoped he could be while we were together. If I step outside of myself I can say I’m so proud of him for wanting to become a better man. However, the painful part is that I have to accept that I won’t get to share in who he is becoming, in the way I had once hoped to. Some might say it’s better that I have a friendship with him. And yet, there’s still a part of me that mourns for “what could have been”… being safe to openly and freely love and admire him in his journey towards his authentic self.
And no, we can’t go back. I will never put my heart in that position with him again. That is my strength. I am the most indecisive person I know, but when I do make a decision it is impenetrable… especially if it is in regard to protecting my heart and wellbeing. Too much damage has been done. I will forgive and forgive and forgive and forgive… until one day, I quietly remove that person from having access to my heart, and they stay removed. It can hurt immensely. But I have come to learn it’s a necessary hurt. Friendship is the only offer on the table.

 

So, I will softly mourn. I will let that part of me shed her tears. And I will hold her and tell her it’s ok. Sometimes life just hurts, and that’s ok.

 

*not my writing*

She’s Not Cold. He’s Not Distant. They Just Got Older and Stopped Accepting Fucking Bullshit.

 

By Zen Prem

 

The older we get,

the less bullshit we’re willing to tolerate in the name of love.

 

We’re not here to decode texts anymore.

We’re not here for breadcrumb affection, breadcrumb effort, breadcrumb anything.

We’ve seen enough.

Been through enough.

And now?

 

Now we want something real, or nothing at all.

 

We’ve outgrown the drama dressed up as desire.

The emotional hide and seek that used to feel thrilling now just feels fucking exhausting.

 

The older we get, the clearer it becomes:

 

Love should feel like truth , not tension.

Like calm, not chaos.

Like home ,  not a fucking haunted house with good lighting.

 

She’s not cold.

She’s just done handing out warmth to men who only show up when they’re lonely.

 

She doesn’t want to hear how “different” you are.

She wants to see it.

 

She wants presence.

Consistency.

A man who’s not scared of her depth , because he’s met his own.

 

And him?

 

He’s not distant.

He’s just not entertaining women who turn closeness into a fucking test.

 

He doesn’t want to prove he’s safe anymore.

He knows he’s safe.

 

He’s done bleeding for the privilege of being misunderstood.

 

They’re both still capable of wild, aching love.

But only if it’s honest.

Only if it’s clean.

 

She’s not here to be anyone’s rehab.

And he’s not here to be anyone’s redemption.

 

They’ve both outgrown the fantasy.

Now it’s all about reality.

Not settling , but simplifying.

Not chasing,  but choosing.

 

She used to make excuses for poor communication.

Now she calls it what it is: emotional laziness.

 

He used to work harder when she pulled away.

 

Now he doesn’t chase , he observes.

 

And if it doesn’t feel mutual?

 

He doesn’t try harder.

He walks.

Softly. Cleanly. With his dignity intact.

 

Because both of them now understand this:

 

Love is not a reward for suffering.

And connection should not feel like a war zone.

 

She wants to be met.

So does he.

 

They’re not looking for a saviour.

They’re looking for a mirror.

For someone who sees the scars and still leans in , not to fix, but to witness.

 

They’ve done the healing.

They’ve cried the tears.

They’ve had the sleepless nights, the fuck it all phases, the deep reckonings.

 

Now?

 

They just want peace.

 

When she stopped mistaking inconsistency for chemistry,

her life got quieter.

Calmer.

Cleaner.

 

And at first, the quiet felt like loneliness.

But then?

 

It started feeling like home.

 

She took herself out.

 

She stopped settling for half-conversations with men who only knew how to speak in surface sentences.

 

She poured into her own heart and stopped expecting a man to unlock her softness for her.

 

And him?

 

He finally stopped apologising for needing space.

For not being “available on demand.”

For wanting depth instead of drama.

 

He stopped feeling guilty for choosing solitude over surface-level affection.

 

He learned to value his own nervous system instead of always managing someone else’s.

 

And now?

 

They don’t rush.

They don’t beg.

They don’t overexplain.

 

If the energy’s off, they feel it.

And they leave.

 

Not because they’re heartless ,

but because they’ve finally developed heart boundaries.

 

So if they meet ,

truly meet ,

it won’t be to fill a void.

It’ll be to walk together with nothing to prove.

 

She won’t need to be rescued.

He won’t need to be fixed.

They’ll just show up ,

as they are.

 

Clean.

Present.

And willing.

 

Because they’ve both realised something most people never do:

 

Real love doesn’t feel like confusion.

It feels like exhaling.

 

And when that love comes?

 

They’ll recognise it.

 

Because it won’t feel like performance.

It’ll feel like peace.

 

Not fireworks.

Not fantasy.

Just two people

finally done with the noise,

meeting each other

in the silence that feels like truth.

 

No, they’re not cold.

They’re not distant.

 

They’ve finally outgrown their own bullshit

and now know the difference between chaos and connection

 

They’re just  old enough, mature enough, awake enough, and clear enough

to stop bleeding for love that doesn’t know how to stay.

and start building it from the ground up ,

with honesty, presence, and fuck you level standards.

 

*(not my writing)*

I read somewhere that broken women know how to love but not who to love, and broken men know who to love but not how to love — and the more I sit with it, the more it hits.

You see it everywhere. Women who’ve been through trauma still show up with their hearts wide open, hoping this time it’s safe. They love hard. They give pieces of themselves they never should’ve handed over.

They pour into people who don't know how to hold space for it. They stay loyal past the point of logic, holding out for potential instead of reality. They ignore the red flags, rewrite the truth, and hand out second chances like they do not cost anything — even when those chances are met with silence or carelessness that cuts deep.

The problem is, they often give that love to the wrong people — people who are unavailable, inconsistent, emotionally lazy, or flat-out wrong for them. They mistake attention for care. They confuse chemistry for connection. And they keep thinking if they just love harder, it’ll finally be enough.

Then there are men who’ve been broken differently. Men who know exactly who they love. They remember her — the one who saw through their walls, the one who made them feel something real. They don’t forget her.

But when they had the chance to show up, they froze. They pulled back. They sabotaged. They shut down, because caring felt dangerous. They disappeared into distractions, into silence, into everything except the one thing that could have saved the connection — effort.

Love asked them to be present, consistent, vulnerable — and that terrified them. Nobody ever showed them how to be emotionally available without losing their sense of control. So instead, they let her go. They didn't know how to stay, how to communicate, how to be emotionally available without feeling exposed.

And now they carry the weight of that loss quietly. No loud heartbreak, no scenes — just silent regret that lingers. The kind they pretend does not exist, but it always does.

That’s the tragic mismatch. She keeps loving the wrong ones. He keeps choosing the right one too late.

She needs to learn that love alone is not enough — that who she chooses matters just as much as how she loves.

He needs to learn that knowing who you love means nothing if you cannot show up and act on it.

Until both do their healing, they’ll stay stuck in that cycle.

One loving too much, the other staying quiet.

One giving more than they receive,

the other withholding what matters most.

Love takes more than emotion.

It takes timing, courage, and the willingness to stop repeating patterns that left you bleeding last time.

Wanting someone is easy.

Being ready to love them right is something else.

 

‘Don’t you move a fucking muscle.’

His growl is so deep and low when He says this, I almost don’t hear it.

‘And don’t you dare drop that teacup. If you so even spill a drop, I’ll rip you apart.’

My eyes lower towards the cup. A little shaky. I don’t stare at it for too long. I don’t want to jinx it. But now I don’t know where to look, so I stare straight ahead. The Doll.

Back straight. Hands in front. Legs spread.
Heels, thigh-high stockings, garter, crotchless panties and a half-cup bra, clover clamps.
Lips painted red.
His Fuck Doll. Mouth open at all times.
His Mindless Cum Rag. All holes ready for Him at all times.
I stand without making a sound.

He’s crouched in front of me, concentration etched across His face. I watch, mesmerised, as He tends to my body like the conductor of an orchestra. So meticulous. The Wand, His tool. Or His weapon.

My body jerks. He looks up. Piercing eyes. I concentrate. Focus on trying to meet His demands. Trying to prove I can control my body with my mind just as He wants me to. But the pressure’s building. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. The orgasm. The.Orgasm. It’s not my orgasm. It’s His. This is what He’s telling me.

“Your body belongs to Me.”

‘Please Master, may I cum?’

‘No.’

A whimper escapes… I can’t stop it.

He smacks my inner thigh.

I look at the teacup. It’s like my hands no longer understand how to hold it. It seems strange, this thing, sitting there. And yet, it’s everything. I cannot spill that tea.

My body is betraying me.

 

‘Pleeease Master… may I cum.’

It’s no longer a question. A soft plea.

 

‘Don’t you dare cum,’ He growls.

I stare at the wall ahead. Drool collecting under my tongue. It won’t be long before it drips onto my chest… much like the wetness dripping down my thighs. He knows I both love and hate this.

I try not to make any sounds but it’s impossible. My vocal cords are no longer attached to the rest of my body. Are those sounds even coming from me? Nothing seems connected. All acting of its own accord. Hips bucking ever so slightly. Knees trembling. It can’t stop.

‘Master, please…’

Now the begging…. ‘Pleeease May I Cum?’ ‘Please, Master!’

My mind is blank. Am I even still breathing? Everything’s hanging on that moment, waiting to hear that one little word…

 

‘No…’

 

He inserts a finger and I gasp…

 

Sometimes my skin just doesn’t fit right.

My bones feel too jagged.

There’s an itch beneath the surface that makes my demons scream to be fed.

 

I hate sitting here.

 

She tells me they poisoned her.

Says she can taste it… smell it.

I can smell it too.

But it’s not poison. It’s death.

 

I look at her with compassion and love.

How terrifying it must be.

Her mind scrambling to make sense of the impossible.

 

I slide into a different position in my chair.

Cocooning. Comforting from afar.

‘I never imagined this,’ she says softly.

‘Me neither,’ I reply.

 

It’s true.

I never imagined her being someone to get sick.

Always bringing new and exotic “health formulas” into our lives to try.

Kombucha I was familiar with while I was still knee-high to a grasshopper.

She was the searcher. The seeker.

And now she’s here.

Thankfully not alone.

With us.

 

‘I’m not ready for this,’ my sister had said.

‘Me neither,’ I had agreed.

Both of us quietly acknowledging our surprise at still grappling with remnants of our mother’s path towards death.

It occurred to me I probably wouldn’t feel ready ever again. It always feels too soon.

Grief.

Such a loaded word.

The stress and turmoil of a loved one dying.

Watching as they slowly slip behind the veil of the living.

Being reminded that we each will someday walk that journey.

 

We talk about chocolate. And children. Past decisions. Skirting around the words that hang in the air unspoken.

“I love you.” “I’m scared.”

 

‘I’m tired,’ she says.

I help her up the stairs and we organise her bedroom for her.

I give her a hug. She’s so small now.

I can’t help but think of the irony of that after a lifetime of struggling with her size.

We say our goodbyes.

The weight of what goodbye now means, curling its fingers around each moment.

Is this the last time we will see eachother?

 

My sister and I talk in soft whispers in the kitchen.

We know what’s coming. We hug.

And say our goodbyes.

 

As I drive home, I pick over our memories…

deliberating on which pieces of her I will keep.

 

 

 

 

1: When did you lose your virginity?

*partying with my best friend, her boyfriend, and her boyfriend’s best friend. It was a lot of fun!

 

2: Rough sex or soft sex?

*both, especially in the same session. I love juxtaposition, so… being choked while he looks deep into my eyes and fucks me deeply and slowly, or tenderly dragging his fingers down the side of my face while I’m gasping for air during face fucking… yes please 🥰 

 

3: Do you have any unusual kinks/fetishes?

*lol, many.

 

4: Weirdest place you’ve had sex?

*goodness, this is testing the memory… weirdest and best (place)- on a chair in the rain in a thunderstorm.

 

5: Favorite sex position?

*depends on the mood- on my stomach, legs closed if I want to feel “enveloped,” doggy- if I want to fuck, standing- if the mood is passionate, on my back with legs over his shoulders- if I want deep penetration with connection, on top- if he enjoys a show.

How is it possible to choose just one?!

 

6: Do you like to be dominant or submissive?

*it’s more natural for me to be submissive, however, I have at times tried to step out of my comfort zone and “top” in certain acts if asked.

 

7: Have you ever had any one night stands?

*yes, plenty. Not so much anymore though.

 

8: Sex on the bed, couch or the floor?

*everywhere. Bed is my least favourite though. Love the floor.

 

9: Have you ever had sex in a public place?

*yes, a few times. I have a bit of a “thing” for sex in public toilets 🤷‍♀️

The last time was at the beach though.

 

10: Have you ever been caught masturbating?

*lol, many, many times.

 

11: What does your favourite underwear look like?

*although my preference is to simply be naked, I do love dressing up. Lingerie is always something I love- especially the sets with the half-cup bra and panties that have an open crutch.

 

12: How often do you have sex?

*as often as possible. In a relationship, daily (at least once) if it’s an option.

 

13: Is there anybody right now you’d like to have sex with?

*always

 

14: Do you prefer giving or receiving oral sex?

*giving by far! Cock worship is definitely a kink for me. Although I’m coming to enjoy the exploration of learning to receive.

 

15: Most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you during sex?

*this is difficult to answer because I don’t really find anything embarrassing within its natural form. There are mishaps but I tend to just laugh about it and move on. So nothing comes to mind (I’ll update if anything does).

 

16: A song you’d listen to during hard/rough/kinky sex?

*anything. Music becomes a background noise when I’m focused on what we’re doing.

 

17: A song you’d listen to during soft/slow sex?

*same as above.

 

18: Are you into dressing up for sex?

*yes. I love bondage gear, latex, harnesses, stockings, hoods, red lipstick, mascara… the full deal. Not all the time, but there’ll usually be something in the mix.

 

19: Would you prefer sex in the bath or sex in the shower?

*both.

 

20: If you could have sex with any celebrity right now, who would it be?

*tim robbins/russell brand/billy bob thornton, mila kunis/isla fisher

 

21: Have you ever had a threesome?

*yes, a few ffm. Currently in the process of organising my first mmf.

 

22: Do you/would you use sex toys?

*most of the time.

 

23: Have you ever sent someone a dirty text/picture?

*yes. I love sending pictures of things requested from a partner, or sometimes just surprising them with a little something. Not so much into sexting/role playing via text, but I do still do it at times- moreso as a form of “foreplay” leading up to a play session.

 

24: Would you have sex with your best friend?

*not anymore.

 

25: Is there anything you do after sex?

*snuggle. I’m a total snuggle bug!

 

26: Something that will never fail to get you horny?

*that “look,” being corrected in a stern voice, being touched with deliberation anywhere lol. And kissing!

 

27: Early morning sex or late night sex?

*both- consecutively. Early morning sex using the previous nights cum as lubrication is just too hot to pass up 🥵 

 

28: Favorite body part on the opposite sex?

*hands, cock, chest- including chest hair. mmmm 🤤

 

29: Favorite body part on the same sex?

*lips, breasts, belly. All the soft bits 🤤

 

30: Do you watch porn?

*yes. I go through stages- sometimes watching it a lot, sometimes not much at all.

 

It had been a rough week. He was arriving Friday, and suddenly my day blew out- an extra shift, an appointment, a hospital visit. My energy depleted, I began dreading his arrival. With that dread came an annoyance. I had suggested shifting our visit to the following weekend but he had said it would be ok. He wanted to see me. I wanted to see him, but there was a resistance. He felt like another burden added to my week. The thought of demands or expectations or even having to simply “host” a visitor, just seemed too much.

When he arrived I was withdrawn. We spoke about our plans for the weekend. He told me about his week. We fucked. We relaxed into our familiar routine. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of resistance. I shared with him that I was feeling super flat and just wasn’t feeling it. He listened and allowed me to share- reminding me I was safe, care emanating from every part of him. He offered the opportunity to cut his visit short if I felt the need. We simply relaxed and talked. He gave me space and offered comfort. At the height of my resistance I considered asking him to leave. He shared a concern that he was invading my needed “me” time. A part of me wanted to ask him to go, but another part of me was comforted simply by his presence. So I sat with it. And he sat with me, doing his own thing. Without trying to save or fix. Nor take anything on personally. I love that.

We talked some more. We had spoken of my resistance to others seeing me at my worst. He held me in that space with tenderness.

Finally, we went to the place of unspoken, and brought everything to light. It allowed me to remember to see him, and not the stories I create. And the strangest thing happened. Everything dropped away.

We ended up having a wonderful second night and following day, full of intimacy, insatiable sex, lightness and laughter. He helped me come out of my head and back into my body. Slowly. Gently.

His patience is unwavering.

He gave me permission to show up in any way, which ironically gave me the freedom to let go and connect deeper.

He scares me because he is a promise. A promise of a future I could have. A future I don’t feel ready for. Or maybe deserving of? I’ve sent so many prayers out to the universe, hoping. But I never actually expected anything to show up. Yet here he is. And I can list a million reasons as to why he’s not the right one. But something tells me otherwise. I don’t know what. It feels like it’s something beyond my comprehension, perhaps because it’s the unknown.

I read an interesting passage tonight that spoke of the difference between trust and faith. Trust requires a relationship and knowledge about the character of the person you are committing yourself to. Whereas faith is believing that if you jump you’ll be caught. I trust him. I just don’t have the capacity for faith right now. I shared this with him and he told me that’s ok. He isn’t going anywhere of his own accord, and there’s no pressure for me to be at any place other than where I am right now. I believe him when he tells me these things. And I agree. I don’t need to be anywhere else other than where I am.

 

He touches my belly. I love that. There’s no tentative uncertainty as to what’s allowed and what isn’t. I have given him permission to my body, and he accepts and trusts that.

He tells me I’m sexy. And somehow I actually believe him when he says it. With such authentic conviction it’s impossible not to.

He fucks me exactly how I love. Rough, hands pulling hair, on my throat. But it was when he spit on my face that I truly melted.

He says he wants to learn me. What I like. What turns me on. It’s impossible to explain that everything turns me on. It’s the way it all comes so naturally to him and he doesn’t even realise. It’s just a matter of him learning to trust himself and that it’s there, between us, already. His touch. That look he gets.

I lay awake next to him wondering what he sees in me. The thing that he seems to revere so much. I can’t see it. But somehow he manages to make me trust that there’s something there.

 

I’m pretty lost at the moment. Once upon a time Someone told me I was a slave, and I believed them because it seemed true. But my last experience didn’t go so well, and has left me super confused. I don’t know if it was me perhaps not actually being a slave that was the problem? Hindsight does show that I made a lot of big mistakes. Or maybe I chose wrong? Or both? I don’t know. Either way, I’ve lost trust in myself.

But now I’m in some kind of limbo unsure of where to go or what to do. I feel very “balk-y” at the idea of slavery or even giving anyone any power over me now, and although I have a wonderful fwb whom I adore, the “kink world” is just so hollow and only scratches the surface. I find myself coming here and wanting to participate, and watch from the sidelines, but I no longer have such an unwavering faith in my ability to try to give that level of devotion again. At least not enough to want to consider stepping back into any form of power exchange, or even relationship for that matter, any time soon. Today someone told me that I shouldn’t go into relationships with a “forever” mindset and that really hit hard for some reason, because I don’t know how else to be “all in” if it’s not with the idea of wanting to be there forever. Above all it made me realise that I have no reference points anymore. Things I felt sure about are gone.

My first focus after everything ended was to try to scrape back together some form of self worth, but it feels kind of empty without the somewhat naive levels of hope and belief I once carried. It feels like someone told me Santa isn’t real. And I’m terrified of becoming one of those bitter hags that goes through life miserable because they were too scared to try again 😕 I want to be a joyous hag! 🤪

It’s not a lack of meeting wonderful men. I’m just reluctant and afraid of making the same mistakes, or choosing wrong, and I’m not the sort of person to be with someone simply because I can’t be alone. I know I don’t function well solo, but I’d rather struggle than use someone just to make my life easier. Maybe my heart just isn’t ready. Actually, there’s no maybe… clearly my heart isn’t ready.

I worry I’m trapped in a place of my own doing, but don’t know how to get out of it.