My addictions are mine and comfortable. I wish I didn’t have them, but they’re part of me. They’re like my disabilities– I know what to do. My addictions are like soft, frayed blankets, easy to fall into. I’m not proud of them, but I’m used to them. I know how they smell. my addictions Long
This is a letter to my lover, or to someone who was my lover, and I hope one day they’re my lover again. It’s about my chosen wound. Dear one, My chosen wound is partly about fatness. You know what the world does to very fat people. But it’s more about home and safety, and
How I like to be hit has changed over the years. My spouse and I are coming together with renewed interest and love, after I broke up with my brilliant young lover who I had been spending significant time with. It’s a huge life change to refocus on my spouse as the person I most
Dear one, Years ago I was in love with my friend G who introduced me to the band Woven Hand. Yesterday I got a weird craving to hear them again but didn’t know the name of the band. I tried searching “dark country” and “dark country guitar” and finally found a playlist with a Woven
Dear friend, I was never young. In years, I was young; I was born as a baby and progressed as one does. But I was never young in the sense of needs met, well-being protected, spirit cherished. What’s innocence? I definitely wasn’t guilty. But life didn’t unfold in a stepwise way. Choices were denied me,
I had a rage orgasm. It was surprising and almost scared me. Emotionally I’m going through a time of change. I’m making new choices including saying no to unbalanced, destructive relationships. Feels great to raise my standards and work on believing I deserve more. content warning: brief mention of sexual violation Family pain and trauma
I have four things I love to be hit with. These are my beloved impact implements. my spouse’s hands the flogger my spouse made of black parachute cord a colorful wooden spatula a shortened yardstick Yes, such good things. thuddy vs stingy I like a mix of thud and sting. My spouse’s hand is my
I try to family up with people–it’s a thing. Often a friend and I get close and closer, then to a point where we are good friends with deep intimacy between us. And it’s like– ok, are we going to partner now? At the spot where many would use alcohol or other drugs to get
“I think you’ll do,” my spouse said, inspecting me as I stood with my hands tied behind my back. “Yes, I accept you as my bitch.” We were at a vacation rental, doing some kink. It got loud, so I’m glad we had noise privacy. That morning I had a vivid fantasy about being chosen
Is it possible that a family has something rotten at its core? My family has something like a horror movie woven into the cloth. I don’t want to use the word “evil.” More like diseased. But that sounds like an ableist metaphor. Is this rotten-ness real, and if so, what do I do about it?