Open Letter to LGBT Community Center Hosting The Scary Party

3/21/2018

Dear (Executive Director),

I have shared a deep concern with the (LGBT Community Center Hosting The Scary Party) staff via email a couple of times and my complaint has been ignored. Just a heads-up that what you are about to read may be triggering, and for that, I’m sorry.

I am writing to you under my blog name to minimize outing other partners I’ve written about on my blog.

Since finding out that (LGBT Community Center) is now hosting (The Scary Party's) monthly parties, I have been suffering flashbacks to traumatic events that happened to me at the hands of their leadership, as well as feeling that I no longer have safe access to (LGBT Community Center) for counselling and other events.

At an (Scary Party) event in 2013, I experienced numerous consent violations from the head of security at the time and his friend, who was also on the security staff. In response to my report, the dungeon's leadership gaslighted me, blamed me for what happened, and the entire (Scary Party) community gang-trolled me on FetLife. 

I have considered (LGBT Community Center) to be a wonderful resource in the past, but until this situation is corrected, I will no longer feel safe using your services, and I don't think any woman/femme/submissive should.

Here are detailed blog posts on both the original incident and the FetLife nightmare. In the future, I hope you will consider safety and consent in your booking decisions.

http://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2013/03/scene-failure-and-scary-party-part-one.html

http://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-horror-my-adventure-in-fetlife-rape.html?zx=97b3fce42ee5dcf8

Best,

"Pretty Ribbons"

One Year After the Scary Party: Better, Stronger, Still Pissed

You can read the Scary Party story here.

It’s funny that the only place it felt safe to sit and write this in my notebook was the Whole Foods where Sweetie and I had some of our last dates. I guess it makes a certain amount of sense to process trauma in the same place where I get my hopefully-less-cruel meats.

Ever since the ads started popping up around town for the local horticulture society’s annual flower show, the one I made Sweetie miss last year because I was too upset from the Scary Party (I still wish I could make it up to her somehow) I’ve been thinking about how I can piece that story together with everything that’s happened since.

I never forgave them, but I’ve accepted the fact that somewhere in the city, every second Saturday of the month, there’s an event where the head of security is a predator, where the entire team leapt to defend him and trash me because I was an outsider and a submissive who dared to want a say, where the mean kids happily have their nastiness rewarded with popularity and love. Basically, it’s high school with more interesting outfits and better-organized bullying.

I’ve always believed, entirely too much actually, that if I’m not part of the solution then I’m part of the problem. (This is how a desire to fight racism led me to a job in an inner-city school that frequently saps my strength and my soul. Not ever sure it’s the best strategy.) but I no longer feel guilty that I wasn’t able to change the corruption of the Scary Party, that they’re still walking around seeing outsiders as prey, seeing the players as their own personal buffet no matter what compromising position they’re in. It does make me angry that people I considered friends still attend and love the Scary party and what makes me EXTRA mad is that I couldn’t find a way to compromise with it, settle for it, make it all into a good time somehow. I feel that way about a lot of the things I’m leaving behind—I envy the women who have figured out how to be the right nothing to turn all of that pain into something fun and good. I couldn’t. For all that I know it’s a bad place, there’s still the primal sadness of being left out.

At the time, when everybody was slut-shaming and victim-blaming me on all those threads, I told myself that I kept one woman from going through what I went through, it would have been worth it. I didn’t find out until August, but one lovely friend of mine did see what I wrote and decided to opt out of that party. She’s very pretty and nice and I’m glad if I might have spared her some ugliness and fear.

On the other hand, trying to exact change at one party, keeping one nice girl away, seems almost pointless when the overall problem is so pernicious, both to me and out in the world at large.

Since the Bad Thing in high school, I don’t know how to approach any group of people without deep fear and mistrust, and I also don’t know how to stop loving people who are terrifying and untrustworthy, seemingly as a way to prove and re-prove my suspicions about the world. The Scary Party was a particularly vivid and irresponsible reenactment of the Bad Thing, and I know I keep acting it out as an attempt to fix it. Right now it’s sometimes hard to see the difference between working it out in therapy and the various re-traumas I’ve walked into, except that I’m facing all the fears with pants on, and with someone I know and trust very well. Hopefully that will make all the difference and I’ll see an end to this cycle before too long.

Since I began my adventures a couple of years ago, I’ve always wondered if BDSM was just a prettier and more quasi-empowered form of rape culture, and the answer is (SOMETIMES) emphatically yes. I HATED it when Sweetie would equate D/s to sexism and oppression and (given an actual, humanized power exchange) it doesn’t have to be. But just as with poly or with anything really, the stories we tell ourselves about what we’re doing, about negotiation and respect and mutual fulfillment, are not aligned with what is actually happening most of the time.

What upsets me the most about our local BDSM culture is how much horribleness people are willing to accept or just dismiss as “drama.” Last week I found out that a friend who hosted one of my favorite party series has a girlfriend who is on the Megan’s Law registry for child pornography. Child pornography! and the guy apparently feels fine about having her in his house. And I thought snuggling with an accused rapist was a big risk. It is absolutely both crazy and unsurprising in a community wherein people regularly engage in adult/child roleplay and men so EASILY admit to rape fantasies. I came in accepting and open-minded, but let me just come out and say that BDSM seems to make people think they have license to just go ahead and act like complete fucking creeps. I think we all have dark parts of ourselves that are not meant to be nourished and expressed. Sorry Brene Brown, but yes, I think people need a little more shame sometimes.

Aside from the not-okayness of the Man and his cohort, the thing that still sticks with me, the humiliation that hurts the most, is how much I liked him, how much I was fooled into thinking he liked me, how much I wanted to please him, how I clung to him for comfort after he treated me with so much contempt, how I was willing to give him a chance to try again. That’s what kept the (stupid, ignorant, sexist) management from believing what happened and what almost kept me from walking out of the situation with even one shred of pride.

In the end, it’s not how much the Scary Party disregarded me as a human being or how much the local kinky internet community thought I deserved to get fucked over, it’s how much I must’ve thought I deserved it. He gave off an I-don’t-care-about-your-limits vibe from one of the very earliest text conversations and I still let him put handcuffs on me, and worse, I still let him into my heart. I’m so empty and lonely and self-hating that it seems I’ll let anyone in, and that’s the void I am finally trying to address, to heal.

Even if I have to leave behind the hope of being part of a kink community, (there’s no telling where I’ll end up after the Big Therapy Project) the fact remains that I still get a great deal of satisfaction from submitting and without someone to serve, I still feel a deep loss. I’m not sure how those urges will find expression, but I hope that they will become part of a whole, integrated person, not someone willing to throw herself under every bus of a guy that comes along.

The flower show is the perfect regret: I never again want to miss something beautiful, genuine, and fleeting because I’m broken by something essentially meaningless. I don’t know what the future holds for me, but I do (almost always) know that I exist and hope that I will love myself someday and that I will find a way to be free.

Being a Switch Is Awesome Part Three: First Time I Beat Up a Boy

After Old-Timey Guy was finished with me, I stripped off my wings and the rest of my costume and got as naked as I could while having to leave on nipple tape and panties. I just wanted to be comfy. I started to look around for someone to give me more snuggles. The Puncher is a really good cuddler, but for whatever reason he was seeming unapproachable.

Then a new guy walked in a military-ish costume and looked so much like The Man that I had to do a double-take. On second-look, he was much more fresh-faced, but the resemblance was still uncanny. Regardless/because of who he resembled, I thought he was cute so I said hello.

“I’m usually here in heels,” he said, “But tonight, I’m all Domly.”

“You SURE are!” I giggled and asked him what he likes. Just like me, he likes to be restrained and smacked around. After we chatted for a few more minutes, I went ahead and asked, “So, do you want me to beat you up?” Suddenly these things just seem so easy!

He smiled and said sure and I remembered that I DID have something to tie him up with—my pretty satin handcuffs! He happily held his hands out and I tied them on all snug. It was poetic to be putting soft, shiny handcuffs on a guy who looks like The Man, but this guy was such a sweetheart that all I was thinking about was making him happy. Okay, and maybe convincing him to snuggle me later.

(Sidenote: It occurs to me that I’d better be super-extra-careful to take care and honor bottoms’ wishes. I’m entering the world of topping with some not-awesome karma behind me, if one believes in that sort of thing. Better look for chances to heal those old scars—maybe this is one of those chances.)

(Another sidenote: Not superappropriate little note to CBATP—Not to take away from any of the wonderfuls I do play with, but I’m thinking of you in these paragraphs for a couple of reasons, wishing we could be in touch, wishing I could fire up the ol’ sexTARDIS to a time when scenes might be possible with you. )

ANYWAY, so the First Boy. I led him to a kneeling bench and tried awkwardly to get his pants down, but it turned out they were all one piece with the top of his costume. Little spoiler alert, he vowed to make himself more accessible to me the next time. I took off his cap and glasses and placed him on the stand next to us. I petted his sweet blond head and asked if he liked his hair pulled, and yes, he did. He has short hair, but I got a good grip, yanked, and enjoyed his beatific expression.

My spankin’ hand was hurty, everybody, so I wouldn’t have been able to do much, but he pointed out that his costume included a training nightstick. So helpful, except it was a little hard not to hit myself with the handle-end while I was hitting him—that must’ve looked funny. I sank into the rhythm and hit harder and harder, expressing all the rest of the aggression I had left, going actually a little sadistic as I scrolled through all of the feelings.

As I laid into the lower part of his left ass cheek, I noticed him flinch a little more than I meant him to, and he told me I was at a yellow. I felt proud and also horrified—ohno, I’m a little scary! Like, on purpose! (Actually this was the second time of the night I came off scary—the Fireman’s Girl wanted some nice spanks from me but got afraid when she saw how hard I hit TPG. I’m sure I could still do sensual spanks, though. Hope she gives me a chance to try.)

I backed off a little, even switch-hitting a bit, but eventually both arms got tired. I asked if he wanted some snuggles, and hooray! He did. The only snuggle-spot available at this late hour happened to be in the same place where I had lovely, smoochy aftercare with The Man back all those months ago when he still had a nice nickname. As much as I’ve stayed angry with TM, I’ve never forgotten the romance and potential of that first scene.

Sorry the paragraphs keep getting swept out of the First Boy moment—that certainly wasn’t the case that night. Apparently I’m into one guy doing aftercare on behalf of a whole bunch of people—can that be a fetish? Not according to FetLife, but nonetheless, it was incredible! Even though I was ostensibly supposed to be taking care of him, I got all wrapped up in his arms and felt sweet and beautiful, sinking into the woozy sensation of trust and safety. It’s a miracle that it’s so easy to fall into coziness with a stranger. One of the things I love best about single life is slipping in and out of intimacy without possession or obligation—just letting myself rest with another human animal and then letting it go.

Not letting go too much, though. He let me know that he plans to be around more often and that he hoped we’d play again. I sure do have some ideas for him.

Birthday Spanks and Unicorn Snuggles Part One: I Almost Let a Conversation Wreck My Fun

I was excited and nervous getting ready for Cute Master and Pretty Slave’s party yesterday. I left church a little early, came home and shaved (Jeez I should do that more often, it was a thicket!) put on lacy black and white polka-dot underpants and new fancy pushup bra. Over that I wore a short flowered skirt and a white tank top with the black bra showing through and the lacy straps exposed. I wore comfy shoes for driving but packed up my black and white heels in my suitcase, along with pajamas and a comfy bra in case I needed it for aftercare and/or decided to stay over.

I knew I wanted to play with the hosts, but I wasn’t sure how much. I know I haven’t fallen in love with everyone I’ve had PIV sex with (Only two out of all these recent adventures, I’m realizing…) but I know the risk is there and I didn’t want to end up wrecking/postponing any more friendships. Although they’re very affectionate, I know there aren’t lovey-dovey possibilities—they’re more on the swinger side of things than poly—so I hoped there were ways I could enjoy them without setting off the chemicals that make romantic fantasies happen. Spoiler alert! There were.

For the first few hours of the party I wasn’t sure if I’d end up feeling like playing at all. There was more of a laid back barbecue with friends feeling to it, delightful in its own way. There were a few pervy touches here and there, like Mardi Gras beads which yes, I did earn in the traditional way, adding to my I’m An Awesome Slut Checklist.

A conversation kept starting nearby that I was already in without joining it. A big, tall, dreamy Dom guy (He definitely earns a nickname in the next installment—please welcome the Huge-Handed Fireman.) was having online trouble with the leadership of the Scary Party, specifically with the same woman who’d “resolved” my issue by informing the internet that I was crazy. HHF kept talking about improvements that he thought should be made with security and the DMs because of incidents that had happened there.

By the third time I heard the conversation come around, I stopped resisting the temptation to join in. I went over to thank him and confess the role I’d played. Most of the people standing around agreed with HHF and seemed sympathetic, but there’s always one. Fucking. Mean. Girl.

I think every kind of community has versions of this Ratfaced Bitch Girl. She’s rotten all the way through, dead-to-malevolent behind the eyes, and graduated right from high school hallway bullying to running down outsiders as an adult.

She got her hackles up and started to lay into me about my method of reporting the incident with The Man, getting EVERY SINGLE FACT WRONG and saying there’s still no way to know the truth. I wish I’d been a reality show contestant with a drink to throw in her fucking face.

Since the HHF was talking about starting his own dungeon, I suggested that it would be helpful to have submissives as part of the leadership. Ratface Bitch Girl said that was a contradiction in terms, with in the same crazymaking rock-stupid voice that The Man used to tell me that “higher level” Doms are allowed to bypass consent.

I didn’t say this, but what the fuck does she think I’m doing in my daily life, sitting around waiting for some fucking Sir to tell me how to run my classroom? The assumption that submissives can’t lead just seems like an extension of good old fashioned sexism. If you’re saying that someone is incapable of leading, you’re on some level taking their agency away, and if you’re performing sexual acts on someone you’ve taken agency away from, that’s coercion at the very least. It’s the crux of the whole problem.

Ratface Bitch Girl added that besides, most of the Scary Party leadership are switches, so of course they could sympathize.she said it in the worst condescending snotrag voice.

Rage boiled up all the way from my belly and I expressed in with frosty controlled force:

“No. They. Couldn’t. And I HOPE it never happens to you.”

(Of course it WOULDN’T happen to her because she seems to be part of the Scary Party’s in-crowd and therefore would probably be deemed a person by them.)

Another girl, wonderfully ignorant and self-assured as only a 21-year-old can be, said she’d never had a bad experience there because she is “not a dumbass.”

“I’m not a dumbass. I was handcuffed. And if all the victims are dismissed as dumbasses, how is anything ever going to change?”

She backpedaled after that but I knew I was past-due to leave the conversation. I’d only had a couple of drinks and one hit of some really good weed, more than an hour ago so I figured I’d be okay to drive before too long. I went into the nice cool house and found a quiet spot and a blanket, pissed off that I was panicking and unable to believe that I was probably going to cry at another party. It felt like the goddamned Man was never going to stop taking away my fun.

Scary Party, if you were a person I would punch you in your ugly, rapey face. The inhumanity and stupidity of every gaslighting host and victim-blaming poster from March and April came rushing back. I was so angry at them, and at every adorable Scary Party regular I’ve met who’s said “Oh, that was you?” when it felt like what they meant was “Oh, that was a person?” Because how could you watch anybody go through that and still want to be part of the event unless on some level you didn’t think of her as a fellow human? When I’m in that panicky state, it feels like otherwise kind and wonderful people cosign my violation every time they pay their 10$ at the door, and I am sick to fucking death of being hurt and confused about it. I spent the summer trying to be forgiving, but you know what, I’m not. Fuck them. Fuck the Scary Party forever.

As I sat watching the clock and wondering how long I should give myself before driving, people came and visited my self-aftercare spot. One lady about my age said she’d been through something similar—I wonder how much of the dismissiveness does have to do with being over 35.

Cute Master and Pretty Slave come in and showered me with hugs and sympathy. Snuggled up between them was when the tears started to come, but I was crying and laughing at the same time—indignant as I was about the mean girls, I saw the absurdity of crying at parties two weekends in a row.

Cute Master left Pretty Slave and me in an embrace. She petted my hair and spoke softly, telling me that it was okay, that it was rare.

During this exchange, Cutest Boy at the Party (lady-liking bear!!!) noticed what was happening and asked if I was okay. I felt so silly for having a panic even before the play had started. After Pretty Slave went off to tend to her guests, CBATP came in again to check on me. I said I was fine but would certainly take a hug. He had that amazing sweaty-dude smell and I told him so. We talked about all kinds of things, museums and music and munches.  Just from sitting down next to him and yammering, I started to simmer down and opened back up to the evening’s possibilities. It seems to happen that way—whenever I think I’ll never get past the hurt and fear, god sends a cute boy as an incentive to power through. And it always, always works.

Next: My quest to get spanked by everyone.

Divorce Times Week Six: Like a Part-Time Flu (But Also Some Little Breakthroughs)

Part of every day is okay. There’s an overarching loneliness that’s hard to take, but mostly I get through it. Sometimes, though, I just run out of trying. I get a bad headache and feel trapped, feel like I’m drowning, and the only thing I can do is get a drink of water and go lay down. As long as I just go ahead and let myself do that, the drowny feeling passes.

With exercise being my main antidepressant, I panicked a little when the city pools closed, but I went back to the gym at the community center by my house. For some reason I can’t stop myself from smiling when I get on the elliptical. Sometimes I am a little bit of a chick lit novel, I think. Zumba classes started up again and the instructor has the hottest ass I’ve ever seen, so I have that to look forward to.

On Monday, the Lady of the House and I had a nude beach day and it was fantastic. We talked our hearts out and I trusted her enough to tell her things I hadn’t told anybody, not even Sweetie. With Sweetie having gotten so sick of the sound of my voice, it’s wonderful that I have at least a couple of people in my life who don’t think I talk too much. (LOTH does think I might think too much, and I’m inclined to agree.) In between swimming and adding cute couples to my mental vision board, we worked on lists of what we want in our next partners. We’re awesome wingpeople for each other since almost everything we like is opposite—besides “Must love the ocean,” of course. I’ll post my list soon even though I’ve already written (and ignored!) many such lists.

One thing I’m proud of from this week is that the other night when I was crying it out over Steampunk guy, I didn’t lean on Sweetie for help. When I was lying in bed crying and trying to write, she came in and put her hand on my back but I sent her back out. I texted Angel Face a few times but mostly I handled it on my own. I cried and wrote and then cried and wrote some more the next day, until eventually they started to feel like productive tears, tears of acceptance, the kind that give my heart a little more breathing room. It’s important that I know how to fall apart and put myself back together without having to depend on Sweetie to tell me it’s okay, to tell me I’m okay.

It’s been a hard week, but I still feel like I’m doing what I can to move myself forward. One of my main goals is to have more community ties by the time my heart is healed, so I looked up a bunch of munches and RSVPed. This week was the local Master/slave meeting and it was exactly the right thing to go to. Everybody was so sweet and caring, and we/they talked about deep, complicated feelings for two hours—that is like emo-girl Christmas! There wasn’t any one person I felt an affinity towards, but the group felt like such a good place to start—one of them, anyway.

I’d still been feeling very reticent about making friends around the scene because of shame about the (way back when) Fireguy stuff and the (still kind of hurty) Scary Party stuff, but the more I talk to people, the more I understand that I’m not alone. The picture I had of myself as an outcast or pariah was a. pretty self centered and b. incorrect. There are definitely some mean girls who don’t like me, but for the most part no one ever says “Oh, that was you?” and runs away or yells at me. It’s just a part of who I am, and someday, I won’t be ashamed of it. While I do regret the fight with Fireguy, I can’t say that I regret the Scary Party thing—I can’t see any other way that could have gone. Plus, I kind of like tops to know that I have the potential to fuck their whole shit up (at least for a night or two) if they ignore limits.

That being said, while I was talking to one of the Scary Party regulars about The Man, a wave of compassion washed over me. He’s just like me, just like everyone—kind of a brokeny person who needs love and fucks it up sometimes. Not that I’d snuggle up to him anytime soon (I’m sure he’d be TERRIFIED at the prospect) but I don’t really feel like I need to be mad at him anymore, and I certainly don’t need to be afraid. With things in perspective, he was a love like any of the others, and he always will be.

So even though the days are long and sluggish, I do feel like I’m continuing to break down walls for myself.

Monday night when I came home all pink and happy from the beach, I was joking around with Sweetie about my “must love the ocean” requirement, and she said:

“You know, I grew up in West Texas. Most of the information I had about the ocean came from Jaws.”

“Come to think of it, most of the information you had about hetero sex came from working at the Rape Crisis Center.”

“Til I met you, yeah.”

Sweetie didn’t make up my fears and barriers, but she was very good at enabling and encouraging them. My fears brought us closer together, made me feel like I had to keep depending on her. I can see that her influence, while ostensibly supportive, helped me to cultivate my fight-or-flight habits instead of learning to react in more productive ways. She loved me through so many panicky tantrums, and I’m grateful, but also that wasn’t a healthy thing.

I want to be away from that influence, so living together is an oppressive thing. Sometimes it’s tempting to just give in, give up on the idea of my own place. This apartment is heartbreaking and suffocating, it sucks out so much energy just to be here. When we first decided we were splitting, I could see my new life so clearly, but now it feels much less clear. I don’t know when’s the next time I’ll fall asleep with somebody, the next kiss, or even the next spank. Sometimes that’s really hard to take.

Last week, my phone was finally repaired. (No miraculous retrieval of cute texts, I’m afraid.) I’d been using an old kind-of-broken phone and I figured out how to sync the phones so that I could transfer all the contacts and pictures. I figured it out by just poking around, not by asking Sweetie! These are the kinds of things that bring me joy lately, the little victories that make me feel like I might just make it on my own.

Ohno, Mr. Sweetheart. A Breakup, I Think

Last Wednesday afternoon was an especially good one. Sweetie had played hookie from work and we went to our special library over by the city pool. We got out about a million books and then, feeling rich and satisfied, went over to the pool for a swim. I usually go by myself to the pool so I was extra-excited to be there with her. There’s been tension between us for the past few weeks and I was happy to feel it wash away in the sun and water—my heart felt truly free.

Part of the reason for this sense of well-being was that Wednesday night is my scheduled phone date with Mr. Sweetheart. Sweetie had already planned to take herself out and about so that we could have privacy and I had a cute nightgown picked out just in case I got asked what I was wearing. Plus! My visit to Mr. Sweetheart’s place was less than a week and a half away—I couldn’t wait for us to plan it!

Except. A post showed up in my facebook feed that said Mr. and Ms. Sweetheart were on a plane on the way across the country to visit friends. I’d known that they had a trip coming up but had no idea that it fell smack in the middle of our date night.

I felt hurt, disoriented, and left out, as if he didn’t really consider me a factor in his plans. I would have been happy to reschedule our call or even postpone it until after the trip if I’d been asked, but I wasn’t. I calmly left a voice mail saying as much, and he texted back when they landed. He was sorry for “not putting two and two together” and said he’d call but it wouldn’t be “full service.” It seemed pathetic to wait around for a call that he’d forgotten about, so I went out with Sweetie to pick out some new sheets and made some optimistic lingerie purchases while I was at it.

He told me to let him know when I was back from running errands, and when I did he called. He was very matter-of-fact about what was going on, saying he’d be better about the calendar but also just sort of breezing past the hurt. Knowing he was sitting next to Ms. Sweetheart made me feel like I had to reign in my emotions, too. He told me happily about the friends they were staying with and the poly meetup they were headed for. I felt ugly and stupid for having to be a complaint in the middle of his festivities, and would have given anything to be someplace other than sitting rejected in my pajamas as they joyously began their stay. I hated the role I was put in.

Businesslike, he asked me what my driving-to-his-house plans were for the following weekend. I felt startled by this since what just happened had not been resolved yet. It seemed crazy to drive that far for somebody who’d forget a date with me, but I pressed on figuring it’d be resolved by then.

Midsentence their friends arrived and that was that. With a businesslike “Okay, I’ll follow that up with you later,” he started ending the call and I was like “Are you kidding me? You’re hanging up on a conversation about how you…”I hatehate HATED being in this harpylike position so I hit “end call” without really thinking, and when I called back, he didn’t pick up.

What upset me the most was that instead of just enjoying Sweetie and my library books, I was now typing sad texts, turning off the phone, and crying my eyes out. It’s a leap that I take complete responsibility for, but I felt not just rejected by the Sweethearts but by the poly community as a whole—being cut off midconversation in the midst of their revelry made me feel like I’d tried to crash a party where I was unwelcome. What started out as a simple miscommunication had turned into what felt like a public humiliation, and (I have to say it!) not the good kind.

Still, I fully expected it to get worked out, that I would turn my phone back on and find some genuine effort to fix it, but there was none. (He’s gotta do SOMETHING,” Sweetie kept saying, as if we live in a movie and he could tool over and hold a boombox over his head.)

I wrote a gracious (if somewhat disingenuous) breakup text this morning because I didn’t know what else to do. I can’t be with someone who treats me like nothing as soon as his friends are around—I already went through it with The Man and once was too much.

But I didn’t WANT to break up. I wanted him to show that he cared, to somehow assure me that I wouldn’t slip through the cracks again. I wanted to hear from him so badly today that I thought I’d explode, but there was nothing, and I spent most of the day crying and feeling like a failure.

The thing is, everybody, this is the second time I’ve been forgotten in the last couple of weeks. When Steampunk Guy and I were making plans for our most recent shenanigans, he sort of drifted off mid-planning, for days. I had to remind him to finish making a date with me. That hurt less because it’s less of a relationshippy situation.

But still, I’m having a hard time not freaking out about being forgettable. The calendar is my sun, moon, and stars and I would never forget ANYBODY, friend, lover, event or otherwise once they’re on there. Why can’t I find this in another person? Why do I consistently choose partners who don’t/can’t see me as part of their lives? Is there anything else out there for me besides having a hot but tiny role?

Mr. Sweetheart, if you get around to reading this, I hated being the negative part in what seemed like such a fun night. I absolutely fucking detest the idea of not having you in my life and I so wish that things had gone differently. But somewhere in me I need to find the belief that I deserve to not be forgotten.

Back to the Dungeon Tonight—It’s Complicated

Last week when I ran into Old-Timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl, going back to the Regular Dungeon seemed like it would be an unmitigated joy, and I hope it will be.

But I feel really smushy about it. It’s hard to forget that the last time I was there, way back at the end of February, was my fourth date with The Man and our best scene. I remember standing at the bar in a skimpy nightie and pretty patent-leather heels I’d bought for the occasion, telling him how happy I was to be there.

“You should be happy,” he said “You’re beautiful, you have a beautiful wife, and now you have… me!”

I loved the idea that I “had” him and the energy between us felt so good. We’d only kissed once before that, but I loved the way he rubbed my knee in a proprietary way during the dungeon owner’s “don’t break your toys” speech. He fumbled with his knots though—at one point during rope class the owner came over and asked if he’d got the Somerville Bowline down and The Man was all, “Yep, yep, got it.” but I exchanged a “not so much” look with the owner—maybe that’s when I should’ve known it wouldn’t work…

I loved kissing The Man, even if he was a little withholding with the tongue. I loved the way he expertly slapped his handcuffs on me and shoved my head down when I “tried to get away.” That night he found a loophole to the “don’t restrict my voice thing” he said “You don’t have to speak until spoken to.” I can’t really look back and see that as a red flag, even though I know now that I shouldn’t have trusted him.

But I was so happy to have his attention. During aftercare, he told me he wanted a relationship, not just a play partner, and I had no reason not to believe him. I sat at his feet in my fuzzy pink robe and he stroked my well-pulled hair—I felt SO CLOSE to having my dream. Or, I guess more accurately, my dream did come true, it just didn’t last.

He was fulfilling a lot of needs that night, not least the need to have my head held down. The need that frustrates me and pisses me off the most is the feeling of having everyone see that a man wants me, that I’m wanted and worthy of his attention. Of course I am! Everyone is! But there’s something so gratifying in having everyone see me that way, even as they’re quipping “She got ARRESTED” as my arms are being pulled behind my back.

That need makes me more grateful, more desperate, way needier than I’d ever want to be. I hate that need but I think it’s probably a good thing to embrace it, to have compassion for the vulnerability of it.

At any rate, none of that is what this night is about. Tonight I’ll be there to play with Sweetie, catch up with friends, reunite with my Hello Kitty nipple tape, with the invincible feeling I have there sometimes. If I can find a not-so-nice man to beat my ass for a while, then that would be the icing on the cake.

Hooray!! It's Time to Rejoin the (Public) Kink World

Okay so readers know I really never left kink,but I haven't played in the local scene since all that nonsense with The Man back in March. Last night at a reading, I was overjoyed to run into my old pals Old-Timey guy and Punk Rock Girl. We picked up exactly where we left off, which is him making me feel all giggly and her alternately egging him on/ adorably shushing us.

They agreed to be listed as protecting me when I rebuild my Fet account and assured me that there's no reason in this world why I shouldn't go to the next party at the Regular Dungeon, which is week after next!

Special underpants must be gotten!

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part One

My first date with Steampunk Guy was last Wednesday. Aside from a tough day at work, I’d been in such a good mood looking forward to him, especially after he’d told me he would bring pie and Manhattans. (Drinks on a school night, naughty!) He was coming over for dinner and, ostensibly, a couch-movie. I’m not sure why I didn’t just say I was inviting him over for sex, since that’s what I meant. I guess we could have conceivably watched a movie.

He was right on time, and just as cute as I remembered him. Tall and beardy, with such a warm, friendly expression that he would fit in in a Rankin and Bass Christmas special. After my dinner debacle with The Man, I’d been worried that cooking for him was a silly choice, but this is a guy who can keep his phone in his pants.

We had a nice time talking while he mixed drinks and I made dinner. I have somewhat of a Mad Men fetish, so I love cooking for guys, and he suggested that that meant that heels would go better than slippers with the apron and cute button-up dress I’d chosen. I promptly went to change into some coral-colored polka-dot wedge-heeled slingbacks, and he was right, much more gendery.

“So you don’t have a Fet account anymore, does that mean you don’t play publicly?” He asked.

Sigh.

“Um, should I tell you the whole ugly story?”

I hate that fucking story so much. He’d already mentioned that he is a regular at the Scary Party so I tried to be as diplomatic as possible. I really had to take my time and choose words carefully because I could feel the dread and other ugly emotions start to tumble out—not a good look for a first date. I got through telling him without actual tears coming out.

“I think I remember that.”

“Yep, that was me.”

We took our plates and cocktails out to the pretty bistro table in my apartment house’s side-yard. I was a gorgeous and just-warm-enough evening, but an icky silence came over us.

I said “So are you scared of me?”

He said he wasn’t. There’s nobody in the scene powerful enough to keep someone out. Your friends will always be there to support you.

At the time, I took that as encouragement—I’d been wondering aloud if I should wade back out into the local scene or if I’d be treated as a  whistleblowing pariah. He thought that was nonsense just like Sweetie does, and saw no reason why I shouldn’t return to my beloved Regular Dungeon. I talked a little about the support I’d received at the time, even from strangers, told him that that support meant a lot to me, that it was part of what I like about kink in general.

But some mornings I wake up feeling too close to the Scary Party again, unsure if it’s really sensible to play with one of its regulars. The fact that he was aware of what the security staff had done and still supporting the place, can I live with that, even with a very casual playpal? If doms’ friends will always protect them no matter what, how is any submissive safe? That same irksome question again. I feel guilty that I’m processing it here rather than directly, but again, dark topic for a first date. Or maybe a necessary one when things are about to get spanky, I don’t know.

I don’t like the idea that The Man’s mess-up could cost me fun with other guys, and I hate the way that the dom dating pool shrinks of you rule out that party’s regulars—it’s very popular.

Back to the date, the conversation went on to cheerier things and I enjoyed talking to him so much. I love it when I’m so excited about someone that I kind of turn into a muppet. As Steampunk Guy and I chatted and ate, my downstairs neighbor and his little son came out to play in the yard and all of us were completely adorable-the platonic ideal of a summer evening.

The rest of this story is (I promise) very hot. He has the most AMAZING hands and his other extremities get gold stars as well. I’ll write my way through it and see where I get.

Next: Spanked before kissed.

Holy Crap, I Think I Might Have Mental Health.

Yesterday, I had a really irksome consult with a potential therapist. A few weeks ago, I crowd-sourced for depression advice and a facebook friend recommended a lady in the area who’s supposedly progressive.

It’s hard to compress 38 years into a 10 minute phone call, especially since it’s been such a complicated year. First, the lady said I couldn’t be depressed if I was having a good day—fair enough. Then she remarked that I sounded much younger than my age—maybe she thought I was pranking her? But who pranks by appointment? She was bothered by the fact that I sounded too cheerful: “You’re telling me these terrible things, but there’s laugher in your voice.” Jeez, I told you, I was having a good day and plus, what was I supposed to do, break down and cry about it to a stranger recommended by a facebook friend? Plus, in such a short conversation, I didn’t see there being time for histrionics.

Anyway, I wish this lady had just said “I don’t like you.” and left it at that, but she had to get a judgment in.  She said “I just don’t think I would be a good fit. I’ve worked with gay and lesbian clients but I don’t really work with polyamory—I think you have to be EXTREMELY mentally healthy for that.” The poly friend who recommended this lady can be proud of her squeaky-clean psyche, I guess!

I thanked the therapist for being honest, wrote her a strongly worded email (I really am becoming Greenberg…) and argued with her in my head all evening. Sweetie, being Sweetie, thought the lady was so wrong that she shouldn’t even warrant a mention, but she accidentally got me to some fantastic conclusions. Sometimes therapy happens in spite of incompetence, I guess.

First of all, having gone through a bunch of stuff doesn’t mean I’m not mentally healthy. In the past year, I’ve worked my ass off getting certified to teach, got hired right after graduation, and navigated several new relationships and breakups without major aftermath. By writing through it, I processed a lot of junk from the past on my own. My job is a nightmare sometimes but I end most days feeling happy anyway. I may need to find a better school but I know teaching is what I was meant to do.

And what The Man did was shitty, but it came nowhere close to breaking me. Yes, I cried, I freaked, I had pointless arguments on FetLife, but I also fought to change something that wasn’t right and I’m proud of that. When the fight was over, I walked, slept, read, hugged Sweetie, and went back to yoga and church.

I think that’s what mental health looks like. As I write this, I get a warm feeling in my back and shoulders that tells me it’s true. What I took for depression is just a transition, just a fucked-up breakup and a hard job.

There's nothing in my past or present that makes me unqualified for love, however I want to express it. It’s probably okay if people who don’t know me want to think I’m nuts. Yes, I have a lot of work to do. I have to practice hearing myself think, adapting to and working with jealousy, and being kind to myself in the presence of man-smell. But those things won’t be accomplished by delving into the past or by taking myself away from people. They’ll be accomplished by getting closer.

As a new teacher, people want to give me lots and LOTS of ideas to try, but I don’t need a mountain of ideas of how other people think I should be. What I need is to stop drowning out the voice inside me that knows what to do and how to get where I need to go. So thanks, mean stranger therapist-lady, for helping me realize that I had what I needed all along.

Shame Can Go Fuck Itself

Yesterday I went for a hike with my BFF Angelface. Even though he’s a lil’ bit deaf, he is still the best listener I know. In fact, having to kind of holler my stories makes our walks/two-person support group sessions even more cathartic. I’m amazed at how unwavering he is in his support. It’s funny how saying my self-doubts aloud to some folks just makes me realize how silly they are. I feel so lucky to have that kind of friendships. It was such a beautiful day. We saw baby geese and a downy woodpecker. We smelled all manner of flowering trees and scrolled through every nuance of our inner lives.

And yet, even though he listened so kindly and perfectly, I still felt ashamed for telling him all of the stuff that’s happened lately. I got home and felt so guilty even though he’d given me absolutely no reason to.

Partly I guess I’m just ready to move on to the next (hopefully much more awesome) set of stories, but I think it’s more than that. Even though I’ve done every single thing to fight the Man-induced compulsion to shut up, I still feel guilty for talking about it, even to my best friend. I can hear those chiming admonitions about “privacy” that ran through that stupid thread and even though we are not in touch in any way, I can still feel The Man judging me because I didn’t “move on” as fast as he’d have liked.

And I do still feel embarrassed for how much of myself I wasted on him, how much, okay, probably something like love I felt for somebody to whom I essentially did not exist. I hate the way his idea of me is still in my body and heart, to the point where I feel guilty about sharing a story with my friend.

My BFF, my wife, and my other close friends have given me so much care and support, and honestly I really do owe them better stories. And I want the shame to be out of me somehow—no matter how many times they TELL me that it wasn’t my fault, etc, I won’t be able to really move forward until I believe it, all the way down deep. This has been my lifetime struggle, and I hope somehow I’m getting closer.

Haunty Despite a Lovefest Day

The past couple of days have been quite happymaking. I’ve been feeling all loving and fulfilled at work in spite of (because of?) the immanent threat of layoffs. Last night, I spent the evening with friends watching fantastically-soundtracked burlesque. And today, I had the bestbest time with Sweetie—we slept in until 11, had strawberry waffles, read a stack of magazines, and had soft, gentle sexytimes that filled my heart all up. On TOP of all that, we went to the library and Whole Foods and then sat in the park reading our books and eating sushi, fresh bread, and fancy chocolates. The park was full of happy couples and birdsong and the sound of stringed instruments was wafting over from a nearby museum. The air smelled like lilacs and sun.

But when we got home from our date, we laid down for a nice spring snooze and for some reason, all that stuff from a few weeks ago came back. The Man still creeps out my mind sometimes, even though I’d gladly have the whole thing Eternal Sunshined out. The creepiness comes and it makes my sense of well-being seem unreal. I remembered the mean, condescending, self-capitalized things that his friends said to me, his smarmy lack of accountability, and my worry (which Sweetie disagrees with) that I may not be welcome in our regular dungeon anymore.

As I write this in my living room, they’re there setting up the furniture for my favorite monthly party and I miss it so much. I miss the feeling of waiting for someone else to get naked so that I wouldn’t be the first one. (I’m always the first one.) I love watching the crew work together to get the furniture up, claiming a bench, drinking wine out of a plastic cup, lending my Hello Kitty tape to anyone who needs it. I miss the feeling of connection to the other girls as we prepare for our respective (and collective) adventures. I miss watching my pals have a good time while we have our own.

Yet despite all of that warm feeling, I have an apprehension about all of it. I told Sweetie earlier today (I TRULY have to work on my pillow talk skills) that I worry that putting myself in ANY sexy situation might be putting myself in harm’s way, like somehow staying connected to the kink side of myself will put me on the road to more blame, more hurt, more exploitation. I know that that isn’t rational or true, that my sexed-up self is worthy and good and that I didn’t deserve what happened, but it’s hard to shake the urge to go all the way inside, to be deeply defensive, to close up rather than risk being seen again the way that he saw me, or failed to see me.

What sticks with me most about the situation with The Man is that to him, on some fundamental level, I wasn’t even there. One of the defenses he gave on the online thread was that it wasn’t scene invasion because he’d invited the other lady in. That scared me more than anything else, because he wasn’t just discounting my limits and everything we negotiated, he wasn’t seeing me as a factor AT ALL. When they stood around talking shit after I’d asked him to tell her to leave, it didn’t feel like he was ignoring me, it felt like I wasn’t a me at all.

I realize that I’ve just admitted to being haunted by an internet discussion thread, that getting up from a lovely snooze with my wife to write about a long-past jackass was a poor life choice, considering how lucky and blessed I am and how much there is to look forward to.

But here’s the thing—I’m still really hurt. I’m still hurt that he turned a nice (if ultimately mismatched) relationship into a cheap, meaningless, ugly scene for no reason except selfish carelessness. I’m hurt that he saw me as desperate and pathetic instead of seeing the good parts if me, a happy, pheromone-drunk girl who had a crush. I’m hurt that the venue owner lied to me about believing my story and that so many people were much more concerned about Fet Life’s terms of use than my own. I’m hurt that some random lady I never met wrote a tirade about what a whiny, spiteful baby she thought I was being. And I’m hurt that, though many strangers posted and wrote to lend their support and let me know I wasn’t alone, the people I’ve played next to for more than a year, who were exactly in the position to let people know I wasn’t some weird stereotype of a woman scorned, did not speak up. It hurts to think that anyone would believe that a grown-ass woman with a career and a family would put herself through all that just over a breakup. It hurts to know how deep misogyny runs.

Most of all, it hurts that I didn’t have to go through all that. I should have listened to my intuition. The man was fired from the zoo for yelling at the birds, for god’s sake. He was very thorough and out-in-the-open about ALL of the red flags, including the fact that his “Dos and Don’t list” asked for silence from his submissive. I ignored every red flag and every instinct I had that told me to just run.

I don’t know why I ignored everything that told me he wasn’t safe, except that I wanted to be flexible. I wanted to be open-minded. I wanted to show that I could compromise, and I ended up compromising everything. That’s how I ended up being not-there.

A lot has been written about the pleasure of submission being in the annihilation of the self, but I never want to feel that feeling of not being there again. It’s too much like death, and I am a really, really big fan of existing. On beautiful, perfect days like this, I still have to fight the annihilating influence of him, the fear that he was right to see me as nonexistent. There’s no easy way to convince myself that I’m actual, but every step toward pleasure and joy helps.

Fantasies of Lesbian Monogamy, Dreams of Men

I’ve been thinking a lot about those Fatal Attraction references that The Man made about me. I’ve never seen the movie, but I think maybe I identify more with the Michael Douglas character than with Glenn Close. I remember from somewhere (probably from an old episode of Siskel and Ebert) that (after focus groups demanded it) the story ends with the married couple safely back in bed, having vanquished the hostile outside force. In other words, the movie is an advertisement for monogamy, a cautionary tale that only nightmares lay outside the marriage bed.

(As a side note, I think that a lot of the couple-centric problems that outside partners run into (wall-building, rule-making, hierarchy, and a general atmosphere of fear) stem from the fact that the bunny-boiler trope is so pervasive that even honest attempts at non-monogamy evoke traces of her.)

Now that The Man and the Scary Party are behind me, it’s very tempting to wish that I could use the scariness of the experience to fortify myself for a life of monogamy—after all, Sweetie has nearly all of the things that I need in a partner, plus so much more: she is chivalrous, brave, smart, deeply loving, and as the icing on the cake, fantastic with knots. For the foreseeable future, until I learn how to actually listen to my intuition and treat myself as somebody valuable even in the midst of man-smell, I am only with her.

And yet, every morning this week, I’ve had the same dream: kissing a man. A real one, not the goth-boys-who-did-not-grow-up-to-be-goth-men than I’ve been drawn to lately. He is decisive, clear, desirous, and hot. Maybe he’s my own animus, or maybe he is real. Or both.

Likewise, when I look up porn (at least there’s not so much anhedonia this time), it’s always of the many-men-one-woman variety. There is the simple fact that I lovelovelove penises, even if my relationship with those who have them tends to be fraught.

Before the now-long-past thing with Bill, I believed in something simple. I thought I could find someone, make out, synch our calendars, fall in love. I thought that if I was open enough, my missing person would appear. It never occurred to me that I would be asked and tempted to give up my autonomy, my dignity, my voice. I don’t know what to make of this year, how much of it I’ll keep and how much I’ll shed, easy as deleting my Fet profile.

I still don’t know if what I want (two real, deep relationships, one with Sweetie and one with a man) is a real possibility or a dream to be let go. My need to be loved by a man is so warped by compromise and taboo that it seems like just a huge risk, but a life without it seems very sad. There aren’t any answers for it now, just a quiet, simplified life and a hope that someday soon I’ll feel well enough to socialize, that someday soon I’ll be on solid ground.

The Horror: My Adventure in FetLife Rape Culture

I feel very alone in the world right now.

When it became clear to me that nothing was going to change at the Scary Party (The owners had given me lip service about improving safety but The Man was kept as head of security) I decided to post my story on the local public Fet forums. When followed was a terrible experience that is in many ways more frightening than the original violation/harassment.

I don’t usually wade into internet discussions—I’ve never been awesome at filtering out feedback, so it’s just a recipe for hurt. But I knew I was going to feel guilty unless I did everything I could to warn people that this might happen to them if they go.

Here’s what I learned:

1. The owner announced that he never really took my story seriously because The Man broke up with me during the process of me reporting it. He told them I was making up details because I was heartbroken. They claimed to have been having an “investigation” but that really amounted to just finding ways to dismiss the story.

2. The Man is still claiming that I “consented” mid-scene and everyone seems to be accepting that, even though he was breaking pre-negotiated limits and breaking the party’s own rules. The creepiest part was when he said “She said she was enjoying it.” That doesn’t make it any more consensual!

3. The number of doms who run that party and are willing to attack me and try to keep me silent went up significantly. One woman yelled at me for “muddying the investigation” by saying what happened to me--shouldn’t my point of view have been part of the investigation in the first place?

4. More than one person read the post and decided that the real problem was me cross-posting.

5. Lots of people who told me it was my fault because I hadn’t called red. What is the point of negotiating if it’s okay for the dom to do whatever he wants anyway?  I said in the post that I wished I had called red, but that I was in subspace and my voice was (non-consensually) restricted. A few people said that he’d done wrong, but they were far outnumbered by people who told me to quit whining, just get used to it, it happens to everybody. It was mostly ladies yelling at me in this way.

6. The part that made me laugh the most was when The Man asked me what he could do to “make amends” Um, stop lying about what happened?

7. Even my “friend” who wrote to send me support made it clear that she had no quarrel with the venue itself.

8. Sweetie wrote the most beautiful post in my defense. I love her so much and I hope someday soon that I can be able to feel the warmth of my own home again.

Right now, it seems as though the entire local community is attacking me and telling me that my safety is not worth protecting. It seems like there is not a safe place anywhere in the world. People work so hard to protect the rights of predators, they argue so hard against anyone who tries to change things, it’s hard to imagine things ever getting better.

I wish that I would have had the sense to break up with him right away. I can’t explain why I didn’t, except that he seemed to understand what he’d done wrong and I liked him a lot. I wish I had just gotten myself home that night, reported the incident, and put myself to bed, but I didn’t. I tried to stay close to someone who’d showed me he didn’t think I was worthy of care. It doesn’t make me deserve what happened, but I hate that it wrecked my credibility and made it less likely that something would be done.

The amount of crazymaking doublethink that came from The Man and the rest of the posters makes me wonder if I’ll ever be able to participate publicly in kink again.

I did everything I could do. I stood up to dom after dom in those conversations. I overcame the desire to be a good girl that has kept me silent in the past. Maybe that’s enough to break the pattern, to keep me from putting myself in harm’s way again.

It’s a beautiful spring day. The leaves on the trees are budding and we have the whole weekend to ourselves. I am going to try to stay away from Fet’s black background, both literally and metaphorically. I deserved a safe place to play, to be as happy and cared for as anyone else there. Even if nobody else believes that, I do.

Send Good Wishes if You Heart Consent

I’m feeling really sad and scared right now. I feel like trying to change what happens at the Scary Venue has become kind of a creepy part-time job. The owner has been very kind and deliberate, acknowledging that his staff needs to be more respectful and that something has to be done to make the venue safer. He let me know that he met with The Man yesterday and is taking a few days to process before he decides what to do about him.

Imagining the conversation between them fills me with a deep sadness and dread. I know that The Man saw me as possessive and overly nervous, and I am afraid that he must’ve used that to somehow justify what happened. I am so afraid that it will be dismissed as a He Said/She Said situation, when really it’s a He Said/She Said/She Said situation where one of the Shes didn’t ask to play with the other. (and where it’s two doms’ word against one sub’s)

Obviously I know I just never have to go back to the party, but I just don’t know how I’ll handle it if they keep those two on their security staff—I honestly don’t know how I could go back to ANY local party if that happens. It all just seems like a huge power imbalance between the in-crowd and those who are new. I can’t stand the idea that what happened to me could be happening right next to me any time I’m playing out in the world. The whole thing gives me deep moral misgivings not just about engaging in BDSM, but about engaging with the world at all. How can I participate in a system that allows such scary power imbalances? How can I ever feel safe again?

I know that removing him from the staff or barring him from one party won’t take away the fear, hurt, and sense of loss that comes from his boneheaded behavior that night—what happened will have always happened. I know that only time and kindness to myself will heal what was broken.

Sweetie says I won’t have to withdraw all the way, that there’s no reason to give up other parties. She’s probably right that when this passes, I’ll be naked in a room full of friends soon enough, but for now, my world is narrowed to a little tunnel of fear, wondering what lies he told about that night, wondering if, in the end, I’ll count for anything.

Song of the Week: Love Lockdown

Okay, not exactly love, but all paragraphs aside, I just miiiiiiss him. Also, his handcuffs.

Scene Failure and the Scary Party, Part Three: A Long Night and a Sweet Morning

This was the first time I saw the inside of their apartment, a cute homey place except for the racks and racks of horror movies everywhere. (Seriously, who wants to sleep next to more than one installment of Human Centipede?) I loved his cats instantly—he rivals the Mayor of Kittentown in terms of breakup pet-regret.

We tried to talk but we were both exhausted and not really getting anywhere. I said I was embarrassed about arguing loudly with Sadist Girl and he was all “Yeah, well, you’ll just have to mend some fences.”

“What? Mend some fences? After what she did?” I just couldn’t believe it. There was less hope of renewing trust with him with every word out of his mouth. I couldn’t believe that that’s what he was gleaning from the situation—a need for me to preserve some imagined friendship with someone who’d helped him completely screw me over. I just didn’t get why he was so desperate for me to connect completely and immediately with the women in his life, but, spoiler alert, that’s what he ended up calling the deal breaker.

Mending fences? Really? I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t mad at her when I was clearly so hurt. The more I type this story, the more I think maybe they planned it without me, that it was his idea all along.

Talking wasn’t working, so we went to bed. He and his wife have an agreement that others can sleep in their bed, they just can’t have sexytimes there. Even though I couldn’t feel safe with him, I still felt something like affection lying there in his arms, with the cats hovering around us, nuzzling and sweet. I really, really wanted this to be real, not just a hollow shell of a snuggle.

He fell asleep immediately, the blissful sleep of the not-panicking, and I lay there feeling trapped and sad and horny and broken. I woke him up a few times to try and get him to help me calm down. His face trying to stay awake was really sweet, but the conclusion was always the same. She was his friend, and of course he loved his venue, and there was nothing that could be done about it. I felt like he was choosing brutality over everything I’d had to offer, over the very, very much I’d already given. It didn’t make sense to me then, and it doesn’t make sense to me now.

Around 6 A.M, something piped up in my brain that told me I had to get myself home. I told him I was leaving and he offered little protest. He just said goodbye. I don’t think I could stand to know that he valued me so little, I felt like I had to stay and change his mind. I went back to bed and finally drifted off.

When he woke up (He kept mentioning a thousand times that he had to go and pick up his wife at a horror convention. He had, in fact, asked ME to go and pick her up, because he is man-with-no-boundaries. I’d declined.) Anyway, when we woke up, I told him to hold down my heart to keep it from breaking—he has these big, beautiful meaty hands, just like I always go for. I can’t believe I never got to write about those hands having happier times. Maybe I’ll come back to it. He held my heart down so hard that it pressed my neck and felt like choking-as I pushed his hand down, he felt exactly like Bill.

And yet the warmth from him still felt like love or like some kind of connection. I forget sometimes, I forget over and over that some things are just about sex, just animal attraction that I tend to give more meaning than it deserves. I just forget.

“Let’s go to the couch and make out,” I said. “It might be our last chance.”

I climbed on top of him and ground myself against him, that teenage dry-humping thing I always miss when there are no guys around. (Although, teenagers probably don't really do that anymore, now that I think about it.) No way in this world was I going to let him inside me, but I loved feeling his (admittedly insubstantial) stuff against mine. We kissed and kissed and he played with my nipples just as much as he possibly could.

He said “Tell me the things you want to tell me. Get the anger out.”

“Well, you are just gonna have to get it together. I have 23 first graders and I don’t need one more. In fact, I don’t need a whole venue full of first graders who can’t keep their hands to themselves. Be my hero and clean up your fucking mess. Rise to the fucking occasion.”

“What else?”

“No matter who else you belong to, no matter who else you LOVE, when we are together, you are MINE. These lips are mine, these ears are mine, this dick is mine. MINE.”

“Okay.”

After I said that I felt a lot of the tension drain away. The feeling of wanting to claim him was deep and scary—I’m still very scared of it, but I am also glad I acknowledged it.

“Unless (the wife) is there.”

Ugh. Goddammit that wasn’t what I was talking about. But also, I totally can belong to somebody else if my wife is there. I think we’ve reached the actual problem, or one of them.

We kept kissing for as long as we could, and I made myself come with him on top of me.

Then we talked, and in a way it felt like the first real talking we’d done. He told me all about his family and his background, and how he’d joined the military because they called the day his mom died. I was uncomfortable with the whole ex-military aspect of him, but that was such a sad and broken fact, it endeared him to me, and when he asked me if I wanted to see photo albums, I was so touched and said maybe next time. This is what made it seem worthwhile, what made me want to give him every possible chance.

We agreed that we would talk a whole lot, do lots of vanilla things for a long while before we ever set foot back in a dungeon again. We made plans for a long walk the following weekend, assuming I decided to continue things. We were gonna give things a few days to simmer down and then talk.

Then he told me to bring a toothbrush next time, but to make sure not to leave it at their place. I need someone who wants me to leave a toothbrush. Yet another time when I should have just broken it off right then.

But all morning he’d told me that he was going to get better for me, stronger and more courageous, that he was going to be the man I deserved, and that, as an added bonus, he’d work out until he could lift me over his head. He said that I deserved everything I’d been asking for.

“And you tell that girl what my REAL NAME IS.”

I was supposed to meet Sweetie downtown for the flower show—it was our big date. I parked pretty far away and walked toward where she got off the bus, feeling disoriented and young, the way I’d felt when I first lived here in 1994—lost, unformed. We never made it to the flower show because I couldn’t stop crying, and that is what I regret the very most.

Scene Failure and the Scary Party Part Two: Aftercare?

I was so angry and hurt and sad that I couldn’t speak. I got out the blanket (purple velvet with a white fleecy inside, I bought it just for our scenes) and climbed into his lap. It’s scary and stupid that I was relying on the same person who’d just fucked me over to help bring me back to life—this system is a mess unless you really play with the right person.

He brushed my hair and said nice things that sounded hollow. He said that he wanted me to be an important person in his life, that he’d find a cute pet name/honorific for me like he has for his wife (To him, she’s The Girl. Which is kind of telling...)

“If you wanted me to be someone important in your life, then why did you treat me like I wasn’t? Why did you act just like I wasn’t even there at all?”

“I want you to know my friends. I guess you should take some time with (Sadist Girl) outside of scenes.”

“You expect me to be friends with someone who just did that to me? I would punch her in the face if I could. And she should at least learn what my fucking NAME IS.”

“But you don’t understand. She plays at a whole different level that you and I do.” He said this with an annoying admiration in his voice.

“You mean a level without negotiation or consent?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

The thing I am tired of finding out is that guys SAY that they want to know what I want, that they want me to voice my concerns and needs. They SAY they believe in talking things through and having a real relationship, but what I keep finding at the core of them (Not ALL of them, to be sure) is a fantasy of no limits, for a sex doll who just shuts the fuck up and does what she’s told and never stops a scene or pipes up with a worry.

Sadist Girl popped back in throughout aftercare. The Man was making an effort to be attentive to me, but she kept asking things like “Where should I take a pussy-eating break? The bathroom?”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said, taking her security armband for safekeeping. Not to be a stick-in-the-mud (Though that seems to be my role in this story.) but at a no-sex party, the answer should have been “Nowhere.” He is truly not awesome with boundaries.

Sadist Girl stopped back in later (Presumably after the pussy-eating) to stand over us and say “Isn’t that adorable. Isn’t that just fucking adorable.”

I guess I should say at this point that I didn’t get the idea that he was attracted to her or anything. She’s trans (I think that’s why he thought we’d like each other, because all queer people are automatically friends somehow) and he seems a little bit overly straight for anyone creatively-gendered. I couldn’t figure out the weird energy between them. It was like he was in her thrall—he acted like a toadie and it’s hard to respect a toadie.

All of this confusion and bad energy was heavy on my heart as we kept kissing and talking and trying to get back to something good. I knew it was over, full of the same dread that I’d had that last day on the couch with Bill, but I didn’t want to give up. I wanted to just blame Sadist Girl or the venue, but was hard to deny that he’d made things the way they were.

I called Sweetie as we were getting ready to leave, trying to figure out what to do. It must have taken enormous strength for her not just to insist that I come home. I feel terrible that she had to experience a call like that.

“Come home with me,” he said as I finished my phone call. And we kissed and pushed and shoved and struggled against each other in the room with the good music.

“See, if you’re angry with me, I want you to be angry. It’s better than when you are all helpless and can barely stand. Then I just don’t know what to say.”

I did like shoving him around but if HELPLESS is a turnoff then a. Why a submissive? and b. Don’t be a douchebag and wreck a scene with some meaningless nonsense that has nothing to do with anything! Is what I wish I’d said.

Sadist Girl came by and he lead her sweetly away by the elbow. The conversation started with “I fucked up,” but I didn’t hear the rest. She came back to pack up her gear and said goodbye without apologizing, so I decided to talk to her about it too.

“I don’t think that I was in a position to really consent. You can’t just change a scene in the middle like that.”

In an authoritative voice she said “Actually, you can. You really need to work on your…”

And I have no idea what she was going to tell me I needed to work on because by the end of the sentence I was snapping at her semi-coherently. I could not believe that this stranger was telling me when I could and could not consent.

“If I were you,” she snarled “I wouldn’t come back to MY place.”

The Man hustled me out the door. I felt so ashamed, behaving like a Real Housewife of BDSM, sniping at another girl at a party and causing a (ha) scene.

Dignity wasn’t happening that night. I yelled at him on the way to the car, all about consent and respect and triggers, balling up my fists and jumping up and down in my pretty red satin heels. 

“GOD DAMMIT.” I snarled “What was I not doing? Why can’t I ever just fucking be enough for somebody.”

I was so lost and frustrated and livid with him for fucking up the worthwhile thing I thought we had.

I have to give him credit for getting in the car with me when I was in that state.

Sometimes my city driving is a little iffy, but on this drive, I had the motherfucking eye of the tiger. I turned up the music, seethed, and drove.