I very nearly wrote that story, though by a hair’s breadth, I stopped myself. My story was “Snatched”, a tale of a mistreated dog stolen and rehomed by a loving new owner, written from the dog’s point of view. It was inspired by many things, including my experiences with owning and training dogs, but it was also metaphorical of my BDSM relationships, then and now.
I was going to sell it, for a small nomination and as a piece of my own work. I didn’t even want to make a huge sum from it, just enough to level the small amount that I had spent on my previous relationship and to reduce it to almost nothingness, an experience. I deserved that much at least now, surely?
In the end, I decided against it – has he not suffered enough pain for me not to be making money from our story?
Sure there may be some voices who would say no, that I deserve to sell my story and make what money I can get from it, but with all due respects then I’m not Katie Price. I’m not someone who gets into dysfunctional relationships and then runs to the press to sell my latest sob story in order to fund my lavish life. I’ll still tell it, sure, because it’s my right to share my story and those who have wronged me waived their right to my respect the very second they disrespected me, but I’ll still make no money from what they did.
Suppose though, that without him and without all that he put me through, I wouldn’t know my real worth now? I needed that hellscape to wake me up and make me see that I was worth much more than the compliant humdrum that I was living in. Call it a kind of therapy, if you will. There, I’d invested in some therapy. Not a good, highly recommended type of therapy for sure, but…
But at the same time, I also know what I was worth to him. Losing me is a loss enough, he doesn’t need me rubbing salt into those wounds.
Perhaps and because of a wad of journal entries we shared then I know who he is, the real him, but I can’t make him be the real him. I can’t make him believe in himself and his own worth, even if I wish he would. I often think of adult humans as still being like little kids on the playground of life, wearing our roles like costumes. I see the boy he is inside, but I can’t heal that boy. Only a qualified therapist can help him do that, if indeed he even wants to.
People on the whole have annoyed me lately. Not all people Dear Reader, you will be surely glad to know, but certainly some people.
Suppose that it started last Sunday, after Janmas. My mother said something, something about a late friend of miue that really had me vexed.
“Mistress Anita was never really a Mistress anyway, she was more of a swinger.”
If you’re new to my story, Dear Reader, then just quickly: I discovered BDSM through my biological family. Not in an incestuous kind of way (we always had very strict rules against anything of that nature) but my parents were kinky and felt my brother and I should know so that life and the world around us made a little bit more sense. As it was then I was already having thoughts of getting tied up nnd stuff by the time they told us, I just knew now that I wasn’t alone.
Mistress Anita might as well have been my kinky aunt, or a surrogate something – the lady practically adopted me. She used to show me off all the time – not as a slave of hers but as the daughter of a friend. When my kitchen caught fire in 2016, Mistress Anita was the only person who reached out. She used to give me free or discounted party tickets to SWAMP in September too, because it was always around (or sometimes on) my birthday and us September babies stick together like that.
That my mother felt it was her right to appoint people roles, though, especially post-humously or when they’re not there to defend themselves? That really winds me up. Personally I don’t think she’s right for the lifestyle in herself, but apparently she finds suitable Dominants and apparently they have fun. Who am I to judge?
All I know is that to her, my two are probably soft and fluffy gentlemen. For me, I certainly know otherwise.
I still think back to the conversation Matt and I had with my father, about Chinese horoscopes. I’m a Dragon, which is pretty cool, and Matt is a Tiger.
“Tiger?! He ain’t no tiger, he’s a bloody pussycat!” my father said, I stifled a giggle and I got ‘the look’ for my crimes. The look that tells you that sitting down will be an accomplishment in itself for the upcoming week.
Calling your Dom “Puss In Boots” on the back of that comment is a mistake you only make once. Twice or even a few times if you have masochistic tendencies, I’m just sayin’.
But secondly, greed. Dear God, greedy people really, really annoy me.
I’m not sure why exactly, but again I suppose that I root it in my childhood. My brother, bless his cotton socks, has long been quite a greedy person. I remember him always picking the biggest ice cream or drawing the line an inch further over my side when we got to share a mixing bowl, and I remember I once got so annoyed by it that I called him Friar Tuck. My point is, greed was something that I grew up with, and seeing my brother be greedy taught me the importance of gratitude. I could be unhappy for what I didn’t have, or instead be grateful for what I did have. Eventually, I learned to choose the latter.
Now as an adult, ungrateful, greedy people annoy me. I had a large clear-out on OLIO in this past week, and I had four people message me for absolutely everything that I had listed. One even laid it on really thick.
Your item will be really good for my home, I am a single parent I can’t afford much xxx
I get that, and that’s fine, but we’re in a cost-of-living crisis right now. How many other single parents are there out there, Kelly, who can’t afford much right now, and whose homes my items would also suit?
As an aside, I’ve also got no guarantees that people like Kelly aren’t going to take advantage of my generosity and instead Ebay the bloody lot. I’ve had it happen before when I’ve let people take bundles of items, and it hurts.
At 10:45am yesterday the dog went crazy. We call it “Postie Time” in this household, it’s just sort of when our postman turns up. I like our postie, he’s kind, quietly spoken. laid back. Just nice. He always wears shorts and a baseball cap though, even in the winter.
When I head out to the mail cage, there’s two packages in there. One is the DC charger that I was expecting, and there is another. A Royal Mail one.
Weird. I haven’t ordered anything from Ebay?
I flip it over and there it is on the back; a label with an address that I recognise. Instinctively I roll my eyes. Now what has he been sending me?
Sir and I have this thing, a bantering, sharing and empathising thing, sometimes seemingly in book form. I have a book, The Impatient Gardener, which Sir sent me after I couldn’t wait to get started one year. That’s what I am now known as to him, and it’s a quality that I’m known for, generally. Well, everyone has their flaws.
I also have a copy of The Pet Shop by KD Grace – also sent to me by Sir – after I mentioned an interest in pet play in one ramble. It’s an interesting book for sure, somewhat thought-provoking but also not really what I had in mind when I thought about pet play. I put it in my “maybe” list to be addressed at a later date. We have far bigger fish to fry right now.
“I have fan mail” I tease Matt, I hold up the package for him to see. Well it is, kinda, sorta. A partner is also a fan, I would hope.
“What, who from?!” he asks. I flip the package over for him to see and he looks at the label.
“Who?”. I sigh and cock my head. Really?
“The same man who would undoubtedly post his own ass down here if he could” I say, “I mean, actually that’s a horrific concept now I think about it and I sincerely hope he wouldn’t go to such measures, but still.”
“Bill?”. I smile.
“What is it?” he asks, I pull the package back from his reach.
“Fan mail with my name on it,” I tease, “not for you”.
I sit down at my desk to open my fan mail and take out the book inside.
Families And How To Survive Them by John Cleese and Robin Skynner. I laugh out loud once more.
That man never ceases to make me smile.
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