Long, And Not Worth It
Previous - this entry written on September 16, 2001 at 5:51 pm - Next


This is an entry I should have written years ago... but then, years ago, I didn't recognize it all. I think there's still bits I'm missing.

He scares easily
it makes him so
angry at me...


This is the entry I've been meaning to write for a long time. Odds are good, it will turn out seeming quite pretentions, highly ridiculous, and generally silly. If so, you've my apologies for it... I'm trying my best to be honest. Difficult task, when I'm sober and the subject is me - I don't LIKE me, and tend to skirt around the truth whenever possible. Oh, no outright lies... but... I just don't talk about it. Not about the stuff that matters, not unless I trust you a LOT.

If it seems to ramble, seems to change subjects, I'm sorry. It really is difficult to write this openly. It's hard enough to think it, to admit to it.

...he wants me down on my knees
crumbling in disgrace
he underestimates my mind
no, he's messing with my head...


I am turned on by pain, humiliation, and tears. This is, or at least should be, obvious. Equally obvious is the fact that sometimes it's someone else's tears or emotions that get to me, and sometimes my own... and sometimes it doesn't matter at all. My 'sub side', that's the part of me that wants to be hurt and humiliated - mostly humiliated, I'm not as good at taking physical pain as I'd like. I would much rather a good mindfuck - emotions and thoughts ripped apart, reformed, shredded and remade, instead of my body. My 'Domme side', protective as it is, still needs to see pain, to listen to tears, to hurt and humliliate at times. That's what satisfies me, at those moments. That's what I crave.

Then there's the times when it's all about sensation, stimulation, fantasy... the times when simple RP solves everything (or makes everything worse) because the need, the craving, is for both or either, just for SOMETHING, some way to prove to myself that I'm still alive and still feeling.

...and after a while he calms down
and he looks at me like a prince
and I know I'd better bite the bullet
'cos it's just another one of his
Jedi Mind Tricks...


I'm good at getting myself into bad situations. Why? Because... well, as he said, I'm heartless. In a sense, though, only in a sense, and I'm going to explain that, borrowing a few words here and there from someone else who knows me far too well. When someone tells me they love me, the girl with the horrible self-image and terrible habits... well, honestly, it makes me wonder what's wrong with them. When they fall for my manipulations, for the bait I throw out, for my shiny, pretty lures... I loose respect for them. Even though I often love them as well, even though it's not a conscious thing, even though I WANT them hooked, want them here, want them to admire and praise and enjoy me... still, that they would so easily be trapped, be caught... it makes me think less of them in a sense.

After all, anyone who would fall for ME, who would dance to MY tune... gods. There must be something horribly wrong with them, right? And so I hurt them, try to push them away, believing that they won't stay long anyway or that if they do...

...and here's the sick part...

...that if they do, it will either be because they are more pathetic than I am... or because they've finally seen my shame and decided to just use me, then throw me away later if I stop being useful... so I throw out more lures, try to make myself even more necessary... and if it works... yeah. Constant downward spiral.

Please keep in mind, I honestly don't do this consciously, usually. I know I've got talents, I've got a good sense of humor when I'm not on the rag, I've got a decent way with words and an imagination that's better than a large chunk of the population's. I take care of my own, and I do my best to please the people who please me. I am well aware, when I look at it logically, that I'm Not That Bad.

Logic and my subconscious haven't been speaking to each other for years.

...and I hate myself
just enough to want him
but I hate him
just enough to get off...


Rhett's latest epithet (is that the right word? did I spell it right? do I care?) for me is Whore-Princess. This pleases me, and not because of the princess part. *sighs* Realistically, I am a whore - I sell myself, my words and body and emotions, in return for the words and body and emotions of someone else... but isn't that every relationship, every interaction between two people? I'm a slut too... I have more than one partner, more than one mate... I've slept with more people than I have fingers. However, my partners are (usually - don't yell at me, Scott, I was an idiot, I know, and I've more or less gotten better... I think) aware of each other, they know who I'm with, they are generally friends with one another, and on occasion share. I'm rarely with more than two or three people seriously. And I do my best to make sure each gets as much of my time and attention as possible. No faceless, nameless fucks... erm, ok, maybe Faceless, but that's only because that's the name Kadin went by briefly, in a way.

I get off on being held down. Being verbally abused. Being used. Being hurt. Being humiliated. And I get off on holding someone down, using them, hurting them... making them cry, beg, scream, whimper... watching the look in their eyes when they realize the place I've taken them to, the dark hole in their mind that I'm dropping them down.

Mostly, I get off on catching them once they've fallen... and on the feel of strong arms catching me when I fall.

...and I understand him
maybe I'm just crazy enough
to love him...


I've discussed love. I'm not going to do it again. This is about lust. Lust, and a self-image problem a mile wide... if I could reform myself, shape myself into a slender, purring, feline femfurre or a delicate, wide-eyed, long-tailed mouse boy, I would. If I could grow wings, if I could loose 50 pounds without trying, if I could lengthen my hair and my eyelashes, shorten my nose, and turn my eyes green... I would. I like my eyes in general - they're expressive and well-shaped. I like my hair, it glows copper in sunlight and when it's just been washed, it's incredibly silky and wonderful to touch. I like my hands, when they're not peeling... I like my wrists, they are nice and slender despite my weight, which I do NOT like. I like my breasts sometimes. I like my throat, and my ears, even the one with the odd bump on it that looks like it's trying to grow a point.

But I don't like ME. I don't like the overall picture, no matter how good I can make it seem, no matter how I clothe it, paint it, hide it, reveal it. I don't like the form I am in. Exercise... yes, I'm lazy. If I got out, exercised every day... I'd drop dead. You think I'm gonna be nuts enough to run a mile a day with this body and this health? However, I really should exercise more. Won't help much, though. I really AM big-boned. I really DO have 'birthing hips' - 9 hours' labor for what was it, a 10-pound baby? I've got a body that if I were an African tribeswoman or a native American from 500 years ago... I'd be doing GOOD. For this day and age, I'm overweight, although well-proportioned.

*sighs* $500 and I'll have a corset. That's what I'm saving up for now. It is the most beautiful garment I've ever seen, it's custom-fit to me and does EVERYTHING right, and the confinement of it combined with the beauty and the sheer sensuality... gods. Just wearing it makes me wet. So that's what I'm saving for. I know that a piece of clothing shouldn't affect my self-image that much... but it's something to have, something that will help on the days when what I see in the mirror DOES effect me.

...can't talk to a psycho like a normal human being...

There's a thing, a term I use... balance. When I'm not in the mood to be hurt or to hurt, or when I'm both, but happy about it... I'm balanced. When I have too much of one, I start needing the other... when I have too little of one, I need it all the more for its loss. I try to keep myself balanced, but it doesn't always work. Hormones, mood swings, even daily events... yeah.

It doesn't help to tell me I'm attractive. It doesn't help to tell me I'm pretty, or fun, or clever. It doesn't help, as a general rule, to tell me much of anything...

...the only thing that helps is seeing submission in someone else... tasting it in myself... and waking up in the morning to find that we are both still there, still alive, still as insane and happy as ever. It's the morning-afters that leave me content... sometimes even the five-minutes-laters. It's the aftermath.

This, I think, is why I love a good rainstorm... everything looks so fresh, so revived and alive, after it passes. I recognize that, and identify with it. I need more rainstorms in my life.

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