Journey Into Submission

a bdsm love journal

Category: Michael Page 1 of 41

Survivor

Last week I just about drove my girls crazy with repeated playings of Suzie Bogguss’s “Aces” CD. This week it is Reba’s “Greatest Hits III: I’m a Survivor”.

So many of the songs on this CD are saying something to me about Michael or Ryan or life in general, and “Myself Without You” continues to be one of the most important songs in my life. It has held that place of distinction for the last five years and always, always reminds me of just how strong I am and how much more of life there is to live, no matter what happens. I survived what seemed like the absolute worst-case ending with Michael and it laid me low for three days. I cannot, will not, and refuse to be broken by any man.

“The world still turns and the sun still burns
And that’s what I’ve learned without you
And the days roll on and my heart gets stronger too
Don’t think I didn’t love you
Just because I made it through
But I learned to love myself
Without you”

Ryan works three blocks from my house. I wonder idly how many times in the past four years we have passed each other at the traffic light. He comes to work about the time I am leaving to take the girls to school. Have we seen each other in that vague unrecognized way that we all see hundreds of people each day?

Jennifer worries that him being so close will make this ridiculous affair even easier and more tempting. Ryan is not tied to his office, he comes and goes as he pleases and can easily spend an hour or two at my place without being missed by anyone. (Why do I never get involved with men who work by the clock and who are required to be in the same place nine hours a day? Chris owned his own business, Michael was on call and never worked a schedule, Theo was unemployed, and Owen ran his own non-profit. Perhaps it’s the personality type I attract and to which I am attracted – the free spirit who refuses to completely conform.)

Ryan thoroughly believes he is going to have the chance to live out his fantasies through and with me. He was playing poker with the neighborhood boys last night (this man is so traditionally, red-bloodedly, All-American it almost makes me laugh. It would, in fact, make me laugh if I wasn’t so set on finding a traditional, red-blooded, All-American man for myself) and wrote me a quick email during a break. He’d figured out the reason he’d impulsively asked about coming over to see me after the game: he’s always had the fantasy of hanging out with the vanilla guys all the while knowing he was going home to the “wildest, kinkiest, sexiest woman of all the guys.”

I tell you what… having an ego boost like that makes it hard to want to tell him he’s being silly and to go home to his wife instead. But I did. I saw the absolute uselessness of him living out this particular fantasy and quietly, successfully discouraged him. Put one in the “Common Sense Wins” column for me, please.

Book

Who thinks that telling a prospective beau about this blog is a good idea?

Yeah… me neither. Not so much. I really don’t wanna. So I come up against the moral dilemma once again: do I tell or don’t I? If I do, when? If not, why not? If not, do I write about the person I’m not telling? If I don’t write about the person I’m not telling, what do I write about?

This is purely hypothetical at this point, of course. There is no one that I would consider sharing myself with in the manner of this blog right now.

But at some point, hopefully, there will be. I plan on becoming involved with a man sometime in the next few years and I also plan to still be writing here when I do. But telling him about it and thereby giving him permission to read it? That’s not such a clear cut issue.

I let Michael know about my blog within a week of our first date. I was trying to write him an email explaining my past relationships, my interests in kink, and a basic outline of who I was. When I got about three pages into it I deleted the whole thing, pasted in a link, and sent it off. I’d already written everything he needed to know and I wasn’t going to try to condense it down and do it again.

Big mistake, as it turns out. I was, quite literally, an open book after that. He knew exactly what to say to get me exactly where he wanted me. He knew what I wanted from a partner, what pushed my buttons, what made my knees weak, and the deepest longings of my heart. He played me like a fiddle based on what I’d written and continued to do so for the next year and a half based on what I wrote when I was with him.

I know it worked and I know he manipulated me using it because he used many of the things he learned about me in wooing Jennifer. Things that I’d written about that I found important or special, things that I’d remarked on that made me feel submissive or loved – he used them on her. The conversations she and I have had since he disappeared clearly show that he used my blog as a text book to try to win her over.

I told her the other day about the conversation he and I had had at a fast food restaurant this summer, about feeling at home whenever he was with me, and how going back to the restaurant had made me cry last week.

“I think he was getting us confused at some point,” she said. “I remember one time I was sitting on his lap and he said something about how I must feel like I was home. We’d never had a conversation like that before, it wasn’t something I associated with him. It was just weird and didn’t fit.”

“He was probably doing it because I’d said that, because it was important to me so he figured it would work with you,” I said, thinking about my post on the subject. He’d read it, stored it away, and pulled it out to wiggle his way just a little more into her heart.

Chili

First there was the chili I used to make for Chris.

Then there was the apron I used to wear for Michael.

I should have been drinking a rum and coke (for Owen) and listening to ambient jazz (for Theo).

The emotions were difficult to process but the actions felt good, cleansing, healing. The chili takes almost an hour to get past the point of constant work. Chopping, dicing, grating, seeding, stirring, mixing…

I’ve been making chili with the arrival of Fall for three years, first in service to Mr Stern, then as a reminder of my continued connection with him, then because it is Fall and I like the chili. The recipe makes a huge batch so I can freeze some and have it for at least a few months so I felt justified in dredging up the feelings I knew would come.

Donning the apron took a long moment of contemplation and a firm gathering of my resolve. I have neither worn nor made an apron since Michael self-combusted. The two were just too intimately involved in my mind and memory. I started making them for myself but I continued and became deeply invested in them because of Michael’s encouragement, and because they represented the life I so desired with him. He bought me two books about aprons, picked out patterns, gave me creative advice, and helped me chart out a path for marketing and selling them.

Today I put on the first apron I made when I started this whole exploration back in January. It is my favorite, a half apron with huge tropical-looking flowers, happy pastel colors, and a lovely dark ruffle and waistband. It is the one I made immediately after I saw “Revolutionary Road” and decided I needed to do something crafty to fill up the time I was spending being angry at Michael because he had spent Christmas with Susan. It pre-dates Michael’s involvement and seems to have brought things full circle.

As I was making chili wearing my favorite apron I thought about how I still want to be a Fifties housewife. I still want to be owned. I still want to be in service to a Master I love and respect and who loves and respects me. Michael did not destroy that. In fact, living the last year with him simply reinforced my desires. I can go forward, confidently wearing and making my aprons, knowing that I have a much clearer idea of who I am and what I want. I am happier than I have been in a long time, confident in the future, and satisfied with how far I have come in getting to know myself.

So it seems that making chili every Fall has actually become a sort of barometer of my development… it reveals not only my current state of mind but also charts the direction and distance of my emotional and philosophical changes over the last year. Next year, lord willing and the creek don’t rise, I will be even further down the road.

Confused

This “Love Languages” thing is really bugging me.

I spent most of my morning outside enjoying a perfect Fall day at a local pumpkin patch, trying to figure out if I have one static way in which I prefer to be shown love… one thing that does not change no matter who my partner is or what kind of dynamic we have. Is there one commonality that can be seen from my days of dating in college all the way through to my romance with Michael? Was there one thing my ex could have done (or did do) that would have so touched me that it would have meant more than anything else? Is there something on which I can reliably depend as I go forward?

I’m not sure I’m thinking about this in correct terms, however. I keep imagining: if none of the conditions were being met which one would I want most desperately? If my partner never engaged in any of the five behaviors which “Language” would I miss the most? I’m realizing that this is a rather drastic way of thinking about the situation and I’m pretty sure I’m making it much more complicated than it needs to be.

So, in real life situations, what makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside? What “proves” to me that I am important and loved and needed? With Michael I was always longing for time with him. But (and this is a big but) I think a grand percentage of that desire was because he was not available and because he was involved with Susan. Had he been completely mine, would I still have craved that quality time with him? At this point it is nigh on impossible to say and thus I am left confused.

With Chris the situation was almost exactly the same, especially after Alexa moved into his house. I wanted time alone with him but was that because it was missing or because it was the most important thing to me? I just cannot answer these questions and it is driving me crazy.

Figuring out my marriage is even more difficult. I was such a different person back then that thinking about what would have helped me feel loved is confusing and frustrating. I can’t objectively analyze what happened during the ten years we were together because I see it through the filter of my new and improved self, with the understanding that I was not happy mostly with myself. I was so terrified of being vulnerable and so insecure that I’m not sure anything he could have done would have calmed my underlying panic. I would have needed to learn to love myself before I ever could have let him love me and felt good about it.

So, if I had a stable, long-term relationship where all of my basic needs were being met what “Love Language” would I want enhanced? Perhaps that is a more accurate question. If I were with a man in a dedicated one-on-one partnership where I felt accepted, safe, loved, and appreciated, what would just send me over the moon?

I actually feel a little sad that I’m not able to answer this question. It reminds me that I don’t feel like I’ve ever been in that situation.

Cat Pillow

“You know, this could be a great cat pillow…” I said to Michael the last time he was at my house, sometime in August. I was sitting on the floor pillow he’d given me a few weeks earlier. It is huge: three feet square and filled with goose down.

“I will be very upset if you let your cats have that pillow,” Michael said. His words sounded a little more stern than he probably meant them to, but I took his point. The pillow was too nice and too expensive to let the cats turn it into their private playground.

“In fact, if you stay in town this weekend, that will be part of your assignment – to make a cover for it,” he continued.

“Yes, Sir. I would like that,” I said.

Within a week the pillow was encased in a patchwork cover of red, black, and cream. I picked the colors precisely because they were Michael’s favorites and I wanted to be reminded of him every time I made myself comfortable on the floor in front of my computer. It wasn’t such a spectacular idea in hindsight… the cats are both black and white and shed like it’s going out of style. The hair they leave behind is disgusting in its copiousness and the pillow seemed like a natural magnet for it.

Some time after Michael imploded I tossed the big pillow off to the side of the living room. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it, or didn’t want to be around anything that reminded me of him, I just wanted to do something different with the space it was taking up. The girls lounged in it while playing their video games for a while, then they too abandoned its soft squishiness in favor of the couch.

Soon enough, the cats took over the pillow.

First it was Sylvester, the massive cat that Michael claimed to like because he was so much like a dog, then the little girl cat decided it was a nice place to hang out… away from the flow of traffic through the house, warm and cuddly when they wanted to sleep, and big enough for both of them. I let them have it, reassured by the knowledge that I could just strip the cover off and toss it in the washer if I ever wished to have the pillow back.

Then this afternoon one of the cats pee’d on it. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I settled on cleaning the pillow, simply because it is too comfortable and utilitarian to abandon. Besides, I feel like I should take care of it now that I know it actually belonged to Linda and was never Michael’s to give away. I offered to give it back to Linda a few weeks ago and she counter-offered with a pillow-burning ceremony. So, we’ll see if the pillow gets clean enough to use or if burning it might actually turn out to be the best course of action.

Or I might just give it back to the cats just to karmic-ly annoy Michael.

Page 1 of 41

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén