He’s an artist of words. Think I started chatting to him 3 yrs ago. Deleted him last year cos I couldn’t handle another suicidal phone call. Word magician. See’s the world in a spiritual way that I am not brave enough to see now that I’m ‘sane’. Has the kinda hope u have when u have nothing left. He tells me I’m the sister of perfection. Tells me he loves me. Tells me he has been on a natural high for the last week and won’t take his meds as usual. But I can’t. He says he wants friendship. He tells me he loves me as a sister with all the innocence of a child. He tells me how great my breasts are and how he wants to finger me while I bleed. It hurts to talk to him. A brilliant poet. A broke manic depressive furniture salesman, thirty years of age, who can’t lean on his so-called friends and lives with his grandfather cos no one else will take him. He is not mine to save but I can’t give him friendship because I’ll give too much then dash his hopes when I realise what I’ve done. So many lost souls that are so close to the light but this life just can’t accommodate the intensity of their feathers. I can’t accommodate.
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Homicidal, suicidal, erotic; my dreams are my dark side and have been since childhood. The big bad wolf raping me. Taking me as I leave the shower. Strange how the nightmares that wrecked me as a child, have become my bittersweet pleasure. I have murdered woman and babies, seen their decomposing faces in the film strips of my conscience. I became a reptile and hid in the sewers. How much of this so-called darkness do you embrace? What separates it from the so-called light. Brought up to believe in saints and sinners. Thou shalt not kill, steal, commit adultery, blaspheme, give into your passions and rage. Thou shalt not cry, nor show weakness. I turned these desires inwards and now have the scars written on my skin and mind. My own scripture of what being human means. A past of sunshine bubbles of kindness, driven by moral duty to my earth. A past of self-inflicted suppression, pain and misery. Now I am but a pendulum swinging to the chant of the voices inside my head. Yoda prays, cries, hopes. Juno breaks, naked on the beaches of flesh while Kim murders on stages of words and canvas. And Charlie, sweet fox Charlie kisses the girls. And Mana? Mana has been alive for 25 years too long. Mana is fearless and stubborn and invincible. Mana tries not to think nor feel, just another junkie skeleton with holes for eyes . Hope is a fashion magazine.
I tell myself, ‘I don’t miss you, I just miss having a cock inside me.’
So I go out and find a cock to fill the hole. But its not your cock, and it doesn’t feel right. I shower and weep to wash away dirt and guilt, and tell myself that I don’t miss your voice. I call a friend and we chat and giggle and she tells me, that I don’t need you to be happy. Yeah. Sure. I don’t need your company, your guidance, all your silly jokes, that I don’t laugh at. I don’t need my name spelt out in jelly babies on the pillow. I don’t need you to choose between cheddar or colchester. I don’t need my best friend, my happiness, my master, my lover…
They tell me you need space and time, the most difficult things for me to give you.
You tell me I’m too much drama and you are right.
I’m trying to be good, love. I’m trying to give you what you need…
Master runs his fingers down my spine. Then I feel the cool, smooth wood of the rod sliding across my ass. My eyes squeeze shut, in preparation for what’s to come.
Strike 1. Strike 2. Strike 3.
I’m already struggling and swearing, yet I don’t want it to stop.
4, 5, 6, 7,
‘God! Fuck! Aaaah!’
He continues to spank me, and I am lost, free falling in the sweet high of pain, detached from my writhing body.
Then its stops. He slips two fingers inside me, then wipes the milky ecstasy on my aching cheeks.
“Mmm, I think you enjoyed that way too much.”
I remain silent, grateful for the chance to catch my breath.
“My little stubborn cow, its time you learnt that pride comes before the fall.”
His fingers enter my vagina once more, except now he uses the wetness to tease them into my asshole.
God no. I hate anal sex. Master is as thick as a men’s deodorant can and I can barely stand being ass-fucked when he is being gentle! He spreads my cheeks open and I scream as he enters me. My head is pulled back and upward as a rope noose tightens around my neck and throat. The feeling of desperate fear is more overwhelming than the pain. How can he do this to me!?! I want it to stop! The noose loosens and constricts, as he withdraws and rams his cock into me, over and over again. My voice switches between raspy whispers, moaning and begging.
” Stop, please stop, please stop…”
I fight against him. There is only terror and agony,
Then acceptance.
I give into my master, surrender under waves of pain, and my body relaxes. I truly know that I am his. My trust in him is strengthened, not betrayed.
It is another early morning in Master’s four-poster bed and I’m awakened by my own moaning, and the rhythmic, painful penetration of my vagina.
‘Not now, baby, I’m sleeping.’
Yeah, totally not the right response for even the most patient of doms. He continues to fuck me, as I lie on my side with my back against his chest. I’m sleepy and grumpy, and stubbornly fall into silence and stillness in the hope that he will take the hint. He withdraws from inside me, pulls me onto my back and straddles my hips and legs with his body. His eyes are cold and stern, and I am suddenly more awake, as the feeling of dread creeps into my belly.
“Mana. You have been a very disobedient slave over the last few days, and frankly I am sick of this bad behaviour. You will go to the bathroom, brush your teeth and wash your pussy and bum. Then you will lie face down, naked on the bed.”
I manage to mumble a shocked, ‘yes, Sir’.
Master has never disciplined me before. Any pain that I have had to endure was to arouse and educate me, and during the lesson he always comforted me with his quiet, patient voice.
I follow his instructions, and listen to his approaching footsteps in the hallway and the creak of the bedroom door as it opens. He says nothing, cuffing my wrists to the bed frame. Next, my ankles are bound together and I feel the rope being pulled taunt, so that I’m unable to move my legs.
“Mana, you are trembling. Are you cold or are you scared?”
“I’m scared, Sir”
He laughs, “Well, you should be.”
Blood rushes into my face and clit, as feelings of trepidation and excitement mingle into one. He wraps 3 layers of duct tape around my head to form a gag.
“There. Now you are in no danger of disturbing the neighbours with your screaming.”
Dusk falls, anxiety rises as pre-vomit, then is swallowed. I smirk in face of darkness, so relieved as the reality of good health becomes clear. Human frustration, the swirl of emotions; both grateful and raging at life beautiful, cruel and lucky. Suck it, Juno. There is no pole for you to dance upon. I am sexy on my own, the night’s breeze teases the humidity from my bare skin and I imagine I can hear the sea. Blue october – dirt room and the end. The sound of gravel vocals and strings rub against my sternum and under my breasts. Slight violence, I’m aroused by sound word. It sinks my hips and soothes my head.
Bitches on heat can’t be leashed, at least that’s what they’d like you to believe…
Head aching from the power struggle, smoke a cigarette to catch my breath. How many hours did I lose this time? Memory blurred, oblivious to the subtle changes that scream in the faces of my family and friends. Sweet boy squeezed the trigger, today. Sometimes, its a song or word that touches the wrong place but the result is always the same. I think it was Juno, but we all wear the same skin and in the heat of battle, I can never work out whose side I’m on, in any case. All the words she flung at him, God. Even the half memory scares me. The shadows unseen in the dark, but I know they are there.
It was worse to confess to the same sweet boy, that I had sucked another dick to get a rise in self-esteem. My love asked if I’ll do it again, and I wanted to say no.
“No! I’d never do something like that! Why would I?”
We all wear the same skin and once again I’ve failed to keep the whore in the box, so all I can spew out are bitter apologies. Tomorrow, I’ll put the chemical chain on before the night steals in. More trials, more errors, you have to live with those, who can not be tamed nor killed.
Therapists, the rapists – ambivalence and not ambiguity. Sessions start with sympathetic lubrication of the emotional asshole, which does little to ease the trauma of subsequent anal penetration. Those of you, who have experienced the joys of psychology, will know I’m not exaggerating. But after ten years, I’ve finally found a psychologist who doesn’t want to go through all the dirty laundry of the past. I call her the Wonder Woman. We talk about solutions to problems, rather than focusing solely on the issues, themselves. I come home feeling relieved and motivated. One man’s bread is another man’s poison.
Called temples, but contain pain. Perhaps the early anatomists were fond of religious irony. So not ready for the morning therapy session. But 1st, light it up, suck it in. Caffeine, pills, finish with a side of smoke. There’s my smile but so not a bra wearing day! The little red lamb bursts into my room, tail swinging like a metronome on a metal mission, ball in mouth. Ah sweet puppy dog, I’m truly happy to see you too.
I guess I’m just tired of talking to the voices in my head. Entertaining at times, but at 4am you kind of want the party to stop. I’m hoping they’ll take the hint. I’ve found new friends to play with.
Eyes are dry now, flames of madness extinguished, although at the back of my skull, I still hear the whispers.
This afternoon was pleasantly normal. Haloumi on rye, my favourite pinotage and summer rain, equals mana in heaven. Handling last nights break-up so well. No tears, no drama, and most importantly no hostile takeover by the mind’s insurgents. Bath time. Bed time. Alarm clock- check; glass of water- check; deep sleep balm- check; audio relaxation cd- check. Followed by full body relaxation, deep breathing and no F?!#in sleep! Its ok keep calm, its still early, just pleasure yourself into exhaustion. Multiple orgasms, exhaustion, more deep breathing. Then tears. And screaming. Followed by horrible text confessionals to my brand new ex-boyfriend. Poor guy really doesn’t need to know the content of my fantasies. So I apologised. Took his advice. And started this blog. Now I can hear the birds chirping, a much sweeter lullaby than the sound of my own breathing.
