The Climb And The Crash

The climb was so fast that I look back on it now, wondering if it was a sign for where we are today. Those feeling that came out of nowhere, that drive for a connection growing and becoming more and more intense with each passing day. The shift from magnetic attraction to actual care for each other happened faster than we’d ever experienced with anyone else before. We were both so sure this was “meant to be”.

Building into what we thought would be that one day to answer all those unasked questions.

The day that never happened.

I don’t want to say it was your ‘fault’, more an alignment of circumstances that couldn’t have come at a worse time. It knocked us both down, for somewhat separate reasons. You thought it would end right there, but I ‘forgave’ you and that fast climb started again albeit with a level of appropriate distraction. We both still thought that this climb was the path meant for us. We both still cared. We both still felt that longing.

I even said those words I still wonder if I should have left screaming in the back of my mind.

Then it was my turn to let you down and since then I feel like we have started descending.

I now feel like I’m scrambling to grab hold of you, crashing just as fast as we climbed. My connection with you disappearing before my eyes. Your words grow fewer and far between. I feel like I need to explain and apologize and plead and yes even beg for you to just open up for a moment so I can see if we are indeed on this descent or if it’s just another valley on this journey we’ve set ourselves on.

I’m afraid of heights – because of the fear of falling.

Out of Sync

I’m out of sync.  I’m muddled up.

My head is screwed on.  I know you’ll never leave her and I would never ask you to.  I know what we are.  I know our limitations.  I’ve never been under any impression that you would want any more than this with me.

But my heart is beating to a different tune.   Despite me telling it that it’s being stupid, it’s always clinging to a tiny chink of hope that maybe this time will be different, maybe this time you’ll realise that you love me properly.  Maybe this time will change your mind.  Maybe if I just align myself that little bit more, do everything you want me to do, say the right things, then there will come a day where I’m not moving mountains to get to see you, or crying on trains when I have to leave you.

I find it hard to believe that you don’t notice.  That you don’t realise.  Either you’re blind, or you choose to ignore it because you don’t want to have to quit me.

This is destroying me.  You are destroying me.  But then you kiss me and touch me and for a little while it’s worth it.


Where to start,

Its been a month since we last spoke, when I say spoke it was more a tirade of abusive messages aimed at me.

I won’t lie, I never have lied, though I’ve been accused many times by this person, yet anyone who had seen our relationship go on and off and on and off over the many months I was fighting to have a relationship, while they, the moment things got difficult went willingly back to an abusive relationship and told anyone who would care to listen lies about not being with anyone and never being asked to be anything to anyone.

I just wanted to love someone I believe is a special, beautiful person, I’m not sure that they ever believed me when I told them I loved them, encouraging them to be who, and do what, they wanted. I hoped they would love me too, but apparently not, even though they told me they did and that they would be completely loyal, they were able to turn on me so easily.

Staying up till the wee small hours, nursing insecurities, soothing fears, making that special person smile and laugh, I was happy to do it, and I did do it frequently, often to the detriment of my own health.

This isnt even half the story, but I guess people just don’t care, if they did, they’d ask.

I only wanted to be with them, and I wanted them to be with me. But they didn’t want that and I’m left broken.


Shattered, but not scattered.

I found my fire.

I tried to have a conversation, but that only works if you both are willing to talk. He wasn’t willing. He was too scared, I think, so instead of being open, he attacked.

So I’ve had to lose a friend, plus the friend who is his partner. It looks like I may also lose my partner, because despite everything he said, he may no longer want me because, in retrospect, maybe he wasn’t as OK as he said he was.

It’s hard, when you have sacrificed yourself for people, to find that they aren’t willing to sacrifice themselves for you.
It’s hard, when you checked over and over again that everything was above board with everyone before you walked down a new, exciting path, to be told that you didn’t do it ‘right’.
It’s hard, when you gave of yourself completely, to be rejected so thoroughly.
It’s hard, when you submitted so sweetly, to find that the person you did it for is now incapable of caring for you.
It’s hard, when your partner encouraged you at the time, but now rejects you.
It’s hard, to think that in order to keep your partner, you will likely have to live without having the longings of your heart ever being satisfied.

It’s hard.

Yet I’ve always believed that nothing is too broken to be redeemed.

Yes, I have been shattered. But the pieces of me will not be lost forever.


Do not expect respect
None will be given
Do not expect gratitude
For they are ungrateful
Do not expect obedience
They will do as they please
Do not expect friendship
Only how they can use you
Do not expect to matter
For you do not


Often, I think I can get by without love. I don’t really know what it’s like, so I don’t really know what I’m missing. I keep hearing about it, and it sounds wonderful. But really, to me, it’s the stuff of myth.  And anyway, I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I tripped over it.

Sometimes I think I can live without sex. I’ve taken more driving tests than I have had sexual encounters, and I’ve forgotten nearly everything about both. And as unsatisfying as it can be, masturbation can take the edge off the yearning, the craving. The lust. It’s manageable, if not sufficient.

But sometimes I feel like falling to my knees and begging for someone to just touch me. To hold me. I feel like howling just thinking about it. I feel so desperate, I almost feel sick (I have had to stop to cry while writing this paragraph). Again, I don’t really know anything else. The memories of other people’s skin against my own are little more than ghosts. Yet maybe this is the hardest thing to live with. I really don’t know how I will get through the next few decades (years?) without it – short of praying to a god I don’t believe in for a numbness I don’t dare expect will come.


She never touches me.

Beneath this stoic exterior beats a passionate heart and an inferno of unexpressed and unquenched desire. A painful knot of self doubt. A very masculine lack of confidence, whittled away down the years.

A glimpse of a pretty girl and my imagination takes hold, flared nostrils, a quickening of breath, a runaway imagination – and then shame at feeling such need and want at nothing more than the sight of a total stranger.

Shame again at resorting to pornography, to erotica, to memories of lovers long gone, hidden in the mists of my youth, idealised by nostalgia. Hands sticky with tears and cum when I can bear it no longer and succumb to temptation, for even a minute’s relief from the gnawing want that twists in my gut.

I want…

Ripped clothing in desperate passion.

The fleshy ‘snap’ of a nipple escaping my teeth.

The heady scent of a woman’s sweat.

The electric-battery zing of the taste of a woman’s cunt.

I want to lick the tears from a cheek.

I want to hear the smack of flesh on flesh and breathy groans.

I want to mark a woman’s body as mine with runes of cum, scratches and bites.

I want a doll in my chains, reddened, squirming, calling out desire.

I want a lioness to draw the blood from my back with her nails.

I want to make a woman cum and cum and cum until she faints.

I want to see a woman’s spit and lipstick glisten on my cock.

I want to lose myself and be lost, to fill a willing, eager body with flesh and life.

I need. To be needed.

I cannot stray. I am loyal. Always and forever.

But I am lonely for the merest, slightest touch, the dark-eyed, lip-bitten gaze of attraction and it hurts more than I can stand to feel no touch but my own.


He told me he would look after me, and I believed him.
He told me he missed me, and I believed him.
He told me I was his, and I believed him.

And the worst part of it all is, he was telling the truth. He meant it when he said it.

But now we are both pretending that neither of us ever said anything.
And now I can’t believe anything he says.

And there is nowhere safe to explain everything that happened between us.
And there is no one I can tell about what happened between us.
I can’t even write it out here fully, because it would be so obvious to anyone who knows us who I am.

So every time he or she or he ask me how I am, I smile and tell them I am OK.

And I wonder why, when he saw me so completely, he can’t see just how far away OK is.

And I realise that I am so used to having my heart shattered, that I am so good at holding it together, that no one can tell anymore.

I put everyone else before me.

And I am so very lonely.

The Fan

She first contacted me four years ago. Told me she loved me because of what I wrote. Told me she couldn’t stop thinking of me.

Turned out she was far too young. Illegally so. I did the right thing and let her down. I told her not to communicate with me.

Years went by and she periodically tried to reconnect. I pushed her away, though from time to time I would engage for an email or two.

Recently she became of age. Legal, so to speak.

She sent a barrage of emails asking for just one night. Just one meeting.

I thought,”she lives far away, she could come into town for the weekend and I could give in, just for a little while.”

It felt good to be so desired for so long. It felt powerful to be an object of obsession by someone so seemingly innocent in so many ways.

The awkwardness of the meeting was far more than I ever imagined. I wasn’t prepared for the reality of her youth. I wasn’t prepared for the intensity of her emotions. I wasn’t ready for her body, small but seemingly unbreakable.

She begged me to be cruel. She actually got on her knees and pleaded with me to use her body.

When I gave in it was like a monster was unleashed. 48 hours in a hotel room and we did nothing but kiss and fuck and play dark little games.

It took a long time to disconnect. She had a life to go back to that I couldn’t even conceptualize. Parents and school and drama. I finally convinced her to let me go and to move on with her life.

Still, in dreams all I can think of is her. There was something about having her so completely. There was something about the adoration in her eyes and her willingness to give me every part of her body without question. There was the dirtiness of being so much older, older than her father even, and taking her.

It is a battle every day not to send the email that I know could make her drop everything and come to me again. There is a weight in knowing her heart is in the palm of my hand.

And secretly my heart is hers too, but I am old and wise enough or jaded enough to hold back, knowing that it wouldn’t work out and most of all fearing the responsibility of it all.

A lie

My whole life is a lie. Every part of my life is filled with deception. Not one aspect of it is untouched.

In my vanilla life, no one knows that I am kinky or bi-sexual. It is my secret. My dirty little lie that would have me kicked out of my church, disowned by my family, shunned at my children’s functions and school events. So I keep that part of myself a secret from them. I deceive them about who I really am.

In my kink life, there are less secrets… but still one (and a very big one)… no one (kinky or vanilla) knows about my secret life. I am more honest with those in my kink life but still not fully so because I have a secret life as well. A secret life filled with longing for things I can’t have in my real life, desires left unfulfilled.

But, even in my secret life, which is lived out mainly on twitter and kik, there are lies and deception because I don’t want my real life to interfere with the goals of my secret life.  I don’t want the ones that might possibly fulfill at least a sliver of those desires to know about my real life. I don’t want the restriction of my real life to interfere and so I keep that to myself. I deceive those who share my secret life as well.

Even those I am closest too in any of those three parts of my life only know partial truths, shadows of the real me. There is not one person who I am wholly honest with… probably not even myself. How long can a person live with such all consuming lies and deception before they tear her completely apart?

Return top


Where only you know who you are....