The Squee Before The Water

The best way to describe it, is a curling up.

A drawing in.

A careful assembly of walls.

Its starts as my mortality creeps in. As my spark begins to fade and the knowledge of the coming days settles on me. I feel myself begin to slide, withdrawing tendrils of affection, becoming quieter, stiller.

It begins as I realise I have, once more, been running full tilt towards the edge of the chasm and the edge is now sprinkling the dust of my movements into the abyss.

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He asked me what he did that was so wrong. He asked me what he did that made me drop him like a hot coal after weeks of messaging back and forth. He asked me why I turned so cold after I was so warm when we met. He asked me in a single badly phrased and under-thought sentence, pretending he was someone else, playing a game I had seen through months before.

I wrote him a long message. I detailed all the things he did that I had disliked, the clinging, the incessant unending messages, the pawing desperation, the limp pseudo-helpless whining, the misdirection, the objectification, the manipulation and now the lying. The list was long, his intrusion into my life a twisted catalogue of ridiculous sock accounts and 3am text messages a year after the fact.

I read it back. I edited. Then I deleted the whole thing.

There, contained within everything I wanted to say and everything I wanted to let him know, was a single sentence. A few simple words said more than I needed to.

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I can write this freely here because you never did read my writing. You tried at first, all those years ago. You read my favourite books and I wrote you stories and you even wrote me poetry back. But words have always been a struggle for you and I respect that, even as I find pure unadulterated joy in the new writer ghosting my life.

Since we split things have been, for want of a better word, messy. The split itself was probably about as tumultus as our blow ups have ever been. In a way it was a fitting end. I never wanted us to deflate, it was better as one last frantic sounding of horns. Thousands of miles away, in a hotel room, on your birthday, riding on the coattails of a betrayal, in the whirling fog of your bipolar.

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50 days: In three parts. I.

“ 50 days?!”

I look at her and realise, in one swift appraisal, that I have miscalculated.

It had seemed a fine plan at the time. 50 days of chastity, hours of sweet, awful, torture at my hand (or mouth, or toys, or inside me), the fulfilling of a rash and foolishly whispered fantasy ‘I don’t want to come like a boy until I’ve come like a girl’ and a free house with one lovely male friend.

But then I brought the card.

It had seemed a good idea at the time. A last minute thought, something that would both amuse and humiliate her. A wicked joke that appealed to my cruelty. A ‘Congratulations on 50’ card to be given to her in front of our munch group that evening.

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Exchanging Gifts.

She had kept him locked away for 30 days. It wasn’t the longest she had locked him away for. It wasn’t the longest time she had made him wander through his day with the smooth curves of plastic and silicone snugly pressed against his manhood.

It wasn’t the first time either, not the first snap of the little padlock or the first glimpse of the shining key curving at her throat.

Locking him away wasn’t the problem. That wouldn’t be so bad if that was all she did; just locked him and left him. But she likes pushing the boundaries too much, likes pushing him. She likes bringing him up, so very close, choked within the smooth tight confines that feel so wickedly akin to her own – and then stopping. Stopping and laughing at the desperate, writhing, state she has left him in. Stopping and mocking his anxious pleading for release, humiliating him with his own anguish.

It turned him into a slut – her slut, her crawling, desperate, little slut. Until even her mere presence made him hard and wanton – and he loved it, despite himself.

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Last night I deleted my fetish list.

The truth is that the Darkling Muse alias was invented to be taboo. A muse who wandered through your darkest desires and made them spill forth with joy. A submissive who catered to the most exotic, the most depraved thoughts, and made them come to life for you.

The Darkling Muse alias was a kindling of desire long stilted by drugs and personality modifications. It was desire tinged with the fog of sickness and the sharp, reptilian, smell of death.

I have done things, through fiction, with strangers on the Internet that I would never even conceive of in real life. I have explored my psyche. I know how deep the rabbit hole goes.

And it is deep.
And it is dark
And it is fetid.

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Fuck Me By Proxy

I’m pretty good at work arounds.

Its what makes me good with tech.

Its why people come to me with their problems.

But the truth is my brain is good at work arounds because its been doing it for years. Because it has developed while adapting to a world thats not -quite- suited to it.

I was diagnosed with dyspraxia when I was 20. I managed to get all the way to university without knowing. I am a bright student, I got good grades, I devoured books.

So imagine my mother’s surprise when we discovered that not only am I dyspraxic but I am severely dyspraxic. Only 0.5% of the population at the time struggled in the same way. I was given coloured glasses that allowed me to devour books at -twice- my already considerable speeds. I learned a lot about how I learn and how I had adapted – the coping mechanisms and strategies that had masked the problem (but that didn’t work so well with university level learning). I am lucky. I am high functioning, intelligent and (in this gloriously digital/writing age) mostly verbally dyspraxic.

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