12 Days of BDSM Christmas 2017 – #2: Silent Night




Rachel watched herself in the mirror as she shakily undid her plain black bra, watching it as it fell at her feet and revealed her breasts, red splotches covering her areola and nipples.

“Jesus” She let out in a hoarse whisper, and felt a stab of guilt as she did so, given the circumstances.

Despite all this, her cunt was still alive and on fire, pulsating to its own rhythm, something Rachel wasn’t in tune to. It scared her. She wanted no part in it.

Yet as she peeled off her panties, emerald satin with fine black lace detailing around the edges, she could smell the strong aroma of her cunt.

It was so strong it almost made her gag, not for distaste but because her own scent was intense. She could count on one hand the times she had witnessed that, and she didn’t care to count them out right now.

Rachel needed to shower, scalding hot or freezing cold, both were acceptable. Anything to shake the uneasy feeling that what she had done was wrong, terribly wrong.

But all she could think of was laying back on the bed behind her and finishing what she had started. She could watch herself, which was something she had wanted to do but felt weird about it. Narcissistic. She would only point out the flaws in her body anyway, right?

Well, not tonight. Tonight she wanted to watch her fingers glide over her wet slit and slide –


It was the middle of summer and yet when Rachel stepped out of the car alongside her family, steam escaped her lips as she let out a sigh.

When she agreed to make the nine-hour drive from Melbourne to Sydney, she thought she would just be spending time with her family.

Yet somewhere between the first and ninth hour of the drive, the thought did occur to her: Mum is going to make me go to Christmas Mass.

It was, after all, her mother’s tradition. Family, even. Rachel’s mother and father were raised Catholic and so raised their three children, Rachel, Louise and May, in their image.

The thing about growing up Catholic though, you merge with the thoughts of the world. You develop a mind of your own. You start to wonder about how and why and why not and before long, you’re agnostic.

Rachel never wanted to go to Mass. She wanted to just soak in the hot tub and read and not even think about Jesus Christ or our sins.

But when she ran the idea by her mum, and when her mum said, with a roll of the eye – something none too subtle and obviously meant to be taken to heart by Rachel – that she was an adult and can do her own thing, Rachel know then that she was trapped. Her mum – excellent at the guilt trip.


So Rachel donned the least offensive thing in her wardrobe, something that wasn’t a dress with zombies on it or skeletons or her beloved Pacman dress. She donned a simple black dress, elegant and tasteful. It ran to her knees, didn’t show any leg or breasts or anything the churchgoers or Jesus might find offensive. She even wore tasteful panties without really knowing why she bothered to wear tasteful panties in the first place.

Does God find Poison Ivy and Batgirl panties bad taste? What about Tinkerbell? She does look like a harlot..

Whatever God’s tastes were, Rachel and her family walked into the church in complete silence.


It would be odd to say that the church is an ancient thing, considering most are, but it is – it has sat on the corner of the Western Suburbs of Sydney since 1989, when she was a small child. She had her communion here, she was baptised here, and the same old priest that took her confession after she was caught masturbating in the toilets by Miss Fletcher in grade six was still tending to the local flock at the ripe age of 400.


Save for a few rows at the front of the hall, the church was unusually empty this Christmas Eve. The times that Rachel had been, the church stalls were packed to the brim and people who came too late to grab a seat stood in lines with their backs against the walls.


Rachel found herself supressing a smirk. Everyone had the same idea it seems, thought she, as she followed her Mum into the Church stall.

Thin padded cushions lined the Church stall seats, though it should be said that that didn’t really help at all. Rachel could feel the wood beneath her, rubbing her boylegs into the curves of her ass.

“Jesus” Rachel whispered as she swung her knees to the right to reposition herself.

It was only when she had grown comfortable again that she noticed her mum, sitting across from May, glaring across the stall at her. She heard me blaspheme, Rachel said, I know she did.


Her mother didn’t pass on a message back to Rachel; however, she merely glanced coldly at her.

What more does she want, thought Rachel, I am here instead of listening to the crickets and relaxing.

Then the Mass began and Grandfather Priest waddled to the centre of the altar looking like Death itself. He already had the skeletal outline, thin wisps of facial hair on his chin and looked fragile. All he needed was a scythe.

His voice sounded more fragile than he looked, like somebody at the end of his rope, as he struggled to get out the greeting.

Rachel felt cruel to snicker, but the snicker came all the same to her.

That was when her mother leant across May to tap her on her shoulder.

“Honestly, Rachel, you’re 19. Act like it.”

Rachel thought she was.


The last Christmas Eve Mass Rachel attended, she was 17. Still in secondary college – or High School. Back then, living under her parent’s roof, she had to. But now, living out of home, finding her own way in life, even if that was working at the local cinema, she didn’t have to sit through the mind-numbing event. She didn’t have to feel bad yawning during prayer.

Something tickled her ankle and Rachel flinched, to the surprise of her family squished around her.

Rachel caught the eye of her mother – cold as ice – and ignored trying to figure out just what those eyes were saying. Something had brushed past her leg.

I did, came a voice. Smooth. Gentle.

Rachel could hear it but not see it. She turned around to see if her family had seen – but their eyes were forward listening to Father Death.

Down here.

Rachel looked down and saw two golden eyes the size of pebbles and barely visible in the darkness of the space underneath.

Don’t scream.

The serpent coiled into the light, wrapping itself around Rachel’s leg and squeezing gently.

Rachel, it hissed. O Rachel, your mind is running, sweet child.

Rachel looked to her family, who didn’t notice her. Even her mother was looking forwards, eyes serene.


The pale green snake reached her knee, its golden eyes watching her closely.

Rachel felt hypnotised by its gaze, as if she was falling into a dream.

That was it, she thought, I am asleep. I had fallen asleep during prayer.


The snake’s voice was in her head, its voice oddly calming.

It slithered under her dress. She could feel its oily skin against her bare thigh.

In all the worlds, in all of rhyme, spin and seek and fear the chime.

Rachel could feel the snake slither across her cunt, could feel the tickle of its body against her skin.

In all of the worlds, each one is the same, you see. And you, O Rachel, are the same in all of the worlds.

Rachel tried to speak but all that came out was a whimper through trembling lips.

She felt violated as the snake began to slither up her stomach, next stop – breasts.

Rachel went to stand up, but the snake hissed beneath her dress. She could see it move in a wave, zigzagging across her chest, which tightened with every chest.

Do not move.

Rachel wanted to ask why her, but the words never came. If she moved quickly enough, she could grip the snake from her body and squeeze it till it popped, but would it bite her first? And why could no one see this happening?

Her family rose and repeated the prayer that Father Death had spilled from his elderly lips. No one seemed to mind that Rachel did not move, not even her mother, whose face no longer registered cold.

Rachel felt the snake move across the curves of her breasts and let out a whimper, it sounded deep and unlike her. The sound frightened her more so.

When the snake coiled itself out the top of her dress and around Rachel’s neck, Rachel was shaking like a leaf. The sudden urge to urinate hit her then, and she struggled to keep it back.


She could feel the snake move behind her neck, brushing her auburn hair as it slinked its way across her left shoulder to in front of her face, where it watched her with those haunting golden eyes.

For fifteen agonizing seconds, the snake gazed at Rachel and Rachel gazed at the snake, all of a sudden feeling that summer heat on her neck and cheeks.

The pale snake then slithered back around her neck and feeling its absence, Rachel turned to see it slither into the next Church stall and away from view.

Rachel went to let out a cry, to let out a sob. All that came out was air.


A gust of wind struck her fiercely, knocking her head back against the Church stall seats hard, sending pain running through her entire her body.

Though the pain soon subsided, leaving through the tips of her toes, a gentle breeze remained, running against her back.

Rachel looked down and saw her own nude body. Horror washed over her, warm and unrelenting. Panic gripped her throat as she tried to scream.

Not one soul in the church looked at her, all eyes were forward.

The breeze was all around her now, on the tips of her nipples, at her bare shaven cunt. It slithered, just like the pale snake, across her arms and down her legs.

Rachel looked forward to see that Father Death’s gaze was directly upon her.

Rachel realised he had just finished his sentence, as faces began to turn to look at her in all directions.

Even her family looked back at her, eyes warm and accepting.

Rachel looked from her family to Father Death, her words catching in her throat. She choked on their sounds.

Father Death extended one skeletal and withered hand in the air and that’s when the churchgoers rose again.

An altar girl appeared from a doorway on the altar. She was a thin, Hispanic woman. Lines of red paint were smeared vertically across her breasts, as if painted hurriedly.


That’s when Rachel realised Father Death was pointing towards her. No, at her.

The altar girl turned to look and found Rachel. Even from here, Rachel could see she did not smile; she merely stepped out across the way towards her.

“Well, go on” Said Rachel’s mother, but Rachel just stood there frozen in silent horror, unable to process what was happening.

The altar woman made her way to Rachel, stopping on the outside of the church seats. She kneeled, her breasts swaying before Rachel’s face as she leant down.

Rachel found her sharp brown eyes and slender face beautiful.

When Rachel’s mother gently shoved her, the Hispanic woman rose to catch Rachel in her arms so she did not fall. Rachel found her face nestled in the woman’s small breasts, smelling the strong smell of paint.


In complete silence, as the church hymn Silent Night was sung by the churchgoers, Rachel was led to the front of altar. Goosebumps formed across her arms and her hard frozen nipples ached.

Behind her, the churchgoers began to form in a single line, their head bowed quietly as they sang to themselves.

Rachel wanted to scream at them, for someone to help. But nothing came out except tears from her eyes.

When she reached Father Death, she recoiled from him. Up close he reeked of wine and sweat, even with his head bowed down as he himself sang.

The Hispanic altar girl turned to face Rachel now, and Rachel saw that in one hand she had a small bucket and in the other hand a paintbrush. She moved towards her.

“No,” Father Death said gently. “After.”

The Hispanic woman bowed and placed the items back on the altar. Rachel watched all this with a mix of horror and fascination.

“Eyes forward, Child. You have been touched”

Before Rachel could speak or ask why, the Hispanic woman, who now stood besides her, singing quietly to herself, turned her head forward.


The line of churchgoers had become two. The line to Rachel’s left lead to the Hispanic woman, whose pale arms rested behind her buttocks.

Rachel watched as the first person in the line to the Hispanic woman, a woman that looked to be in her thirties, knelt before her.

“The body of Christ” said the Hispanic woman.

“Amen” replied the woman, her eyes large and eager.

When the woman inched forward and lowered herself on the Hispanic woman’s cunt, suckling gently, Rachel’s arms and legs fell limp. The anxiety that was bubbling in her stomach drove its way up her throat.

She finally found the strength within herself to scream before something struck her from behind and then she only knew darkness.


Rachel woke to a start, gasping, catching glances from her family around her.

When the priest said ‘Go in peace to love and serve the Lord’, Rachel was the first to rise from where she stood and the first to leave the church.


Rachel sat on the edge of her bed, her hair strewn across her face, hands between her legs, fingers dripping with her excitement. She held in her gasps as she furiously drove herself to orgasm.

Behind her, coiling along her bed, the pale snake hissed and spoke aloud you are lost within a dream, child.



The Work Of Gods

‘The Mother and Father made us in their image. We should glory in our bodies, for they are the work of Gods.”

– A Dance With Dragons, Tyrion IV

Apart from being rich in imagination and vast in entertainment and scope, fantasy – or should we say George R. R. Martin – has some wealth of information you can seek out.

Not that you probably need reminding in this here blog – I like to promote self-love in all its manifestations like it was religious. Boil it down to a dogged mind and a persistence in disciplining the mind – and hopefully that of the mind of you, Dear reader. 

Regardless, Martin said it better than me.

‘We should glory in our bodies, for they are the work of Gods’. It’s a powerful sentence, isn’t it?

The work of Gods. 

The scene from the novel describes a Septa – clergy women in the world of the novel who are ‘sworn to celibacy, sometimes serving noble houses as governesses and tutors to the daughters of lords, teaching them in matters of etiquette and history and activities such as sewing…’ (Taken from the Game of Thrones wiki page) – as she uncharacteristically undressed in front of someone for her morning bath and ritual. It’s not a gratuitous scene, it’s not sensationalised, she’s merely bathing. In fact, the scene says more about her as a character and what that will mean in later chapters than anything. 

But back on track…

Sure, we can look down at our bodies and think to ourselves ‘Ha! Cruel Gods, maybe’. But the Gods (or THE God, depending on the individual) surely can only bring us so far. The rest of the way, we have to find ourselves.

For me, the sentence opened my mind. It was a revelation. We are the work of Gods. I like that. The next time I look at the palms of my hand in a quiet evening – or the next time I consider myself lucky to gaze upon my kitten’s freckles in sacred spots no other man will ever witness (For I’ll tear out his throat and shower in his blood), I’ll think on the sentence. The work of Gods. 

We need to think less negative and think more positive. Re-wire our brains to see what’s a value, rather than an exaggerated defect. Love yourself the next time you’re disrobing in front of a mirror. Love yourself the next time you spot a stretch mark, or a freckle. Love yourself even in times of thinking your cock is too small, too big, breasts too lopsided or triangular (unfortunately, in my times of sisters and ex-girlfriends, these words I have heard uttered).

Don’t like your body? Bothered by your pubic hair? (Don’t snicker, it’s a thing) Find a way to improve yourself – so that in your eyes you are Happy and centred. 

For everything else, it’s always a work in progress! 


My little doll,

Together we will celebrate life

The past and present

The good and the bad

And you will sit by my feet

In your natural state 

Open to the universe

Connected with souls


You are my feast 

My own celebration 

And together we 

Will pay our respects 

To the wonder of life.


Out of my love for and fascination for this beautiful Mexican tradition, I thought I would write a piece that hopefully is as sweet as it is sexual. For it is a celebration of life, of sexuality as well, but predominately life itself. Past, present and future. 

I won’t harp on any further about a poem that may or may not be any good. But I just wanted to pay my respects in an unique way to the holiday. 

I Used To Want To Be A Nude Photographer

I used to want to get into nude photography. 
I wasn’t just interested in capturing the bare form of a man or woman though, that didn’t interest me as an artist. 

I wanted to make the piece as much about the setting as it was about her form. I wanted the piece to be as much about her trust to me, and my trust to her as it was about the setting.

I’ve always felt like a director, have always loved films and TV. The technical aspect of it has always enriched my mind and stimulated me mentally.

To that end, I could see myself capturing something other people think is mundane – a woman nude vacuuming. About to step in the shower. Hanging the washing.

I love nature, so I’d have to do a theme and set in nature as well. Maybe back home, where the grass is sun kissed and the forest is overgrown. 
Since I’m a fan of Halloween, a Halloween set would be fun. It could either be campy, like an old William Castle flick, or it could be atmospheric and offbeat.

I do have to stress that it wouldn’t be something as forward and conventional as a Hustler mag. I’d want to build around a concept – but more then that, I’d want something that means something to the model, rather then her purely being an instrument in the process.

As much as she might be my conduit for the art, I would want it to be a collaborative effort. A symbiotic relationship. Something she could be proud of just as much as I would be. 

Whatever we do, the possibilities are endless, really, as I’m always inspired to write or capture something in someway.

The Importance of Being Naked

As you all know, though my blog is BDSM-centric, I also like to talk about the strands of connections surrounding such a BDSM-centric life – and one of these strands is nudity. Or rather being nude.

In searching for a picture for a story, another muse, I came across this article – titled Why My Female Friends Send Me Nudes by one Radhika Sanghani.

Now, I can’t possibly comment on the strand – the tangent strand that is ladies sending each other nudes. I’m not wired that way. But, if you care for it, you’ll find the article goes on to talk about body image and how the nude selfie has become a sort of form of empowerment for women – younger, older – everywhere. 

‘I think for a woman to grow up in our society and get to a place of body acceptance is a success, and I want to share that with my friends’

Writes a friend of the author. And as someone navigates the sometimes choppy waves of the lifestyle, I see this issue of body acceptance pop up quite often. After all, media and society demand we are penthouse-fit love models. And some people are either naturally alternative (meaning goth, emo, pierced or tattooed – or all four!) and some people are just naturally curvy — and this creates a problem.

The article had me thinking, I must admit. I don’t hear a lot about women sharing nudes with each other, not personally, but I see it on WordPress – and there’s Fetlife as well.

Sometimes it’s someone saying ‘this is my first time’, which makes me smile because I know they’ve faced their fears and won. And that is a huge accomplishment in my books.

And then other times, I will get an email from someone expressing their discontent in their bodies and it makes me sad because of the hateful thoughts that come out from within their minds.

Usually I will give them a few exercises they can try to feel more at ease in their skin – things like spending time nude around the house doing vanilla-type things. Cleaning the house, watching a movie. Reading. Things you otherwise might do with clothes on.

I do this because the very act of disrobing is confronting enough. I mean, you can feel it. You’re aware of it. And in time, maybe you can rewrite your brain to accept it and to not be aware. 

Sometimes, the people I give this exercise to find it useful. Sometimes they practice it on their own accord. Sometimes it takes a little more effort from their mind.

The point is – there’s an importance in being nude. It’s our very existence, yeah? The core of all that we are – the avatar we wear through this life.

It’s what our parents tell us is forbidden. It’s what society tells us needs to be better. It’s tied to our way of thinking more than we probably realise – with every little thing – tv and books and  magazines – telling us what is in.

So. If you’re an adult, if you’re a teenager. If you’re living with relatives, mum and dad, roommates. Man. Woman. Boy. Girl. If you’re having a hard time accepting your body – remember: you have the power to change that.

1. If you’re living at home or by yourself, it doesn’t matter – you can find the time to be nude when people are out, when it’s night. Grab yourself a blank exercise book and a pen, journal in the nude. When you look back, you might see the negative way of thinking. You can change how you think!

2. Meditate in the nude. Lay back, close your eyes and feel the world around you. It may sound cheesy – but being use to how you feel can help that inbuilt panicky nature of being absolutely naked.

3. Lastly, take a selfie of your body. Easier said then done, right? Oh I know. When I joined Fet, I tried so many times to take something of myself. I got there in the end, I felt comfortable but I tell you: It’s a long road. 

But in saying that, it gets easier. It may even be arousing.
We owe it to ourselves to love ourselves in this lifetime. It’s all that we have. 

Don’t let the world around you define you. Define yourself. Redefine how you feel. There’s always time.

For anything else, you know where to reach me personally.


Dear Teenagers Nervous About BDSM…

When you’re a teenager and you’re navigating your sexuality, it can feel like the scariest thing in the world.

Who can you talk to? How do you learn? Can you talk to adults on the web or will they think you’re silly and turn you away like the others have? Worst case scenario: Will they abuse your trust and attempt to flirt with you?

It wasn’t easy in the age of no internet and it certainly isn’t easy now even with all this information at your fingertips ready to be absorbed.

As a perverted teenager into BDSM, I found my way by falling a lot. And often stood in circles listening to others laugh or frown at the very idea of BDSM and other such kink related things.

If things are overwhelming you, if you feel like you’re trapped and cannot talk to anyone without feeling ashamed or – worse – invalid – then I’ve got a few concepts for you to consider:

You’re Not Alone

Your sexual thoughts, your desires, and your questions do not – I repeat – DO NOT make you – silly, stupid, invalid, wrong, a freak, disgusting – any of those things.

I guarantee you that whatever you’re feeling or thinking or even fantasising about, someone has experienced that before. That’s not to say you aren’t unique – because each of us ARE – rather it means the kink you think is rare or weird isn’t as rare or weird as you think.

I used to feel the same way. I mean, I was a teen with a brother-sister incest fantasy. And you know what? That led me to other people who felt as weird as I did.

The weird thing about the universe is that it leads you to certain people. They’ll be drawn to you and vice versa. Something to consider when the going gets tough.


Journal Your Thoughts, Fears and Dreams

What do you fantasise about? What do you want to explore? What keeps you up at night? Write it down.

When it comes to you, your mind and the page, you’d be surprised where your mind goes and what you write down.

I used to keep a journal of all my feelings – and that damned thing survived three relationships and a fuck tonne of moping.

More than this, you might find yourself discovering new things about the way your mind works.

You learn to analyse in a way, and in doing so you find yourself coming back to a moment that can help define whatever it is you are seeking or whatever you are exploring.

So long as you are truthful with yourself, you can go as deep into your psyche as you want to learn about your ticks.


The Only Silly Question Is The One Not Asked

I used to hate asking questions. Why? Because I felt like a total idiot. I felt like a bother. And I always felt like the person I was asking didn’t feel like they should have to explain it – and that’s partly on me and my anxieties and partly on the personality of the individual.

IF you come across a person who seems annoyed or aggressive because of you asking questions, chances are they’re not the person you should be asking. So don’t take that as a reflection of you, some people just don’t want that job of answering questions. That’s on them. NOT on you.

My advice to teenagers is this: Find your voice, gather your words, and practice speaking openly. No question is too wild or dumb, because that is how you learn. So one day you might help someone else in need.

I suffered low self esteem. I hated my voice. I mumbled and was quiet. I screwed up words constantly. I had to discipline myself to be okay with asking questions – to speak up. And if a lowly person such as myself can do it, you can do it too!


Challenge Your Mind Constantly

Push your boundaries. Be open to new experiences, new sights, new sounds.

Do you struggle with body issues? Try being nude more, just doing small everyday things like cleaning your room, listening to music. Become use to your body. Love who you are. Is there a kink you don’t like? Why? Define your answers, explore your reasoning. Is there an act that makes you uncomfortable? What is it? Why does it affect you so?

Lastly: Do not be afraid of your inner darkness. Some people, when they are confronted with their true selves, run away screaming.

But you can only run so far before you form a circle and end up face to face with your primal side, if such a thing lays dormant within you.

If it does, remember this: You’ve survived it before, you can do it again.


Talk To Someone If You Need To

Absolutely this. If there’s a recurring worry, if there’s a nightmare that’s woken you up, if you have a general question, consider talking to your closest friend. Consider writing to a blog writer or forum. There are many avenues you can choose to find help, it is never too late and there is never a limit to how many questions you can ask. If things are overwhelming, never ever hesitate – I cannot stress this enough.

On top of that, you can always feel free to email me if you have something to say, need advice, have a question, just need to write after a bad dream – anything.

My contact is in the ABOUT ME section of the blog.

It may feel like things are overwhelming, like there is too much information out there.

If you’re a teenager and you feel cornered and alone and just need advice, you’re not alone. I’m here to talk to, night or day. If you write in, no matter how jumbled you may feel your words will be, I’ll write back. I promise.

And if you ever feel you can’t possibly learn all these new things, remember – baby steps. One day at a time. In time, you’ll learn all you want to know.

If I can do it, you can.





Memoirs Of A Dominant

Next week I will be turning thirty.
And looking back on the last ten years of my life is a strange and beautiful thing.

I’ve had the gift of life given to me but also of laughter and love and yeah, even Dominance. 

When I was twenty, I didn’t know what I do now. 

You could say I was Dominant, but I was coarse and unrefined. 

I could dominate – and I did – but it wasn’t with any sort of awareness of the bigger picture. I was playing chess one square at a time rather than the whole board.

Unknowingly, I had formed D/s relationships but neither me nor the lady I was with knew that. All I knew was that I had gone from being a loner to suddenly an attractive man – well, in the eyes of others anyway. At 20 I was insecure with myself in a way that I’m not now. 

My twenties were spent outside of anything BDSM related. There were flickers of it: The degradation that came out in my teens also came out in the bedroom. But I didn’t know terms, dynamics, things I wanted. I was coarse and unrefined and in a strictly vanilla relationship. 

It was around the time of my mid-twenties when something inside me awoke. Suddenly I wanted to learn. 

I was afraid to learn – there were times in the middle of the night where I woke from a dream to an ache I had ignored due to some of that catholic guilt I was raised with coming out – but I still had that desire. 

My long-term girlfriend at the time was not interested in the slightest. Not even after me trying to introduce to her some things I wanted to try. We simply were not compatible, though we hung onto each other long anyway.
Her dismissal led me to blogs and sites and that’s where I discovered Fetlife. That’s where I discovered apps like Whisper.

Suddenly I was finding that education I was so scared about. I deleted and signed up to Fetlife numerous times before I created the profile that exists today. 

Through whisper, I met a bubbly young lady. She was eighteen. I was 26 at the time. 
Blonde hair, blue eyes, piercings over her face and nipples. 
I did not have an affair with her, if that’s what you’re thinking. As I write this now, I can see that this was the origin of my Daddy side. 

You see, she came from a broken home. She was constantly in a state of distress. And over the weeks, we would talk and I would help in any way I can – because…well, because she felt like a little sister to me. 

The universe is a strange thing. It brings people together, it pulls people apart. And I guess, in that time, the universe gave me someone to talk to who was just as much seeking answers as I was. 

We would talk about our interests, mainly though, we would talk shit. And it was pleasant. 

I don’t know where she is now, but looking back, I think that was instrumental in forging my Daddy side. My caring side. My nurture side. 

EVENTUALLY my long term relationship with my girlfriend fell apart. We stopped being friends, we hung out in different rooms after work. We simply weren’t compatible. 

At the time, I wanted to fight. I felt that was what I wanted to do – fight for her. But when she showed no interest in fighting back, I decided to drop my compulsion to fix things or solve things and just…let her go. 

In the months after, I sought to explore myself. I moved in with my parents for a while, Iogged back into Fetlife. I took nude selfies despite my lingering guilt post-relationship. I wrote songs too. Really on-the-nose songs, with titles like ‘Penultimate’ and ‘Signposts’. It was my way to heal.

Through Fetlife – through people, really – I learnt what I was once too scared to learn. I spoke to women I befriended. Some I was drawn to on a really primal level. They helped point out what I was feeling. 

I had plenty of fascinating conversations about minds and life just staying in the intimate space of my childhood bedroom. In a lot of ways I was doing a loop, folding over back into my childhood town. Adulthood is weird.

But I learned I was a primal. I learned I was a Daddy. I had a six hour edging session – and I’m not exaggerating to prove something, I spent the majority of that day in bed pushing my limits. I was done crying, I was going to edge damnit. 

So you see, life is strange. Why we don’t accept our minds and our sexuality is stranger. I could lament and wonder why it wasn’t sooner that I had this life affirming epiphany, but you can’t go back. Only forward. 

If you have any questions regarding this post, always feel free to write me at my email. I’m more than happy to help you with your own journey.