I Wonder Who We Are... I often look at myself thru the eyes of my mind. Who do I **think** I am? Who do I want to be? Who am I? What am I? I wonder how many others take the time to self-reflect like this? I try to do this weekly.  Sometimes late at night as I bask in the quiet night’s arms I find my mind drifting to the day gone by. I replay the days events and scrutinize my actions at times.  TODAY, did I live my life to my best potential? The gift of life I was given is a treasure that we so often under value. It's easy to get caught up in the daily struggles that inflict us as we sometimes dredge thru the day thankful it's over.  Guilty! After all we are all human.  In a world filled with hate, selfishness, struggles and woes sometimes its all we can do not to scream. Allow a blood curling sound to exit our lungs, travel up our throats picking up momentum as it exits our lips with a shiver echoing thru the darkness to find no respite.  A primal sound that perhaps evolved from our primal ancestors to never develop or change in the millions of years gone by. Signaling our frustrations and every other imaginable negative energy that exists within us today. As we yearn to release it all allowing them to somehow be absorbed into the cosmos, never to return. A cry for help perhaps? Perhaps.  Perhaps it's just an evacuation of all that we resent exiting us hoping we can fill the vacancy with the positive. I like to think that's the case with me. But as I look around each day, looking for positive energy, from my fellow man I am left starving. Wanting to see more beauty I can absorb to act as my muse. Guiding me to be a better me as it motivates me to want to feed love back into the world.  But alas, it has become a daunting task. Disappointment abounds the empty caverns of my heart and mind. Have we become so shallow as a society that the only thing that now defines us is instant and momentary self gratification? Often at the expense of others. Is this what thousands of centuries of evolution has led us to? NAY I say! Not I today! Unable to find it readily at the hand of my two legged peers I turn to nature. I find myself being blindly led to the pasture where my four legged friends reside. I hear their whinnies as they see me approaching. Running towards me anxious to see me. Besides me walks my fury four legged best friend. My canine soul mate who has dedicated his life to unselfishly and unconditionally love me. To never leave me no matter what I do or how I treat him. He is bound for life to me. Arriving closer to the gate a thunderous echo of stampeding hooves envelopes the air. Filling my ears with its roar as it approaches closer. Standing on the lush green carpet of grass I am surrounded by these four legged majestic creatures that so easily could do me harm. My smaller companion eyeing them carefully under his protective gaze.  Wet nuzzles against my hands searching for treats. This action is common place here. All fighting for my attention as there are so many and I am only but one. The creative one among the group, finding no need to challenge the rest for the position of my hands. He quietly walks up behind me. I am made aware of his presence among the distraction as I feel rubbing against my back. His side turned head using my back as a scratching post to satisfy his itch?  No my friends that is not the self centered case of this half ton creature. He is saying, "Daddy I am here. I missed you. Where have you been?" He is most certainly not the alpha but nor is he the omega. He falls somewhere in between the alphabetically defining realm of personality letters.  Turning to let him know I acknowledge his presence with rubs I manage just a few. The other horses quickly pushing him away to look to my moving hands for what they desire. Treats and rewards to fill their already fat full bellies. Yet he stands alone a mere stones toss away watching. Reaching into my pockets I retrieve a handful of treats. Allowing the surrounding herd to acknowledge them with their keen sense of smell I toss them in the opposite direction of my inamorato who stands there with no desire to chase such petty treats. The rest of the herd now busy vying to retrieve the hand tossed delicacies he approaches me. I hold his head against me with love and affection. It is as much his fuel as it is my own. I turn to exit, followed at a respectable distance by my adoring and adored friend.  Holding it open signaling him the permission he seeks to exit the field and the others who physically resemble him. As the three of us stand there, me enjoying and soaking up the moment, I can't help but observe. Acknowledging and absorbing the actions that just took place.  My plotted journey observed and responded to. The actions and reactions as I entered. The easily manipulated distraction I created that all but one fell prey to.  His dedication to follow me outside his defined boundaries and the company of the others physically like him who have near matching DNA. His choice to leave the safety of his peers signals to me that he finds safety and comfort in my company. His trust in me that I always have and always will be his caregiver, his provider, his protector fills my now empty heart.  The many journeys we have traveled together since his birth are safely tucked away in my mind. Easily retrieved to reminisce upon when needed. As I stand there admiring this majestic creature of God before me my mind retrieves from the filing cabinet labeled with his name. Quickly sorting thru day 3 of his birth begins to play.  He is laying curled upon a stack of hay within a stall of the barn. His protective mother standing guard over him. Her ears pinned back warning anyone that intends to do him harm to stay away. Her eyes soften and ears relax as she recognizes me as the source of the sound. Carefully not to startle the sleeping foal I slowly approach. His mother content with who the human visitor is allows me safe passage.  I find myself first sitting next to him admiring his beauty. Astounded by the miracle of birth that he is. His soft breathing seen in the way the straw beneath his nose moves back and forth as he inhales and exhales so gently. Leaning in closer to touch him I look at his guardian looking down at me as if silently asking for her permission to get closer. When I see no warnings of alarm in her I move my hand gently running it across his neck.  His days old fur so soft I am jealous not to have something as comforting as this to sleep upon myself. He releases a soft sigh as if finding comfort in my loving strokes.  Now realizing that the submissive love his mother has given me extends to the trust of her new born, I inch closer. Soon I find myself laying along side his tiny body. Curled up next to him I drape an arm over him. Another soft sudden exhale of breath reaches my ears. Is he communicating his pleasure in feeling my warm body against? Is he capable of such a thought process? I lay there for what feels like hours pressed against him. Only to realize as he begins to finally stir that it’s only been 10 minutes by my watches time.   Emancipated from this world lost in head space I return the the physical by his movement.  He turns his head, in what seems to be, a search to find the source of his sighs. I softly look into his eyes hoping he can peer into my own and see the love and adoration I have for him. THAT moment etched in my mind forever more NEVER to be lost or forgotten.   Slowly he rises as if not to harm me and stands over my still prone form. I find my heart overflowing with love. If only I could find this form of love in my own breed. His mother content that no harm will befall him under my watch, complete and loyal trust bestowed upon me finds comfort in our bond to now lay down herself.  Obviously exhausted by the ritual of birth and having to provide  protection to her child. Her 1400 lb mass taking up much of the stall but careful not to invade my space. Suddenly I find myself lost in thought. Who do I think I am? Who do I want to be? Who am I? What am I? To THEM.  A brushing against my calf returns me to the world of today as the drawer filled memories are closed. In the universe of my mind I lost a momentary connection to this plane of existence.  My canine comrade standing now by my side waiting for direction. He looks at me then glances to the tack room and back at me. As if he is asking me, in the best way he knows, “Are we going for a ride?” my eyes look down at him as I rub his head. “Not today good boy. Today daddy just needed affirmation to who he is. My hearts full again. Thank you.” “Go get him and let’s go back in. Daddy has work to do.” Doing what he’s been taught to do under my caring tutelage he bounds off to bring back my blessed 4 legged gift. A simple double click from me, seeing his adopted brother heading his way, he knows its time to go back. With the look of a bowed head he walks to me as I rub his face and ears. I whisper in his ears, “Good boy.” As if content to hear these words he heads for the gate. Opening the gate I let him return to his pasture mates where he looks like just another horse. “Come on dog. Daddy has to go search for someone! “ he says as he turns to go back into the house. Because now I know who and what I am. I know what I was meant to be.

I have been on weight watchers for a few years, and I am happy to report I have lost 100 POUNDS!!!!  I have more to go,. I would love to find someone that is also working to lose weight and be in better shape or someone that has and knows what it takes. Even better would be to have a friend to go walking with and support each other. having the other person be dominant would be even better to give me a push or a pull on the leash. 

Master's WritingsSadomasochistic Play and the Importance of ConnectionIt is too easy when participating in Sadomasochistic play of any kind, be it impact, pain play or any other of the associated fetishes, for the experience to become emotionally and even physically disconnected between partners - the Sadist becoming consumed by their connection to their tool (whip, cane, etc), the precision of their strikes, the technique used, and the masochist becoming lost in the enormity of the sensation, the loss of physical control as the pain increases and the anticipation of the next strike. As both become lost in their own world within the scene, it is easy to experience a loss of connection between them as the scene progresses.I find that maintaining or even working to build greater connection during such play is one of the most important things I can do as a Sadist and a Dominant. For me as a Sadist, who is also a Dominant and a Daddy, I find that there exists a uniquely rich opportunity to be a caring and connected Sadist, through physical contact, the use of voice and deliberate and careful observation that goes beyond the safety aspaspects during a scene are very important in changing a sadomasochistic scene from something done to the masochist to a shared experience that binds rather than separates.In all my play, regardless of the fetish, I seek to create experiences that enrich, nourish and build relationship. While not every scene or situation can accomplish these every time, they remain a goal I strive for whenever possible. 

I could be your mother/ I could be your dream/ I could make it look like it never happened, leave it clean/ Oh I could be your friend/ Or I could be on my back/ I could beg, I could bully/ I could brace you for impact/ Oh I could be counterfeit/ I could be real/ I could be the wound around your neck/ You tell your friends you can heal/ I could be 500 virgins/ I could be 500 whores/ I could be anything, anything, anything but yours/   I could be your mother/ I could be mad/ I could talk utter bullshit, I could be matter of fact/ Oh I could be broken/ Or I could be whole/ I could be something to fix in your New Years resolution goal/ Oh I could be an angel/ I could be a jerk/ Make a plan to save me, you can choose if you want it to work/ I could be a purity to ruin/ Corrupt for you to restore/ I could be anything, anything, anything but yours/   I could be your mother/ I could be your dad/ I could be the family that you always wished that you had/ Oh I could be a kiss/ I could be a hit/ Let me know if you ever figure out the difference/ Oh I could be a fact/ I could be a lie/ I could be the truth you search for your whole life but never find/ I could be your bravado/ I could be gone tomorrow/ I could be anything, anything, anything.../

Psst... It's secret time. Pinky swear you won't go and tell? I'm trusting you since we're journal friends. I follow two journals: 1. A delightful crotchety and humorous dominant man who shares brief opinions from time to time. He's clever and funny and doesn't really care what you think. I dig it.   2. An eloquent dominant female who shares song lyrics, poetry, and conversations over tea. She elevates this place. I would love to go into a used book shop with her.  Okay, here's the secret part where it gets a little weird. I do not follow but I look for two other journals. The first is a dominant male who I am pretty sure is certifiably mad. I won't officially follow him to ensure I stay off of his radar as a precaution- sacrificial lamb is not my kink. But you better believe I scroll the journals to catch any new entries.* The other is a dominant male who often posts. I think he is some sort of AI. Hear me out. All of the sentiments match to the point of being repetitive. With poor grammar. It's like riding a hamster wheel. Someone requested it, AI produced it, it was slapped in a journal, and there's a psychologist teaming with a scientist in the background monitoring to see who falls for it. I can't picture someone producing the same phrases over and over. Even the mad hatter doesn't do that. Has to be a bot.  No, I won't tell you who they are, don't ask. If you know, you know. And if you're the psychologist and scientist letting me know that I figured it out, do put a rush on that.  *My crotchety friend is also fascinated with the mad hatter's entries. I knew he was good people. 

The following I did not write, but came across in here and it very much resonates with me.I think you are more suited to being kept as a submissive fetish sissy. When most people talk about a shemale they mean a girl who has a cock a girl who uses her cock... A frilly fetish sissy is something else entirely. A fetish sissy is not even allowed to have a cock we call it her clitty and we treat it like a clitty keeping it in locked chastity. The more needy horny a fetish sissy gets, the more she becomes controlled by her clitty and quite quickly she finds herself doing utterly humiliating things to please her superiors without so much as a whimper in fact, she often begs for more of the same. She is overwelmed with the desire to suck cocks or be bent over to be doggie bitch butt fucked to obtain her erotic pleasure. To become a submisive creature that wants men to subjugate her and use her to satisfy all their sexual desires and perversions. Using her and ifying her as a sexual toy for their pleasure and orgasmic release. Her oral and anal slut holes just cock receptacles to be filled with hot cum. A sissy sexslave as it were, obediently doing everything she is told no matter how humiliating it might be. Her desire for utter and total submission and humiliation compels her to obey without question.If you google shemale, youll be directed to sites of TS girls fucking males. If you google sissy, youll find frilly little creatures, often dressed in extremely fetish feminine attire getting fucked by a strapon cock or a real mans cock. Often the sissy is on her knees submissively sucking a mans cock like a good sissy cumslut. I think you are the later. I think you are a submissive fetish sissyslut.I think what you need is to have every trace of male left in you removed until you are hopelessly feminine in the most exaggerated ways possible. Totally transformed into a hot sexy slave bitch, then dressed, displayed and used as one.Willing even to submit to large breast implants. Your clitty needs to be locked away and the only way you would be allowed to find orgasmic relief is by being penetrated with stiff hungry cock or a dildo. Your libido and lust turned inward, your slutty desires only satisfied by phallic anal insertion or a mouth full of hard cock. Soon you will find your hips wantonly grinding up to meet your penetrator to attain your orgasmic femme sissy relief. Soon you will crave the company of dominate horny males seeking to use you as a cock slut for their pleasure and perversions.Now picture yourself like that deliriously horny tightly corsetted, locked in a chastity belt with large butt plug stretching your rosebud and filling your bottom, dressed in frills, garters, nylons, panties, petticoats, short revealing skirts, fetish leather or rubber, open ass hobble skirts, locked in the steepest stiletto high heels or ballet boots, ribbons, satin, latex and lace, often humiliated even in public. Often kept in some of restrictive bondage, your will or choice to resist your male suitors completely removed. Forced to submit to horny men orally and anally on a regular basis, transformed into a willing and wanton cocksucking cumslut sissy and bend over pussy butt bitch... Does that sound like you? Yes it most certainly does. You are a fetish sissyslut.

Your possible future... You feel so irremissibly subjugated awaiting further use. You succumb to be possessed, my sweet slut, my owned and private slut, you are my pleasing toy. You are just lying there quietly on all fours as ordered; bare and shameful exposed under the excruciating tease of my eyes behind you. Your whole being at my disposal. I will play with you, you know I will, but you don’t know what my play will be, you can only fear and excite on anticipation. I just slide my hand over your ass, and you immediately shiver slightly. Oh, you are behaving so well, no spank yet. I rub a couple of fingers deep between your labia and I enjoy feeling you quiver. Then I force your head back, pulling your hair with my other hand as I put those fingers in front of your mouth. You know what to do, that is it, stick your tongue, lick and clean solicitous your own juices; well done. Meanwhile my cock is already inside your enraptured ass. It is stiff and motionless for the moment, just pulsating in there, but you anticipate that it will start moving, thrusting your senses out without compassion until your outer-self dissolves, your consciousness became nothing, and eventually you turn into a sweaty distressed body utterly possessed between my hands; oh my devoted slut how do you dread and intensely desire that. But getting there is a long process, although delightful too. You trust me your being, you give up your everyday facade upon me, and that is not easy. We talked a lot. I wanted to know about your ideas, your beliefs, your fears. About how you masturbate, about what the fuck makes you wake up from social somnolence.  Talking with more than words. Don’t you understand? I don’t just fuck your body; I fuck your mind into the deepest waters. There is nothing I can do if you are not released to sweetly cry embracing in my lap. Then I may allow you to give me pleasure. Then I may control everything you can do, or wear, or experience. Play gradually with your skin and give full purpose to your orifices. Then I can degrade you in a way only we understand, my lovely slut. But that is not yet, we are not even in the beginning; you have to write to me first. I started this describing the end, but now I am going to end talking and you have to start writing me.

Everything He Has, Until There Is Only Me There is a particular music to it that I do not think you can understand until you have heard it in a room that belongs to you, with someone who has given you permission to play. The crack of a whip is not violence. It is punctuation. It is the sound of a sentence ending exactly where you intended it to end, clean and final and ringing in the air long after the moment has passed. It lands and the room holds its breath and in that held breath is everything: the authority that swung it, the surrender that received it, the particular electricity that lives in the space between the two. I feel it in my wrist first, then in my chest, then in the slow, satisfied warmth that moves through me when something has gone exactly as I intended. The skin that receives it blooms and I watch that blooming the way an artist watches a canvas accept color. With attention. With pleasure. With the specific pride of someone who knows their medium. The paddle is a different thing entirely. Where the whip sings, the paddle speaks in a lower register, a hard and resonant thud that you feel in your bones before your skin has finished deciding what happened. There is no elegance to it and that is precisely the point. It is blunt and declarative and it leaves no room for ambiguity. You know what it means when it lands. You knew what it meant before it landed. The sound of it fills a room completely, the way a bell fills a room, and the echo of it lives in the body for hours afterward, a reminder that resurfaces every time you shift your weight, every time you sit, every time your body moves against itself and finds me there, already waiting. The cane is my favorite. I will not pretend otherwise. There is a patience to the cane that suits me. The way you must take your time with it, must place it with intention, must understand that it is not a blunt instrument but a precise one. The marks it leaves are not accidents. They are calligraphy. Long and deliberate and raised against the skin like script, like something written, like the physical evidence of a conversation that only two people in the world were present for. I trace them afterward sometimes, these lines I have drawn on a body that belongs to me, and feel the same quiet satisfaction that I imagine a sculptor feels running a hand over finished stone. I made this. This is mine. You will carry this for days. And my own skin, where the energy moves through me like current, where the act of wielding produces its own particular heat, a tingling that lives in the palms and travels, that settles somewhere behind the sternum and glows. I glow. There is no more honest word for it. Something in me lights from the inside when I am in full possession of my own authority and someone is receiving it with everything they have. Neruda wrote that he wanted to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees, and I have always understood this not as tenderness alone but as inevitability, as the specific hunger of something that transforms whatever it touches simply by being what it is. That is what I want from you. Not your performance of devotion. Your actual transformation. I want to be the thing that happens to you, the season that changes the look of everything, so that you cannot see your own hands without thinking of what they are for, cannot move through a room without feeling the architecture of my expectations around you like a second skin. I want to wring you dry. Not cruelly. Completely. I want every thought that crosses your mind to carry my fingerprints on it, want you so thoroughly oriented toward me that pleasing me stops being a task and becomes simply the direction your nature moves, the way water moves downhill without deciding to. I want your first thought in the morning to be what She needs today and your last thought at night to be whether you gave it well enough. I want the obsession to be so total that it clarifies rather than confuses you, the way a religion clarifies the faithful, the way a vocation clarifies an artist who has finally stopped pretending they could have been anything else. Bring me what delights me. You know what it is because you have paid attention, because attention to me is the one thing I require above all others and you have either given it or you have not. By now we both know which. The particular tea, the correct temperature, in the cup that fits my hand the way I like. The flowers I mentioned once three months ago that I did not think anyone was listening to. The way a room should be before I enter it, the light and the temperature and the specific quiet that tells me someone has thought about me before I arrived. The knowledge, brought to me unprompted, of something I would want to know. The book left on my nightstand, the right one, chosen not from a list I gave you but from everything you have learned about the country inside my mind. Shower me in it until I glow. Charlotte Bronte understood this, I think, better than she is given credit for. Rochester did not love Jane Eyre the way men in novels usually love women, as a soft and worshipful thing, a pedestaling. He loved her with his whole difficult complicated weight, loved her as his equal and his better and his necessity, and she received it not with flutter but with the straight-backed dignity of a woman who has always known her own worth and was simply waiting for someone else to catch up. That is the love I recognize. Not the love that flatters but the love that sees, that is almost furious in its recognition, that cannot look away because looking away would require pretending the world is smaller than it is. Neruda again: I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. Yes. And also: I hunger for your sleek laugh and your hands the color of a furious harvest. The wanting in Neruda is never polite. It is consuming and precise and it names its object with the specificity of someone who has studied what they love until they know it better than it knows itself. That is the quality of devotion I am describing. Not the vague warmth of general affection. The focused, detailed, almost scholarly hunger of someone who has made another person their life's primary text. Learn me that well. Want me that specifically. Bring it to me not in grand declarations but in the ten thousand small and correct details that prove you have been paying attention every single day, that prove my preferences live in you the way music lives in a musician, available instantly, expressed naturally, impossible to separate from who you have become. And when I glow, and I will glow, when something in me settles into that incandescent satisfaction of being known and tended and

It's Bewildering. So, I'm absolutely bewildered by a certain female submissive that adds me to their friends list, AND adds me to their favourites, but doesn't answer any messages, then deletes the last message without even reading it! Can anyone explain that to me? Is there really that many females on this site that really are a waste of time? I mean why would you do all that if you've no intention of communicating? Does my profile make me look strict and scary? I really am not. I'm a genuine, nice, easy going person who'll chat to anyone. The only time I'm strict and scary is when I'm dealing with a bratty or disobedient sub or slave. Anyway, rant over lol. If any subs do like the sound of my profile please chat to me. You never know I might be just what you're looking for.

I'm reading this book on habits. There's a little bit of the science, but mostly it's anecdotal moments of famous and not so famous people and how one small change created an avalanche of positive changes. Sometimes just within themselves, sometimes branching out to entire companies. It's fascinating. As I'm expected to, I'm mining the nuggets and looking at how they fit into my life. A lot of times an easy answer to why you do or don't do something is I don't know. Maybe you don't know, even when consciously thinking about it. And then you're listening to someone else's story and it comes to you, THAT'S why you do the thing! Or you already knew the thing but hadn't figured out the alternative better habit, like replacing junk food with a bowl of apples so when you need something quick and lazy it's the better option. I know I'm going to forget more than I remember, but right now its helping me to piece together the reasons why I fall back into certain habits and how to move beyond the comfortable to solidify the new, better ones. Not today, of course. Today was a shit show. But it's a plan for tomorrow. Progress. 

Just Like This ..... Where'd you wanna go? How much you wanna risk? I'm not looking for somebody With some superhuman gifts Some superhero Some fairytale bliss Just something I can turn to Somebody I can kiss I want something just like this...

On Being Felled, Temporarily   I have been absent. Those of you who follow closely will have noticed the silence and drawn your own conclusions. The conclusion is this: my body staged one of its more dramatic rebellions in the form of a kidney infection serious enough to take me entirely off the board for the better part of two weeks. I do not get sick quietly or briefly, apparently. When I go down I go down with the full commitment I bring to everything, which I would find more admirable if it were not so thoroughly inconvenient. I am on the other side of it now, or near enough to be upright and writing, which I am choosing to count as a victory. While I was ill, someone broke into my home. I want to let that sit for a moment because I am still sitting with it myself. I was sick, my children were unsettled, and someone decided that was an acceptable time to violate the space where my family lives and take what did not belong to them. They took the children's gaming system, which in the grand accounting of what could have been lost is not the worst possible outcome, and I know this, and I have said this to myself many times. It does not make my children's faces easier to look at. The specific devastation of a preteen who has had something taken, not misplaced, not broken accidentally, but deliberately stolen from their home, from the place that is supposed to be safe, is its own particular kind of heartbreak to witness as a mother. They were crushed. I was furious on their behalf in the way that only a mother's fury operates, which is to say completely and with no available outlet. I handled it alone. As I handle everything. And this is where I find myself needing to say something I do not say easily, which is that my resilience, that quality I have always counted on, felt genuinely shaken this past week. Not broken. I want to be precise about that because I will not be imprecise about myself even when honesty is uncomfortable. Not broken. But shaken in the way that a foundation shakes when too many things hit it simultaneously, the illness and the violation and the children's hurt and the daily weight of a life I carry without assistance, all of it arriving at once while my body was already at its limit. I had hoped, by now, to be in a different chapter. I had hoped, genuinely and specifically, to be in conversations about sharing a home with someone actually prepared to show up for this life. Someone whose service was not theoretical, not a future intention, not a beautiful idea that dissolves on contact with the reality of what showing up actually requires. Someone who would have been here during a kidney infection that left me barely functional. Someone whose presence would have meant my children came home from school to a stable and managed household rather than to a mother running on empty and a space that had been violated. That person does not currently exist in my life, and the disappointment of that is not small. It is not something I can dress up into acceptance without first acknowledging that it is a genuine and specific grief. I built a vision. I know what I deserve. I know what this dynamic looks like when it is real and functional and inhabited by someone with actual capability and actual commitment. The gap between that knowledge and my current reality is something I feel most acutely on the weeks that ask the most of me. I am resilient. I will return to myself completely, as I always do. But this week the crown was heavy. I wanted to tell you that honestly, because this space has always been about the full truth of this life, not only its beauty.   More soon. I am still here. I am still unserved. I am still waiting and wanting. 

Lately I wake up in the middle of the night and the puppy is snuggled right up to my side. Tonight she had pushed her face into the crook of my neck. I love how much she loves me.  Someone recently asked me for clarification on something in my profile, that if he was to assume the responsibility, what was it that I was responsible for and how would it affect his ability to assume responsibilty? In all this time no one has asked me that. It's a brilliant question. I needed to think about it because my initial reaction was to create a laundry list of what I think I contribute, things like loyalty, honesty, snuggles, nurturing, etc. And then I paused. Those are all things that I do contribute for sure, but it doesn't account for what the other person needs from me, especially to function as person in charge. I will absolutely be and do all of the things I say are my part. And figure out how to be and do what he needs added to my part. Give and take. Relationships take work. Snuggles are the easy part. 

Just so you know I am addicted to cotton school girl plaid skirts with opaque white pantyhose  or thigh high nylons. Also addicted to gingham checks for skirts and dresses and blouses. These fabrics and patterns really get me excited and turned on sexually and always catches my eye when anyone is wearing these. Also addicted to white in most all feminine clothing, but especially white, tight denim fem jeans and shorts. Also get excited with cotton dresses and skirts and camisole tops in stripes. Love those stripes! Now do not laugh at this but the cotton check table cloths, like in Italian Restaurants and Pizza Parlors also turns me on. I like the smell of that type of cotton fabric along with the check pattern. Horny Crossdresser !!!

Fear the past: In the shadows of my past, a man filled with rage, Terrified of losing control, trapped in a cage. Once consumed by anger, consumed by hate, Afraid to unlock the demons, their destructive fate.   Like a storm on the horizon, brewing deep within, Memories of the past, where darkness had been. Fear grips my heart, as I walk this fragile line, Afraid to slip back, to a time so unkind.   But in the depths of despair, a flicker of hope, A light in the darkness, a way to cope. I find strength in the present, in the love that surrounds, A new path forward, where solace abounds.   Though the fears may linger, like shadows in the night, I choose to face them, to stand and fight. For within me lies the power to change, To break free from the past, to find a new range.   So I tread this path with caution, with courage by my side, Facing my fears head-on, with nowhere to hide. For in embracing my vulnerability, I find my true self, A man reborn, no longer trapped by anger's stealth.