enchantez

No one has ever fucked me. They've only fucked illusions of me.
No one fucks the liar, the thief, the fury, the village of me that was bombed to hell long ago. No one fucks the scars, the crookedness, the fear, the split ends, the profligate skin and tsunami of verbiage. No one.

No one has ever eaten my real heart. No one has dared. Only facsimiles and origami mock ups of it have been consumed. My what-if heart. A real heart is a deadly poison if not prepared and eaten properly.

I wonder if I'll die a virgin. I probably will. I wonder if I've ever lived.

There's a funny little experiment I've been attempting for the past two years. I meet a Domme. Sometimes by accident. We have great and profound philosophical discussions about absolute honesty. Sometimes we disparage "others" for their dishonesty. Smoke rises sinuously from cigarettes and hovers. There are smiles. Slicingly intimate glances. Lying to one another immediately ensues.

The most dangerous thing I can do in such a situation is expose my vulnerabilities. You know, my real ones. The truths about myself that are unglamourous, unalluring. Frightening. The truths about me that, once seen, shatter the illusions of all the observers in this delicate masquerade. There's nothing quite as dangerous as a delusional lover with a frail ego.

Unfortunate, this situation. This dilemma. I'd like more than anything to live at the core of my being. To relate from the core. Without metaphor. Raw. Unadorned. Unable to evade or be evaded. And discover that I do, in fact, exist, and I'm not alone.

Listening to: Sonata for Flute & Guitar, Op. 25 II: Allegro from Riley's Cantos Desientos; Lowell Lieberman - performed by Alexandra Hawley and Jeffrey McFadden

I'm listening, gluttonously, to an endless stream of violin sonatas, cello suites, and the occasional dark harpsichord piece. Tartini, Machy, Biber, Paganini, Hume, Locatelli, Bach...Clementi, these are my momentary savoirs.

What is it about the strains of a violin or cello solo that are so capable of muting sorrow and staving off the most lugubrious thoughts?
Tartini plays The Devil's Trills, and suitably it gives me the deepest solace.

I'm grappling with trust and the ability to remain open, now that I've removed the collar. Now that we've "broken up". She wants me in still, but what does she want? My submission and trust, so long as there are no expectations and responsibilities? So long as I don't ever actually need her? So long as I remain chained, but distant? So long as I love and serve her while remainging happily disposible? Love without obligation? As if there ever really is any. Why do we tear ourselves and others to pieces trying to extricate ourselves from snares which only exist in our imaginations, and starve ourselves at the banquets our own longings have painstakingly lavished us with?

Guitly, Your Honor.

There are things within myself that I fear, instincts and longings which cloud my reasoning, diminish my will power. My ravenous masochistic hunger, the unfathomable (and well concealed) desire to give and serve sweep me along heedleesly toward her whims, her beckoning, her Sadistic lust. But that's nothing compared with the compulsions of my heart. And my heart is the only thing truly in danger. But if the heart breaks, the toy breaks.

Pardon my self-indulgent musings. Partitas, anyone?

:(