The fire that burns brightest consumes the most

“I want to drink ONLY from His chalice of pain.”
                                                        Mother Theresa

In between calls at work yesterday I picked up a copy of an old TIME magazine and flicked through to an article about Mother Teresa. The article was discussing her almost fifty-year long period of ‘deep darkness’ – a time in which her faith that her prayers were being listened to had wavered. This period in her latter life contrasted starkly to when she had first set out on her religious path. In the beginning she had been consumed by a fervent and consuming need to experience the Passion of Christ and she had several communications with Jesus in which he revealed to her that she was to be his vessel. It was during this time that she made the comment above. Sadly, the remainder of her life was spent feeling abandoned and alone without affirmation of her work from her Lord.

I’m not an expert in religious theory, but I’ve often thought that D/s is very similar to religion in many ways. The set-up is very similar, a ‘divine being’, a willing follower, obligatory suffering and a sense of connection when it’s all working. The are rites and rituals, gatherings of like-minded ‘believers’ and sects that seem to spring up all over the place each with their own trappings, rules and entrance procedures. Certain titles and pronouns mysteriously get capital letters and humbled followers do a lot of kneeling and grovelling in the dirt. We go down the ‘path of’ D/s, we take vows of commitment and trust and when things go wrong ‘confess’ to our wrong-doings. If that ain’t like most religions then I don’t know what is.

Now, when I started down the ‘path of D/s’…lol…I was exceptionally passionate about it and was consumed by a burning need to serve. It really was a religious experience for me because I felt as though I had found the thing I had been looking for. The thing that was going to fill the void in my soul was burning in my belly. I was in a religious ecstasy. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. I could see nothing else. At that stage I would of done anything, absolutely anything to please my ‘God’ and nothing was standing in my way. That is the only wayI can explain why I did what I did, and when I think of it now, my ‘zombie-like’ obedience at the time scares the living daylights out of me.

My passion was fueled by my fantasies and as my fantastical dreams were slowly replaced by the realities of someone who wasn’t a god and wouldn’t take me to golden realms of spiritual and emotional fulfillment, my fire died. It was hard to let it die out though, and I stubbornly kept throwing little wooden chances at it in an attempt to breathe some life into it, but eventually my slave fire died a painful, slow death.

After that I went through the obligatory “I’m not worthy” period and wallowed in self-pity and despair for several months until I was rescued by Master. My slave fire was re-ignited, but it never burned quite as brightly as it first did. Once bitten, twice shy. Once burned, twice scarred.

Every now and then though, I feel the flicker of flames in an absolutely intense need to be used and abused. I want to drink from his chalice of pain and I feel a consuming need to prove my faith and devotion.Those times are seemingly random in occurrence, but I supposed they coincide with a feeling of being alone or abandoned. Too long in the dark and you yearn for the light. 

Master also seems to feel the fire on occasion. He told me once that the times he wants to hurt me the most, are the times when he loves me the most. My tears are fuel for his passion, my pain is a cup he wants to drink from.


Shock factor

I’ve always thought that getting a reaction out of people is great. Not in the sense that I openly do things to shock people, like wear emo/goth/scary-looking clothing or have green hair, I generally just like to look very innocent and drop hints that there may be ‘another side’ to me.

For some reason at work today we were talking about body piercings. The slightly funky 20-year old sitting next to me proudly piped up that she had a lip, eyebrow and belly button piercing. Not to be outdone, I piped up that I had 7 piercings ‘below the belt’. Eyebrows immediately shot up on all involved in the conversation and more questions were asked. After I’d alluded to what was happening down below eyebrows shot up even more to the point that I thought they were going to disappear off their faces completely.

“You??? You have piercings??? You???”

The choruses of disbelief were highly amusing and you could hear in their voices that I’d told them something that they would have never thought of about me in a hundred years.

If you ask Master, he’ll say that I generally dress in ‘henny penny’. I like to call it ‘smart conservative’. Skirts, fitted shirts, stockings and jackets or coats are all things that I wear because (a) I think they suit my body and (b) years in Japan have taught me not to dress like a hobo. Whenever it’s possible, Master likes me to wear what he calls ‘slut wear’ and what I call ‘minimal boobage and nether-region covering’ because he knows I feel embarassed whenever I do. While my slut wear doesn’t consist of chain halter-necked tops or anything with sequins, the skirts are still short enough and the tops low enough to definitely be outside my comfort zone. They’ll be times that I wear slutwear to the supermarket or out to coffee and these outings provide Master with his fill of visual stimulation and public humiliation. Fortunately I have a fairly strict dress code for the office at the moment, which suits the henny penny in me just fine. While my collar is obviously still on and I’ve already had a comment that it ‘looks like something you just want to snap a leash onto’ most of my ‘true identity’ is under wraps.

Obviously everyone in the office had looked at me from the outside and made some assumptions. And now even though I’ll still be looking prim and proper, I’m sure they’ll be thinking about what else lurks beneath.

I’ve also discovered a person at the gym that Master and I have affectionately named ‘barcode girl’ due to the simple fact that she has a barcode tattooed onto her ankle with the words “Property of….” but I just can’t quite work out the name. I’ve been thinking about how I can start up a conversation with her and confirm whether she’s a sub/slave or whatever. Then part of me wonders whether she wants to be ‘outed’ or not and I think maybe I should just leave her alone and not say anything. I know I still get terribly embarassed when people catch me off-guard with comments or questions about my ‘pretty necklace’ or my John-Wayne style of walking (that I adopt when my piercings are being more uncooperative than usual.) 

To ask or not to ask? That is the question.

Do I attract psychopaths?

After my recent blast from the past criminal and perhaps psychopathic ex-owner situation, I thought it might be interesting to take the ‘Are you a psychopath test?’

Are you a psychopath?

A woman, while at the funeral of her own mother, met a guy whom she did
Not know. She thought this guy was amazing. She believed him to be her dream
guy so much, that she fell in love with him right there, but never asked for his
number and could not find him. A few days later she killed her sister.

Question: What is her motive for killing her sister?

[Give this some thought before you answer] 

Answer: She was hoping the guy would appear at the funeral again. 

If you answered this correctly, you think like a psychopath. This was a test by famous American Psychologist used to test if one has the same mentality as a killer. Many arrested serial killers took part in the test and answered the question correctly.

Funnily enough, Master got the answer right straight off. Does that mean I’m to end up at the bottom of the swimming pool wearing concrete boots?? (It’s a good thing that the pool doesn’t have any water in it….lol.)

In other news, thanks to putting massive amounts of wood on the fire, the lounge room has been a balmy 28 degrees since yesterday. It’s been so warm that I’ve actually been more than happy to strip when Master says so and I’ve been doing a lot of botty flashing hoping for some playful swipes from the man who owns the botty. I’m not quite sure if my window is open or whether I’m just high from burning paint-covered wood, but I feel like I could do with some botty attention.

In further news, my shift has been changed at work so I’ll now need to catch the 6:50am bus in order to get there on time. On Friday I was at the bus stop bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 6:47am. By 7:25am when the bus finally came, I was frozen and wet. Have I mentioned that I hate, hate, hate catching buses? It almost makes a girl want to learn how to drive again, but I think if I had my own transport as well as money in the bank, the whole ‘dependent slave’ thing would go right out the window. The scent of freedom can sometimes be toxic.

Working girlie

As of Monday I became a working girlie again by beginning a new temp job that will fill my days for the next 8 weeks. Several months ago I announced that I was giving up working because slavery was a ‘full time job’ and being a full-time slave required that I didn’t do anythingthat would detract from that. I still very much believe that I can’t be a slave and work at the same time. After three days of work I already feel much less a slave and more an independent woman and my mind set is 0% in slave mode and 100% in work mode. 

After some consideration I’m thinking that it’s mostly a power thing. Working and earning an income definitely puts me up there on an equal pedestal and suddenly I feel like what *I* think and what *I* need to do are as important as things in His life. When you’re penniless and at his beck and call, ‘Yes, Master’ seems to be the most natural thing in the world, but give me a name badge and money in my wallet and ‘Yes, Sweetie Pumpkin Master’ becomes ‘You fucking want what sweetie???’ (complete with nasty inflection on the sweetie). It’s very interesting. It was almost as if a switch was flipped as I was getting my work clothes ready and organizing my stuff on Sunday evening ready for Monday morning.  Before I’d even set off to my place of employment, those simple acts flipped my slave switch to off and when Master ‘suggested’ that I go and get some cuffs for bondage, I replied with a curt, “I can’t, I’ve got things to do!” Not very slave-like of me, was it?

These past few months that I’ve been allowed to follow my vocation and have my slavery as the focal point of my life have been fabulous. I’m not suggesting for a moment that I’ve been the ‘perfect slave’ for all this time, but I’ve enjoyed the uncomplicatedness of it all. When you’re a slave, your Master is the focus, he gets the priority, he gets the attention and generally, within reason, that’s how it works. When you’re working, there’s always a conflict between work and it’s associated activities, not to mention the space in your mind it takes up -worrying about commutes, organizing clothes and lunch and remembering the details of what it is you’re being employed to do. In my case, there just ain’t enough room for Master to receive priority in there too.

Fortunately, I’m only going to be working for about 8 weeks. I’m counting down the days by tallying the money I’m making everyday so that I can think of it in a positive way, instead of only as a negative. In this case, I really am doing it only for the money, just so that I can have funds to go home to my family later on in the year and to pay for the luxuries that $50 a week pocket money just can’t buy. I guess it’s at this point that you would say that if I was a ‘real slave’ I wouldn’t need any money whatsoever, but the reality is that I don’t wear hessian sacks as fashion and I require a certain amount of upkeep. As it is I spend at least $100 going to gym and on transport per month. The remaining $100 goes on mobile phone, birthday/anniversary/whatever presents and doctor/dentist/hairdresser/waxing appointments.  As you can see, in this budget there’s no money for slut wear and boots and we can’t have that, so this little slave has to go and make some funds. 8 weeks of work should give me a little stash in the bank so that when our two-year anniversary rolls around in August, I’ll have enough money to buy Master some more nice pain tools bondage toys. 

Hanging from the May pole

Well, the last party for May is over. It’s a bit sad to think that there’s nothing left in the social play calendar this month, but as I’m approaching red plague and starting a new (but temporary!) job on Monday, it’s probably a good thing.

The evening started with a scrummy Japanese dinner cooked by yours truly and then moved onto me getting dressed in my purple silk Chinese dress that Master lovingly refers to as the ‘Vietnamese bar slut outfit’. This was topped off by some white thigh-high boots. It was a good outfit that, while providing easy access when needed, also kept me significantly warmer than butt-nakedness.

Earlier on in the day Master had received a sinister e-mail from

    asking if she could tie me up and torment me. Master had responded in his ever-eloquent manner,

“Hell, yeah!”

and spent most of the day telling me how he was looking forward to some ‘girl-on-girl’ action and how I had ‘many, many sessions in store’ for me that evening.

I don’t think I’ve ever had something suggested more out of the blue than that, and to tell you the truth, it had my stomach turning little flip-flops for the entire day. Although my decision to cook Japanese had been prompted by the surprise finding of a tuna head (why do people throw out the yummiest part??) for sale in our local Japanese fishmonger’s, it was also prompted by my need to keep myself busy in those few crucial hours before departing for the party. I’m not good when I have too much time to think and I’d been thinking about carina’s penchant for pain – despite her repeated denial of being a ‘pain-slut’. I have to say that the initial thought of being left at her mercy was almost as scary as being strapped to a cross, listening to carina getting her ass caned into next week by R and being told that I was next. Which, by the way, was how the night started! Not good!

So to cut a long story short, I’ll let the pictures do the talking:
   Hanging around listening to carina being caned, pondering my fate

  R providing me with a warm-up spankfest

 Hair hogtie and peg on tongue because I was ‘talking too much’. Another peg was later added because I was still ‘talking too much’.. Pfffftttttt!

 Ouchie roller left there after being extensively used everywhere to keep my head up

  Pegs on botty courtesy of Master – he is so helpful

 Drool patch made by two pegs and tools of the ‘evil woman’s trade’

 Post single-tailed/flogger-ed/paddled botty on the cross after torment time was over.

So I had people prodding me with bamboo skewers, putting ice in places where the sun doesn’t shine and metal bone and cast saws recently removed from the freezer applied to skin. Just about everyone there added to my torment and if it wasn’t for the bone saw placed precariously in my ass crack as carina played my ‘bongo botty’ I would of laughed a bit more because I was having great fun. The only time I was totally freaked out was when I heard the crinkle of a needle wrapper being opened near my ear and I thought someone was going to start inserting needles in this beatable-but-absolutely-not-a-pin-cushion!!!! slave girlie. If I had limits, needles would definitely be top of the list as I tend to faint quite often when I’m in the same air space as them.

I thought carina did a fantastic job of keeping me amused in bondage and the beating afterwards was just a nice level of yumminess with an impressive level of stroke accuracy to get my juices flowing.

Thanks to all involved for giving Master and I a wonderful night. 


The truth is out there somewhere

A couple of weeks ago I had a lovely, but brief visit from a dear friend from Alice Springs. She knew my former owner and we all used to work together like one happy family. She also knew about our D/s relationship and was endlessly curious and supportive at the same time. When we broke up, she was the one who took me to the airport and made sure I was okay. We’ve kept in touch ever since.

A friend’s wedding had brought her to Perth for a long weekend and we met up for lunch and spent the afternoon shopping together. Getting near to the time I was going to have to leave we got onto the topic of my former owner and after some chat she asked me, ‘How did you feel about his history and all that?’ I wasn’t exactly sure what she was talking about, but thought she must of been referring to his childhood:

“Well, I know he was beaten and stuff as a child.”
“No, I mean the jail bit.”
“What jail bit?”
“The fact that he was in jail for 11 years…”
“For rape and attempted murder. You knew about it right?”
“Come on, you must of known about it.”

It was at this stage that I was trying to lift my jaw off the floor and make a coherent reply, but nothing would come out.

“Wow…you really didn’t know about it? He never told you?”
“Obviously out of all of the questions I asked him before we got together, I didn’t ask him the right one i.e Were you in jail for rape and attempted murder?”

It was incredibly amusing in hindsight that we’d spent the whole day making mindless chit-chat and the most vital, incredibly important thing came spilling out right near the end. She honestly thought I knew all about it and was as dumbstruck as I was when she found out that I didn’t know a thing about it. She told me how she had confronted him about it and had heard him confess it himself and what details she knew. The girl involved was apparently underage so details of the case are not freely available and there is also the possibility that he is using a different name now, so information is hard to come by, but I knew enough to be in total shock and very upset. She also told me that his ex-wife was actually one of many and that he’d been married about 3 times. I, of course, knew nothing about that either.

Obviously a lot of things ran through my head at that point, the possibility of being infected with HIV or some other STD, how lucky I had been and how incredibly stupid I was. Mixed in with the shock was a healthy dose of anger and a feeling of utter and total betrayal. I immediately went out and made an appointment to get tested for every STD that I could possibly be tested for and wondered how I was going to tell Master. Part of me wanted to wait until I had the all clear so that I could mix the shocking news with some good news and part of me just wanted to spill my guts and share my fears right then and there.

I reached a compromise somewhere in between, managing to keep it secret for a day and then I told him all. Fortunately he wasn’t fazed by it at all and simply said that he was happy I was here now and it was in the past and didn’t matter. He was very cool about it all. 

I was not so cool. I spent several days alternating between crying fits and seething anger. I was absolutely horrified that I had put myself in such a vulnerable position and that anything could have happened. I was also thinking about what if I had been infected and what then. My mind was not a happy place to be.

Of course, a lot of things were also making sense. His emotional issues and depression could now have a basis in something other than my inability to please him and his “statue of liberty” pin-prick tattoo took on layers of meaning. On a more sinister note, his penchant for anal sex could also be explained. 

I remember telling him that I wanted him to have a HIV test before we got together and his answer was, ‘Do you think I would endanger my kids?’ My subby inexperience made me not push the point and I was stupid not to. He also refused to wear condoms and I went back onto the pill which is another reason why I should have pushed the point that I needed proof that he was clean. It would of saved me much angsting later down the road.

Fortunately, I got the all clear on the tests yesterday and now I can breathe easy.

This is one of those cases where I think I had a right to know. I mean, this is a guy that I left my husband and a country I loved for. Perhaps he is a changed man now and has been rehabilitated (his original sentence was 25 yrs and he got out early for good behaviour) but I still feel that an omission is a lie in this case. Especially in this sort of a relationship where you are in an incredibly vulnerable position and so much rests on trust. I needed all the information so I could make a judgement about him. I needed to be able to make informed consent. By holding back the truth he took that ability away from me and I hate him for it. No wonder I have so many trust issues with men…lol.

It’s a scary thing meeting people on the internet. You can try and find out as much about them as you can, and I did in my former owner’s case, but at the end of the day a lot rests on trust.  You have to trust that they are not a murder or a rapist, but in some cases they actually are and that is the really scary thing.

Be safe. 

May, the month of many parties

Two of the three parties scheduled to receive our presence this month are over and done with. Two nights in a row I’ve gone to bed in the early hours of the a.m. and I’m a saggier bag for it. 

Friday night was host to an unusual and completely unexpected smallish gathering at an ultra-modern dungeon-slash-house-slash-why is everything so red? establishment.  The reason I got hung up on the red interior was because I spent most of the night staring at the wall because apparently I’d been ‘naughty’ and got sent to the naughty corner in my armbinders to ponder how wrong I’d been to ‘enjoy myself too much’…lol. Not that I was running around or being the life of the party or anything, in fact I was more worried that anything more than a giggle would dislodge my black leather teddy from it’s precarious position over my not-so-full boobage and wardrobe malfunctions were imminent the entire evening.

I know I’ve confessed that I’m a bondage bitch and all that, but I’d also like to point out that I’m an experience junkie. Ten minutes is usually enough for me to have my ‘experience itch’ scratched and any lengthening of the time requires some entertainment or ramping up to keep me amused. The wall was red…just smooth unbreaking red and I was bored. Really, majorly bored. In fact, I was beginning to wrack my brains for some punishable transgression to do so that at least I’d be punished and taken away from that fucking red wall. Unfortunately, everyone else was busily pouring wax on an unfortunate subby girl kneeling in the middle of the room and I was left to amuse myself with the wall. 

“Wax girl” put on an amazing display of endurance by sitting in what is called seiza in Japan. Seiza literally means ‘a formal seat’ and it’s when you kneel and put your bum on your heels. Being able to sit in seiza for extended periods of time is a very formidable skill and requires a lot of training and practice. The longest I ever had to sit in seiza was when I was attending the funeral of my ex-hubby’s grandmother. Fortunately that was on tatami and there were opportunities to move your legs slightly to the side every now and then when the monk wasn’t looking to let the blood circulation start again. By the end of the main funeral ceremony which went for several hours each day over three days I could barely walk. So after nearly two hours doing seiza naked on cold tiles, wax girl was understandably in immense pain and the blood would have felt like fire moving through her legs as it returned. It’s not up to me to judge what other people do, but I felt that it was quite irresponsible on the dom’s part.

Following the release of wax girl, muddy slut and her sadist moved into the play room and started one of the most graphic things I’ve seen in my young and sheltered existence. With her legs slung up to the suspension pole hanging from the ceiling and her arms chained to either side, lube was applied liberally and then a hand, forearm and almost an elbow went where ‘no man has gone before’  as he pummelled her arse with a variety of implements with his other free hand. We were all sitting outside the room and watching the scene in the red room through the door way that was framed in black. Mistress Blair likened it to a $2 peep show in Amsterdam and pup was busily munching on snacks, fixated on what was happening. It was like watching the aftermath of an accident scene – you just couldn’t watch, but you also couldn’t stop watching.  But after my extended wall time, it was great entertainment.

Last night’s party was a 50th birthday/play party. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect as the Domme whose birthday it was, had also invited her elderly mother and aunt. But it was just like every other party except with a few more vanilla faces and more sissy boys. Strangely enough it has been the only party to date that I’ve actually gone to fully dressed and didn’t get beaten at. Several people commented that it was the most they’d ‘ever seen me wear’ and that was amusing in itself. I don’t care what the man says, I look much better with as much of me covered up as possible. 

It had been an unusual day because I’d been incredibly hormonal, emotionally unstable and feeling none too well. I was still swilling drugs at 5pm to try to alleviate my headache and Master had been recruited to give me head massages. I was directing him to ‘squeeze’, ‘push’ and ‘dig your fingers in here’ and he responded by saying that he didn’t want to be too forceful with my head in case he ‘broke something’. I gently reminded him that he hurts me a lot more in more delicate areas on a regular basis and him squeezing on the outside was nothing compared to what the pressure on the inside felt like.

After taking a bath and some more drugs and trying to reduce the puffy eye thing I had from the huge crying fit I’d had earlier, I managed to get myself semi-psyched up for the party. In fact, I was cruising for a bruising and when Master announced that the night was going to be for ‘chit chat’ and no beatings, I had a massive ‘Wtf?’ moment. I’d spent most of the afternoon trying to get well and…well….what the fuck for? I sort of gathered that he wasn’t really in the mood for play and that’s fine. I know, like myself, that he doesn’t have an on/off switch and sometimes you’re just not in the mood, but…wtf?

Carina had a lovely ‘light’ beating from muddy slut that re-opened her cutting wounds from February and then muddy slut had a bloody ass from a beating with a wire brush courtesy of her sadist. All the while a guy was saran wrapped to a pole in the middle of the dungeon shed with a gas mask on.  Outside the shed, sissy boys were having their corsets loosened so they could vomit in the grass (too much alcohol perhaps?) and Evil Mistresses were ‘obliging’ needy subby girls with croppings in the bushes. The food was plentiful and chit chat pleasant and at about 1am we went home…beating-less.

It’s not often that my beating window blows open of its own accord and even rarer when I manage to prise it open myself. Knowing my luck, next Saturday for the party I’ll be so intolerant it’s not funny. But at least I know that that house doesn’t have any fucking red walls! 


 I have a question…

Do you think someone with a violent criminal background should get involved with the lifestyle?

On the surface, this one looks like a no-brainer, but after mulling it over for several days I’ve decided that it’s actually quite complex to answer. I mean, you’ve got to look at it from both sides of the fence and decide whether a ‘changed’ person can really be changed and whether you can let bygones be bygones. It really is a toughie.

So, for starters, let me tell you my feelings about crime. If you are not criminally insane then every crime is committed through making a conscious choice with consequences. I don’t believe the ‘I was young and stupid’ defence has any substance because we were all young and stupid once- whether we committed a crime or not is another matter. Yes, it may have been 20 years ago that you were caught shoplifting or stealing a car or whatever and in the intervening 20 years you’ve been a model citizen who hasn’t even jaywalked, but I don’t believe that you can conveniently ‘forget’ that you have a criminal record for the purposes of a job interview or immigration clearance. You chose to commit the crime that gave you the record, so get over it. Now I know that petty crime is not up on the same rank as violent crime (rape, murder, etc.) but in my mind, crime is crime and if you commit it, you have to live with it for the rest of your life.

Moving right along to ‘Can your past stay as your past and never affect your future?’ Hmmm…my message from the universe today would have me believing otherwise: 

Life’s magic is a lot like a swift flowing river. No matter how long you’ve overlooked it or unwittingly swam against it, the instant you stop struggling you’ve back in the flow, hat down low, coolest cat on the block.

 In other words, your so-called “baggage,” ain’t no thang. 

Coolio- The Universe

But, Mr. Universe, I do beg to differ. I think baggage shapes who you are and what you do. It’s an intrinsic part of you that creates the person living and breathing today. And specifically, I think that people who commit violent crimes are likely to do it again. Of course, not everybody does, but when you commit a crime, I think you’ve got to accept the fact that the baggage will stick with you for life.

Now, if I was on the other side of the fence, I’d be thinking that I’m a changed person and no-one will give me a fair go because of something I did when I was young and stupid. I’d be annoyed that the prejudice towards people with criminal pasts means other people don’t look at the ‘now you’, but always at the ‘past you’. I would want to be given the same chances and choices as everyone else, so I would lie and omit certain details about my past because that was the only way.

When it comes to the lifestyle, as a sub/slave/bottom/person in an incredibly vulnerable position, I want to know if the person holding a beating implement above me has done scary funky shit before. In fact, I just don’t *want* to know, I *need* to know. Yes, having that knowledge would seriously affect my decision to have a relationship or play with that particular person, but I think in this type of a relationship I have a right to know.

Whether a person with a violent criminal past should get involved in the lifestyle or not is something I can’t really make a judgement on while I’m sitting on the fence. From a sub/slave/bottom perspective, absolutely no way do I want anyone with that sort of past in a position of power over me. From the other side, I’d want the person to get to know me before they made that kind of decision. I guess it really does depend on the individual and how ‘rehabilitated’ they are as to whether they are ‘fit’ for that sort of power exchange, but one thing is for certain, I think the other person in the relationship has a right to know- no questions asked.