I’ve been a loner most of my life. I’ve liked the freedom of not having to worry about another person – constantly wondering what they were thinking about me or thinking about what I should do for them.

When I’m with other people I feel a constant need to keep them happy. I change what I say and what I do so that it will be the least objectionable and what I perceive they will like. I find it very hard to relax and just be me. I find it all tiring. I find friendships tiring. I find relationships tiring. And so I’ve always kept my interactions to a bare minimum and so the thought of needing to be in a relationship or needing to meet new people has been totally off my radar.

Now, it’s all I think about.

I pass people in the street or meet them in the elevator and wonder what their story is. Are they alone? Are they like me and wanting to make friends? Or are they just trying to get somewhere and do something without wanting to be pounced on by a crazy friend-seeking lady?

I’m late to the game. People my age usually have a full circle of friends and a support network for when shit hits the fan like ending a long-term relationship and finding yourself alone in a big city. I ran off to Japan when I should have been out getting drunk and experimenting with other people my age. Then I got married. Then I locked myself into the most controlled and freedom-devoid type of relationships for the next 10 years. My partners have always been older than me. My friends have generally been older than me. I’ve never really had a chance to do all the things that you’re supposed to do when you’re young and stupid and can be forgiven for your naivety.

I don’t know if I’ve purposely done these things to try to avoid the whole meeting people thing or if that’s just the way it’s worked out, but whatever the reason, I’m full of regrets. For not wanting and not being able to connect.

I’ve read all the propaganda about D/s supposedly giving you a deeper connection. There are all the inspirational quotes and poems floating around the place that try to make it seem like it’s somehow better than a normal relationship:submission3


But is it?

All that talk of ‘gifts’ and doms as ‘protectors’ and ‘freedom in control’…does anyone really feel like that?

And do you need to feel that special something, that connection with the person you choose to play with or the person you give your submission to? Does not having the feeling make it less real? Does it mean that you’re missing out on the ‘true’ experience?

I’ve been feeling numb for quite a while. I wasn’t getting excited by the thought of play, I didn’t look forward to it, didn’t particularly want to do it. I’ve lost my passion and I’m not sure how to get it back. I want to feel something – excitement, anxiety, fear, worry.

I’m not sure if I’ve allowed submission to define me. Have I talked myself into believing that I need to submit and therefore should enjoy it, even though I don’t? Is submitting really what I want to do?

But if I don’t submit, what else is there?

The unexplainable

I was asked the most basic of questions today:

“What do you enjoy?”

And I realised I have no fucking idea.

I don’t think the gentleman who asked the question realised that it was possible for me to have no fucking idea and it threw him for a loop.

So he rephrased the question in a way that he thought would make more sense to me:

“Surely there are things you like and things you don’t like. You have a list of stuff that is off the table as far as play is concerned, don’t you?”

So I started thinking about things I’d rather not have happen like have needles stuck into me or be licked but I couldn’t decide whether they were things I hated or things I liked hating.

That’s the thing, you see, when you have an endurance kink. Having things you hate doing and having to do them anyway feeds your kink. But it’s really hard to ask for things you hate. It’s hard to ask to be forced to do things you don’t want to do. And believe me when I say I really don’t want to have to do these things…but at the same time I do.

I don’t know how to explain that to someone. Someone who thinks choice is very important and that everyone should enjoy what is happening. My world is not quite like that.

So I said something that I thought might explain my reluctance to rattle off my imaginary list of likes and dislikes:

I haven’t really been in a position to choose what has happened to me.

And he gave me a look that made me think, holy crap, so that’s what this slavery thing looks like from the outside!

He is not a vanilla person and has a very deviant mind, but he’s never been down the path of ownership or slavery and while he enjoys a mind-fuck as much as the next person, he probably doesn’t realise what years of choosing not to have a choice does to you.

And seeing myself through his eyes today made me realise for the first time that I’ve had some conditioning done upstairs and rewriting that might take a while.

Actually, if I’d been paying attention, I would have realised that my inability to fill out my fetlife profile with an extensive list of ‘into’s and ‘like’s is because all of those things are just things that happen to me and my choice not to have a choice precludes having a list of likes and dislikes.

But I decided to throw him a bone.

I like bondage.

With what? Rope? Leather? Metal? Cuffs? Wooden restraints? With what?

It’s all fine.

And then what? Flogging? Crops? Canes? Whips?

They all hurt.

And what else? Oral sex? Anal sex? Butt plugs? Fisting?

Well, it’s all stuff I’ve done.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I don’t like anything and that’s exactly how I like things to be.

But after pondering my seemingly noncommittal answers he said something that threw me for a loop.

“You need to give yourself permission to enjoy the things you like.”

But doing that means giving up control and I don’t think to this day, after 9 years and 2 M/s relationships, that I’ve ever really unwound that tight little string I have tied around myself. It’s the string that for some reason doesn’t think I’m worthy of having enjoyment of that kind and keeps me in that state of not wanting to react, not wanting to give in and enjoy.

But I wonder if that string is actually how I do give myself enjoyment. Is it wrapped around me to feed my need for endurance or did I develop the endurance thing because the string was there and there was nothing I could do about it?

Chicken or the egg? Kink or the string? It’s all swings and roundabouts.


That side of things

So it’s been a couple of weeks. That is fuck all in the scheme of things, but I’ve got this huge sense of ‘pressure’ that I should be doing stuff – like every minute I spend in my apartment watching tv is a minute I could be out there enjoying the delights of being a single woman in a kind-of happening city.

I think it would be alright if I was 24. Twenty four is a good age. Add thirteen years to that and you get what they call in Japan, ‘stale Christmas cake’ – something past its prime that nobody wants.

That’s the biggest thought I had in mind during the whole decision-making process. I was trying to figure out whether having some sort of relationship (even if I was only 50% happy) was better than the option of having no relationship. Ever. Again.

And I still cringe inside when I keep reminding myself that I’ll be ‘okay’ because someone, somewhere should find me attractive/like me/want to form a relationship with me. Yeah…me and my confidence levels…I’ve got to start being happen in my own skin, right?

So the question is, have I gone vanilla?

I’m not exactly sure what all the labels mean anymore but I do want a relationship with a side of play. I still have buttons that need to be pushed.

Do I want to be a slave? Probably not. There’s only one way that I would be able to get into the headspace required for that and that is to be kept. I don’t seem to have much luck in that area, so I’ve started getting realistic and thinking that I’ve got to stop waiting/expecting to be looked after.

Ten years. In August it will be ten years since I left Japan to follow the dream of being a slave.

The things we do…





I did some serious danshari-ing during my move to single, apartment-living.

I’ve never been a real hoarder and I have a strong aversion to buying things that I cannot easily dispose of such as furniture (because, as some would say, I have a commitment phobia), but I have strong sentimental attachments and pretty much I’ve kept every letter/note/piece of paper I’ve ever received, every photo to come into my possession and every little thing that has meant something to me over the years.

So I took the opportunity this time and threw or gave away just about everything I could. The thank you letters I’d received from my students back in Japan, the drunken karaoke photos taken with my Japan gym buddies, my city to surf medals, my fetish outfits, my boots. The list goes on.

There was serious and I mean serious, danshari-ing involved. I was expecting it to feel refreshing like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, but mostly I just felt sad. As if those things somehow made me who I am and throwing them away was like losing little bits of myself.

I guess it was all part of my sub-conscious want to reinvent myself. The reinvention that started with me introducing myself to new people with the name I always wanted to have. Sometimes when people call out to me, I forget to respond to it because, well, it’s not actually my name, but it’s starting to feel more comfortable.

I’m still trying to come to that zen place where not being dragged down by things from the past is freeing and allows you to live in the moment. Maybe if I just keep buying more sheets, towels and valances in suitably trendy colours I’ll pull myself into the new me.



When near enough isn’t good enough

So I went back to the house last night to get the last few remaining things I’d left behind and we had dinner and then it came time to say our final goodbyes.

It was hard and emotional and all those things you’d expect it to be.

I kissed him and started crying. He asked why I was crying and I told him it was because I was sad.

He told me he loved me. I told him I loved him too. Then I watched him drive away.

And that’s the end of that particular chapter in my life story.

I still feel like a bad, selfish, uncaring person. But as he told me, it was a decision I made by myself, for me, with myself in mind. I therefore have to accept all the guilt and stuff that comes with it.

He rang me this morning just as he was going to leave Perth forever. It’s a four-day drive to Melbourne with his car-load of worldly possessions – all he has left since I made him fold up his life.

He wished me a happy life and I wished him a safe trip.

Then I hung up and dissolved into tears again while sitting at my desk. I think everyone in my office has seen me cry now, so I’ve got nothing left to be embarrassed about…lol.

So I’m officially alone now. Although, I’ve got some good friends who have reminded me that I’m not actually alone and are there, if and when I need them.

I have to keep firmly in mind while I’m doing this. I have to remember how I steeled my heart because I wanted more.

Less can be more. But near enough isn’t good enough when it comes to happiness.



Well, it took almost a week but I’ve finally managed to do a poop at my new digs. To me (and all girls who are poop-challenged) that’s a little sign that I’m starting to feel comfortable in my surroundings.


From me? Never.

If I was really going for TMI I could tell you about how I found the former tenant’s sexy time stash wedged at the back of the closet while I was cleaning over the long-weekend.

Fortunately none of it appeared to have been used…

For three days I scrubbed and cleaned and vacuumed and washed and wiped and this place still barely feels clean. And that’s saying a lot because my standards for cleanliness are fairly low. Maybe I’m just getting super anal about stuff.

And speaking of anal, I spent a good 8 hours over two days trying to choose sheets and quilt covers. I finally made a decision, burned a hole in my credit card and took my spoils home and realised I’d made the wrong choice (colour and material) and went back the next day and exchanged it all and I’m still not 100% happy. And tell me, why is it so god damn hard to get decent sheets? Tencil, bamboo, egyptian cotton? And is 1200 thread count enough? Just give me some god damn sheets that don’t feel like sandpaper and don’t cost the same as the GDP of a small African country! That’s all I ask. I can’t deal with this shit at the moment!!

M and I had a nice little email exchange over the weekend during which I managed to tell him some of the things I’ve been wanting to say. I’ve never been good with the talking thing and ultimately I need to think things through and put them on paper before they make any sense, so it helped me feel a bit better.

I’m still not sleeping very well and I’ve got a lovely stress hives/rash thing happening that is making me wanted to scratch my skin off. I’m just waiting for the tic in my eye to kick in to round out the quasimodo look I’m aiming for. I spend a good hour or so everyday just wandering aimlessly around the apartment trying to find stuff and it feels like it’s taking me twice as long to do anything. I need me some routine…and I need to remember which side of the rooms the light switches are on.

It’s crazy how much that kind of stuff messes with your mind.


For better or for worse

You know that stuff I talked about last time? Well, it might be time to talk about it.

Five days ago I moved out of the house I’ve lived in for the last seven and a half years and at the same time I walked away from the relationship that had been the centre of my world since 2006.

M and I are no longer Master and slave and very shortly he’ll be living on the other side of Australia while I stay in Perth in the apartment I moved into in the city.

It hurt a lot. And not in a good way.

Something inside of me broke a few weeks back. I don’t really know what it was or what started it, but I just had an overwhelming feeling of needing more. I’m not exactly sure what ‘more’ is or how I can get it, but there was something missing that I know I need.

I suddenly got very greedy and very selfish and I knew I couldn’t go on any longer the way I was. I’d gone from a state of acceptance to a state of rejection in a period of just a few days and I knew I needed to act before I talked myself out of it…again.

You see, I’d had this same feeling a few years back. I think it was just before the time of the great switcheroo and I’d gone back to my hometown for some reason or another. I remember my mum asking me if I was okay because she thought something was wrong and I totally lost it in the middle of a pub, like ridiculous-hysterical-crying-type of losing it and I half made a decision to leave then, that I promptly talked myself out of a few days after returning to Perth.

Because I was scared.

And I’m scared now that I’ve made the wrong decision. That I’ve walked away from a man who accepted me wholly and completely and who I felt completely comfortable with. I knew he understood me and all my little quirks. I’m pretty high maintenance and a bit messed up and I’m not sure whether I’ll ever find someone like M again.

But all of that just didn’t seem enough.

Even though it should be. Why can’t I be content? Why can’t I be happy with what I have? Why keep seeking perfection when I’m so far from perfect myself?

It’s hard when you invest so much into something. And it’s hard when you’ve done this exact same thing a few times in the past. But I’m not getting any younger and I still feel like I have some sort of dream I want to make reality.

The whole thing has happened quite quickly and I’m still in a bit of a spin. About a fortnight ago I started to look at rental properties and after looking at fifty million of them and being totally depressed at what a mind-boggling amount of money will get you in Perth, I put in an application for a place I loved…and got rejected. Then I looked at about ten more and finally went back to a place I’d rejected before due to price and noise factor and put in an application with an offer of rent lower that what they were asking for. I was expecting to get rejected again…and I think part of me was secretly hoping I would get rejected…but it was surprisingly accepted and then I couldn’t go anywhere but forward. I’d set things in motion and there was no going back.

I told M of my decision two days later and he went into hyperdrive.

I haven’t seen him so focussed or so active in years. Within the space of a few days he’d sold off a significant amount of stuff in the house, had real estate agents around to start the process of selling the house, had tradesmen around to quote for all the stuff that needed doing around the house and had a plan in place that would see him leave Perth with nothing but a carload of personal stuff fourteen days later. I hadn’t been able to even get him to find someone to mow the lawn and I’d been asking him for a good twelve months, so his sudden drive was a massive surprise.

In some strange way it kind of hurt to think he was almost eager to wipe the seven and a half years we’d spent together off the face of the earth, but I guess from his perspective I was just as ‘eager’.

I didn’t really say much to him about my decision other than I felt like I was stagnating and in a rut. And that is true. But there is a little bit more to the story.

M has some issues that I’m not going to go into detail here about, but they are things that over the years I eventually learned to live with, but never really accepted 100%. I guess I felt they were things that he could do something about if he really wanted to…but perhaps they weren’t. Perhaps that was how he would be all the time. In some ways, I guess it is like a disability. If I was a better person I would accept that that was the way he was and love and respect him regardless. But I couldn’t. I wanted him to change. I wanted us to have a ‘normal’ life and be able to do things together and not have to worry about what would happen.

In sickness and in health.

I feel so guilty for being such a shallow person. He accepted me with all my flaws and faults. Why couldn’t I do the same? I feel like such a bad person. I feel horrible for forcing him to fold up the life he had, for taking everything away from him and making him worry about his future and money.

I’ve seen him a few times since I moved out and I usually dissolve into tears 3 or 4 times on any given occasion. We had lunch together today and I cried into my Vietnamese noodles, in the car x 3, while we were sitting on the couch watching Arrow and then again when he put his hand on my thigh and asked me if I wanted to be caned (which I almost said yes to in a weak moment when I was feeling particularly low).

I’m sad about my decision. It makes me sad to think about what I’ve done. To him, to us. I can’t enjoy the trendy little inner-city apartment I’m now living in, the lifestyle that I’ve always wanted to lead because I’m alone and I have no-one to share it with. Things are meaningless without people. Memories are people, not things.

There’s a little voice inside me that says that I deserve to be happy and that I should have everything my heart desires. I listened to that voice and broke everything I had. I’m not sure if it was the devil or my guardian angel whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

For as long as you both shall live.

I don’t have any answers. I have only questions.

I do.