Life in the breakdown lane
The last few weeks’ sessions have been on the lighter side. No, not the play itself — that’s always hard! The overall tone, I meant. But tonight, I guess I needed to break down and cry. Copiously.
I was off when I got up this morning. It was nearly 3:00 A.M. when I fell asleep, and the damned Monday morning street cleaning started up early with loud leaf blowers. I figured once I ate breakfast, had some coffee and got to the gym, I’d wake up. But I didn’t. To my credit, I did my entire workout anyway. But I felt like I’d phoned it in; my body was there, but not my spirit. Back home, showered and changed, I still felt like I was slogging through mud. Forget it, I thought. The energy is simply not going to kick in today. I didn’t feel down or depressed, just so damn tired.
ST arrived and we chatted for a while. He was in very good spirits, albeit a bit distracted; he’d forgotten his toy bag! That’s a first. Fortunately, I have plenty of toys now (thanks in part to Cane-iac!), so I brought all my stuff into the living room and laid it on the coffee table.
As we got started, much to my dismay, tears suddenly came to my eyes out of nowhere. DAMMIT, I thought. Not now! I don’t want to cry now! We just started! Damned out-of-control emotions. He was giving me a proper warm-up, but I didn’t want it. I wanted him to ramp it up, now.
Hurt me. Hurt me until I stop thinking.
I was obnoxious. I yawned. I tapped my foot to the music while he spanked. “Am I boring you? Are you not having fun?” he asked. (I’d groused to him earlier about how I felt, sometimes when reading the FetLife board and all the party and video talk, like everyone was having fun except me. Ugh.) “We can’t have that. I think you should hand me that hairbrush.”
I reached over to grab it off the table. “You mean, this one?” It was the only one there, so of course, that one. He held out his hand for it, but I didn’t give it to him. I started to… then snatched it away. He reached for it again, and I lightly brushed the bristle side on his palm and then snatched it away again. This time, he grabbed my wrist hard and wrested the brush away, and then really laid into me with it.
Yes. Just like that. Yesyesyes.
“That probably wasn’t a very good idea, was it?” he scolded. “Maybe not, but it sure was fun!” I replied. Wrong answer. The hairbrush snapped back and forth, hard, all over both cheeks. I writhed on his lap and I felt his hand holding me down.
No, I don’t really want to get away. Don’t stop. Please.
“Are you beginning to see that it was a bad idea?” “Ummmmm… maybe a little.” “You going to do that again?” “Ummmmmm…. NO! No! Nonononononono!” That was after the latest flurry.
“You’d better not,” he said. “I think you need a good caning. Don’t you?”
“No,” I muttered in a sulky tone. “No??” “NO!”
“Well, I think you do!”
“Well, I guess that’s all that matters then, isn’t it!” I snapped. “Why the hell do you bother asking me?”
“Get up,” he growled, “and go stand in the middle of the room.” I got to my feet and stomped over to where he wanted me. He knows how much I hate the bent-over-standing caning position. Hate it, hate it, hate it. But I knew I’d asked for it.
That’s the cane I’m holding behind my back. It didn’t stay there very long.
He didn’t hold back. And I didn’t want him to. I welcomed each stroke, even as I resisted him. And slowly, the resistance broke down. As did I.
“Are you going to find ways you can have some fun?” he asked.
Still in position, I braced myself with my right arm and dropped my face into my left hand. “I don’t know how,” I whispered. And began to weep.
“Will you try?” I couldn’t answer, but I nodded vigorously.
He continued with the caning for a while, stopping to take pictures. I was OK with that; it gave me a minute or two to collect myself a little. But by the time he was done with the final ten paddle swats, I was full-on sobbing. My legs shook so badly, I couldn’t stand on them any longer, and I let myself collapse to the carpet.
One of the most raw moments I’ve had in a while. I don’t mind that he took this picture. It’s real. I wept so hard, I was trembling and gasping. And he got down onto the carpet behind me and held me close, rocked me. My hair hung in my face and I soaked it, and his forearms, with my tears. I think, at that moment, I felt closer to him than I ever have before. I didn’t think that was possible.
“Oh God,” I heard myself blurting. “Please don’t ever go away!”
Shit. I hate it when my needy side comes out. I don’t want to need. Life would be free of so damn much pain if I were completely self-sufficient and self-contained. When I was young, my personal anthem was Simon & Garfunkel’s “I Am a Rock.” If I never loved, I never would have cried. I am a rock, I am an island. And a rock feels no pain; and an island never cries. That was how I wished to be. But I am not a fucking rock.
My outburst didn’t faze him, bless his heart.
The scene was actually a lot shorter than our usual. And we didn’t play a second time, as we often do. But it was exactly right, completely as it should be. He left me only to get tissues and lotion, and held me for the next hour or so. We didn’t talk for a long time, then slowly began chatting about inconsequential things. I could have fallen asleep there, I think.
Tonight, I believe I will sleep like the dead. Tomorrow, I have no plans except to stay home and do some work. It should be peaceful. Even the weather is being kind — in a strange reversal from the rest of the country, Southern CA’s temperatures are actually below normal. This will change soon, I’m sure. But for now, it’s so lovely.
I will call John, see how things went with his dentist, find out if he called his doctor. He has the rest of the week off; he decided to take some of his use-it-or-lose it admin. days off and combine them with the 4th holiday. It couldn’t come at a better time. I’m planning to see him Wednesday. I hope he will be feeling better. But I have no control over that.
But that’s tomorrow. Tonight, there is chocolate. And there is bed. And there is ST, for whom I am so grateful.