Kinky distraction, dissonance and Real Life

Distraction

Help me forget the burn in my hip.
My fingers swollen with hot.
The currents screaming through my body at
An even higher voltage today.
The constant bickering between my muscles and gravity.
The circuits in my brain straining to remember while
My lungs ache with memory
Of books and hiking and driving myself to the store.
My chest tight with reminder that the State declared me useless
And keeps us apart just to be mean.

Lay me over your lap.
Spank my sit spot with the hairbrush
So hard that I finally cry real tears you can finger.

Slam your cane down onto my wide fundament
And make my skin explode with tiny red kisses.

Order me over a hill of pillows and strap me
Until my writhing crumbles it all over the bed.

Spread my cheeks and force your manhood in,
Extracting screams I muffle for fear of the neighbors.

Squeeze my nipples, wet my hungry cunt
And produce at last that long elusive orgasm.

Yes, hurt me, my love, and take my pain away.

When my mother attended my fourth grade Parent-Teacher conference, my teacher greeted her with "Michelle has such an amazing imagination!" I think it had something to do with the fact that no matter what the topic was for our creative writing assignment that week, I always managed to transform the subject into a magical trip through time. And said trip often involved meeting Laura Ingalls Wilder -- though she was lacking the "Wilder" part of her name when I would meet her.

Yes, I was a regular Anne Shirley when it came to utilizing my imagination in an effort to survive an otherwise unbearable home life. Not only did I imagine being friends with one, Laura Ingalls, but I imagined coming across the prairies in a covered wagon, or living in a medieval monastery, or being a pampered princess, or comforted by a guardian angel. And, of course, being the little spanko that I am, every fantasy contained punishment of some sort.

I never did lose that imagination. I continue to live much of my life in fantasy world, though now I have a partner to include in my wicked reveries. Indeed, since he's so far away most of the time, phone calls and fantasies are how we stay close. His absence, the isolation of illness, and my otherwise unbearable physical life make my kinky flights of fancy just as important a tool of survival as they were when I was in fourth grade.

But there are dangers that accompany living in a perpetual kinky mindset, as Sparkle discussed at the Punishment Book recently. I'm not a parent (though did get my share of parenting my siblings and mother when I was a teenager), but over the last few months it has begun to dawn on me that there is value to real life. I spend hours each day laying in bed while not quite sleeping, and my habit from childhood is to retreat into my imaginary punitive worlds. Retreat into the childhood I wish I could have had. But I have a soul, an intellect, a non-kinky mind that also need utilizing. That need to contextualize and process and grow from loss and take advantage of the ability to live the examined life that a career would not have otherwise afforded me. Plus, if I ignore the body I'm in too much, it has a habit of screaming to finally get my attention.

A week and a half ago my right pelvis started screaming bloody murder and there wasn't much anybody could do to make it stop until it suddenly did all on its own -- thank God! Though I then proceeded to sprain my ankle good and proper. I was still physically and emotionally spent from the pelvis agony from before, so the ankle thing has put me into a serious pain deficit. Now when I go to peruse my stock of kinky fantasies to lull me to sleep, it's like thinking about food after Thanksgiving dinner. I've had to rely exclusively on a cocktail of narcotics and Valium to get me to sleep instead (or narcotics and lemon balm tea, which I don't recommend unless you plan to sleep all the next day).

Dissonance

The commandant has made me
His plaything this week.
My tongue still craves
The taste of pain,
But the commandant has left me
Bloated with suffering.

Not only has pain stolen my sleep, comfort, and security on some level (since we don't know what caused the pain, there's a good chance -- not to mention precedent -- that it will return, though hopefully not quite at that level), but it's stolen my fantasy world for awhile. Now I'm left to face life. Real life. The life without A. Without naughty adventures. Life with crutches and a messy apartment (long bureaucratic story: I'm without a caregiver for awhile) and more doctors appointments and books I can't read and a grocery store I can't walk to and nieces and nephews I never get to play with and a social life that consists of me talking to my laptop and the television and a career that's long gone. It means spending time being aware of my body. Observing and letting go of things I've been hanging on to even if I wasn't paying much attention to them. Appreciating who I am instead of trying to be someone who feels more fun or beautiful or...better.

And, well, if reality just gets too beyond my ability to cope, my sister did bring over two whole seasons of the Gilmore Girls. Not quite the same as pretending I'm a recalcitrant but immaculately uniformed schoolgirl, but maybe my sister and I will have more clever conversations after I watch 40-some episodes of witty speed-talking small-town Connecticut lefty chicks. Who knows? There may even be more amusing posts forthcoming... ;-)