This makes for quite a depressing read indeed.

4 10 2011

I am sad, there is no denying it. I am deeply sad. The vague reasons for this sadness have been explored earlier in different posts so let’s not go there again.
There is though a central core of emotion that is extremely strong and very deeply disturbing and that’s the one  have to drag with me every single minute of my life… you know what it is? Simple as it sound: eagerness to serve.
I don’t know if many Doms or Masters realize how deep this might run down in a slave soul. I cannot imagine what being a Master is so I can’t make assumptions, but I would like to explain this sentiment and the deepness of it and how it affect my daily life and my thoughts, both my normal thoughts and my horny ones. I think I spoke of it already but, hey, repetita iuvant.

The first and most important thing is the frustration of not being able to express this eagerness, the frustration of not serving. The desire I have to serve is so strong, so potent, that consumes me sometimes, really shadowing my intellect, dampening my logic and self-preservation. Self preservation… yes you got it. There were times in the past when something clicked inside me and my sense of self-preservation somehow disappeared – even briefly – and I could have done anything, anything without even thinking. Like a part of my brain was shut down and something else was in place, wanting more and more and never having to ask to stop. This eagerness is so strong that it led me to make in the past very stupid mistakes. I know now, I try to control it, but should I try to control it? Or these a sort of raw delight in it?
The core of my sadness starts from here, from a lost hope, from the thought that I will never be able to satisfy this ever-famished beast, a certainty that I will find no one to match this bottomless – no pun intended – frustration, someone to give it form and mold it into something else. The frustration is even bigger because I had a glimpse of its beauty, and when I mean beauty I mean Beauty with a capital B. I had a small glimpse of it and I saw how things could be deep and how the emotions would be overwhelming alongside never-experienced pleasures. I saw it, for god’s sake, I can understand it and I can see how marvelous it could be and YET again I can’t have it… because I am blocking myself, because I can’t find someone… the reasons doesn’t really matter here, the fact that matters is that once you’ve been there and you tasted it you want more and more and more. And I’ve been there for a moment and I know how it feels and it makes me feel very bad that I can’t have more of it again. I was there at a certain point, all beaten and horny and helpless and denied and I was feeling so suave – that is a good word for it – that I thought that there could be no coming back, that every moment would be like that. There was fear before but after the point of no return the fear vanished in a pool of moans. I was only pleasure, I was only a yes. I want to go back there so badly and I can’t and the frustration is directly proportional of the strength of that need.
Hence is a hell of a lot of frustration.

But there is more. There is the frustration for wanting and not being able to because I am stopped by my own fears. By the time I meet a Master, usually I already worked out a whole profile of him. I usually spend the time before the session trying to find out a way to not like him in order to made myself  sure it won’t work. Why I do that? Fear. An almost paralyzing fear. Most of the time I react with irony as that is my easier weapon and my stronger shield – not taking myself seriously allows me to not take anyone or anything seriously too. But logic works the same way. I dismantle in order to put aside. Against this weaponry who will conquer the fort? I am the only one able to give the key and yet I can’t find the strength to give it to someone. I know it and it’s frustrating because I want to give it but I can’t.
Someone maybe should simply take it then? Yes – and no. The thought is even more scaring.

Then there is this: the knowledge I am wrong, even for slave standards. It’s not a game, it’s not supposed to be too much of a fair thing, to serve is to serve and is simple as that. Why so often I can’t? Why I can’t give everything. I know I can’t give everything so I don’t give anything at all because in this game I feel one should give either everything or nothing at all, there is no gray area here. So why can’t I do it the simple way: just serving? This is what most Masters expect and this is where I fail them most of the time: I desperately want to be ready but  I am not.

Then there is that I am deeply romantic: I have epiphanies every now and again about my slave side and all I do is being struck with them, leaving them caressing my mind and soul but never really incorporating them, following them, making them true. It’s like I value those moments of clarity but I value them too much. I insult those little epiphanies – like the one I had today and that lead me to write this post – by simply being passive about them, making them somehow just a little piece of a puzzle I cannot solve with the inaction I represent in this moment of my life.

Also there is this brain of mine. It doesn’t shut, it doesn’t stop. Oh please give me a switch, give a moment of rest, please find me a quiet place where to rest and be silent and still. This brain of mine almost always slips in the cracks between things and words and I cannot recover it from there, it’s leaking everywhere. I can’t help it: I see meta-cognitive stuff everywhere. In my words, in my thoughts, in your words, in your gestures. Everything has a double, triple meaning and nobody is here to slap my face and make me stop once or twice or more… for as long as it takes me to make me silent.

And again this irrational fear: I don’t want to be there, I don’t want to feel like that anymore, all conditioned to serve and please and controlled and then the Master disappears and I feel a pain that has no words, that is like a hole in the stomach, like something I never experienced and I never really understood. But at the same time the thought of that kind of strong pain it is so sweet and terrible that it’s shining there with its meaning, inn-corruptible stigma that I am sick beyond normal, that I want myself to suffer both the beauty and the worst of it all.

This is masochism. It’s masochism at its core.

It’s me denying myself of everything. Because I ain’t no good.




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