Off For Holidays

Feeling a bit ruthless at the moment. I really don’t want to squeal, but my brother and I had another argument about this blog and my tumblr. It made me mad, because I don’t want to keep it all inside. I like to write it down and read it over again later, and I like it if people tell me it makes them horny or even think things over. I have really considered just shutting down anything to prevent further fights, but I will not. I like it. I’m fed up with keeping anything to myself. That’s what I did for too long.

On friday, John and I will he heading towards Austria and we’ll be back about a week later. I can’t tell when exactly. Depends on many factors. No blogging until then, but I’ll be over at tumblr. See you soon!


Sharing Him

That was an evil Saturday evening yesterday. During dinner Love announced that he’d be visiting a club later that evening and that I was going to stay at home and do the laundry. All of it. Yeah, beautiful degradation and a sort of denial I like and disgust at the same time as it leaves no doubt about who’s in charge and who is not. Love allowed me to take a shower with him and had me help him wash all over. But not touching his cock, because that was reserved for the studs he’d fuck that evening. Sweet desperation.

After he had left, I did what he told me. Folded 3 baskets of towels I had washed that morning and ironed some shirts, while I was thinking of him and imagining what he’d be doing while his “Pferdchen” stayed at home, with the Birdlock still on. I got so frustrated, I began eating crisps and chocolate, but it did not help, so I just surfed the net and watched porn until I was even hornier and more frustrated.

When Love returned at about 1.30 a.m., he undressed and threw himself onto the bed, presenting his body. “Come over”, he told me, and I crawled up inside his arm, finally. I tried to smell the others on him, but of course could not. I wanted to ask so many things, but I did not know how to do so, so I just remained silent. I was reminded of a situation in which he had put on some fragrance I did not know to make me feel jealous, and my feeling of desperation grew stronger. Wanting him, needing him and be denied hurts, and it hurts so good.

He incidentally began fondling me, letting his fingertips barely touch me. “How long?” he wanted to know. “36 days”. I know he knew, but having to say that aloud feels wicked. He enveloped my cock within its cage with his hand, fondling and feeling it up. “I wish you’d release me”, I murmured. “I quite believe it”. Some more strokes, then his breath became deeper, and then he was asleep. I kept laying awake until 4 in the morning, shed some tears and finally managed to get some sleep as well.

In the morning, he allowed me to suck him off, but did not even take notice of my cock. Damn. It’s hot and bitter at the same time. Get to think a lot about the phases of chastity I experience. At the moment I’m whimpering and wanting so bad to be released.

Create Destruction

On the weekend, I met W and again we made a ritual for Papa Legba and Lord Shiva. I don’t know why, but these both go together well, I presume. Both seem to have something spare for humans and seem to be willing to teach us, although I’m not really able to get in touch with Legba. Although W is always very generous with explanations about Voodoo and his adaptions, it’s still a bit strange to me. Even more than in Hinduism, the gods of Voodoo appear picky to me. Every gesture matters. I myself have done a lot wrong in connection with Lord Shiva, at least according to the books, but he has never been mad with me because I placed a wrong flower on his altar or pronounced a Sanskrit word in a wrong way. Legba does not seem that uncomplicated to me. He sometimes becomes mad very quickly, and that makes him not appear as stable and “nice” as I’d need it.

At the moment I am working with the destructive incorporation of Lord Shiva, which actually feels a bit weird, because I feel it’s not a “bad” part, but a very worthy thing. If there was not destruction, nothing would ever fade or rot, so that we’d end up in a very overcrowded world with a lot of waste. It’s quite new to me to honour this destructive part as an essential and important part of life. Usually I tend to hold on to things and conditions, even if they have lost their use or meaning long ago, just beause I’m used to them. I tend to hoard, even if I’m a maniac de-clutterist. Uhm, that’s not a contradiction 🙂

Lord Shiva’s destructive incorporation may be seen as Kali. She is honoured as the mother who gives life and takes it again. She is wild and greedy and it took me by surprise that so many people even see a mother in her, but I guess I have certain prejudices about mothers in general, you know, like how they should behave and be. I’m not able to get in touch with Kali on a deeper level, so I tend to leave her something on Lord Shiva’s altar every now and then, but most times it seems she dismisses what I offer.

Some months ago, W advised me to drop my efforts concerning Kali and rather try to find that destructive, eating side of Lord Shiva. He said it might be that by doing so I’d finally find her, too, but I have not managed yet. Anyway, I have tried to get in touch with Lord Shiva’s destructive side, which to me appears as a fourious, golden dancer, which skin is anointed with blood. When he dances, he is all by himself, all absorbed and highly concentrating, but on a kind of spiritual level. He taught me that getting absorbed by things that really matter so oneself, one creates a sort of destruction. I liked that term “create destruction”! That’s because when you’re focussing on one thing, other things escape your attention and develop in a chaotic, creative way by themselves, or fall apart. But from whatever has fallen apart, there might arise new creation, like plants being turned into soil and providing new ground. I know these thoughts are not surprisingly new, but I presume it was the first time I understood this process at heart.

Lord Shiva in his destructive incorporation told me to pay attention to the destruction I create, and I did. I found it everywhere: when eating, cleaning up, showering, even when breathing. It was strange to feel this certain power I have about life and death, because it was the first time in my life that I was aware of destroying others (even bacteria). To be honest, thinking about my destructive side or my power to create destruction made me feel very uncomfortable, because I really do not want to have any mastery over whatever. When I wanted to discuss that with Lord Shiva, he just told me that’s one of my major problems and that I should really take my place, which actually means acception even of this power of destruction. Not easy at all! I guess my concerns are connected with the feeling of helplessness and worthlessness. I’d easier adapt to the thought that I’m not even worth breathing than that I am allowed to destroy the life of a bacterium. I’m best at destroying myself, I think.

That’s the point where Lord Shiva and John somehow mingle. They both try to empower me and help me taking my place, but it feels a bit weird if your God and your husband, who don’t even have contact with each other, work together that well 🙂

The symbol of the destructive incorporation of Lord Shiva as I experience it is the egg or rather the broken/breaking egg. So when W and I made our ritual, I gave a goose egg to Lord Shiva. We left it on the garden altar and while we were sitting on W’s porch, drinking tea, we saw a black cat licking it up. Well, that sent a shiver down by spine.

Task given by Lord Shiva: celebrate destruction. I don’t know what to make out of that.

I Am Sorry.

Again, my brother and I had a serious conversation about this blog.

I did not mean to harm or disgust anybody. I am really sorry.

Sometimes I tend to forget that most people don’t experience and don’t like what I did/do and that I should talk about it only with my therapist or my partner.

I will try to cut down entries about sexual preferences and abuse.

I am sorry.

Hurt Me So That I Don’t Need To Hurt Myself

In the past few weeks I’ve had a lot of contact with a person who harms himself and finally I thought I should write about it.

I have begun to hurt myself when I was a child. I don’t recall the first time, but it was not long until hurting myself became normal to me. My father used to have razor blade in our bathroom’s cupboard and I stole some of them, time after time. I used them until they became blunt or at least too blunt to perform what I wanted to inflict on myself, then I dumped them. I always hid them away from my father, which of course was not really neccessary because he saw me naked. In the beginning, he just looked at the wounds and pressed his teeth together, not commenting on it, but later on he mocked me. When he was finished with me, he would say “lauf nur und schneid es dir rein” (run and cut it into you). I always did.

After a while, cutting myself became boring. It did not help any longer, so I opened up the wounds again or put something into them, like salt, sand , dust, even sperm or dishwater. I often got inflammations, but to be honest, I liked it. It hurt more and I even liked to open the pus-filled blisters. The only trouble was that hurting myself made me feel guilty, after the pressure had vanished. I don’t know why. I had no positive thinking of myself and my father would never teach me that my body was valuable. But anyway it made me feel guilty.

Self-harm became an addiction for me and I used to celebrate it. I had a small box in which I collected what I needed for self-harm, like razor blades, pins, shards and so on. It was my magic box, you know, like a spell to relieve the anger and the pressure. Just the look of it made me feel better (of course not really better, but better in a way). Self-harm was almost the only part of my life I could control. So when my father was done with me, I played my own violent games with me. To make it worse, I transferred what he did to what I did to myself. I began calling myself by all the dirty words he used for me, and I innermostly believe they were right. To be honest, until today I feel addressed by most of these terms. And to make it still worse, I got aroused by hurting myself physically and mentally. My therapist suggested I might have used masturbation as stress-relief, and I still do, but in connection with self-harm and self-injury, it was even more addictive. I know I’m hypersexual and that’s part of what my father did. If I’d run free, I’d masturbate all day long, I guess.

Later on, during therapeutic sessions, I was taught ways to relieve anger and frustration in other ways, but it did not work for me. It’s a nice and clean idea that scribbling on your body or solving crosswords could help avoiding self-injury, but it did not do for me. It was too soft. I was annoyed by my former therapist who I regarded as naive and stupid. I just kept hurting myself, and hurting felt good, but it still made me feel ashamed. On the other hand, I had the thought that hurting myself would prove me a strong man. I thought it was chic and cool that I could hurt myself and regarded my scars as a trophy.

I have never managed to get rid of my need for pain and humiliation, and it’s still deeply connected with my sexuality. As I have written before, I regard my 24/7 BDSM-relationship as a sort of self-injury. I know it’s deranged to savour this, but it helps me feeling myself and check on my life. I’m convinced that being allowed to live out my masochistic affection prevents me from hurting myself more than John ever would. And even being put into chastity is helpful, because I’m an excessive wanker. Or would be. You know, wanking is still a sort of stress-relief for me, but it’s unhealthy to do it 10 times a day and in every place, I suppose.

So, allowing John to control and hurt me prevents worse things from happening, and what he does to me is kind of therapeutic. I have not cut myself for some years now, but I could only stop it after he had made clear that he regards my body as his possession and would punish me for disregarding his possession. There are worse things than being hit or being put into chastity, for example not being noticed or talked to for some days.

I regard whatever he leaves on me as signs of love and I feel secure and loved when he hurts me. I know it’s twisted and probably insane, but no non-sadistic person could ever understand what I need to feel loved and secure. Being owned, being told what to do, being put in my place, being treated like a union of husband, slave and whore is the only way to cope with my life. I can’t do it any other way, and sometimes I really feel weak and bad about it, but then again I feel honoured and loved. John’s strong hand is my beacon. He hurts me so that I don’t need to hurt myself or do worst things to me. Love must hurt, or it is not love.

I hope it all does not sound too weird, and I hope it helps.

We Are So Old-Fashioned

Just came across this one here:

First of all, it makes me feel horny. Then again, I think it’s not far from what our everyday life is like. We are old-fashioned, I guess. Probably I would have loved the 50ies.