Kool-Aid Jones: from Pulpit to Pinterest

You better believe that if renowned narcissist Jim Jones were alive and well today, he’d be reaching far more numbers of vulnerable and impressionable minds by writing a blog from an upscale flat in London than he ever did in the jungles of Guyana.  He’d still have his loyal following of devotee’s with their troubled pasts of trauma, broken childhoods, broken marriages, and broken dreams.  He would naturally espouse to have vast knowledge on how to remedy all that ails them.  He would peddle his special brand of elixir or “how-to” and offer to turn their lives from misery to sanctity and freedom.  All that he would ask is that they just put their faith and trust in him, their fearless and self-ascribed Messiah .

Like any good narcissist, he seeks unlimited success/power/love, admiration.  He has a grandiose self-worth and believes himself superior to others.  He has a lack of empathy well-hidden behind a seamless veneer of charm and charisma.  Has a sense of entitlement and possesses interpersonal exploitative behaviors. Only Jones knows to prey upon women with childhood trauma histories, poor boundaries, the lost sorts, all of them looking for anyone to care about them.  He knows precisely  how to deliver that illusion.

In today’s day and age vampires have adapted.  They have no need to fear the daylight, for there are dark sunglasses and sunscreen.   So too, the modern-day Jones would dispense his Kool-Aid differently than his predecessor.   The pen has always been mightier than the sword, or in this case, the cyanide.   Our modern-day Jones would trade preaching for blogging.  He would use volumes of facts about narcissism and offer to help others gain “understanding”.    Jones may perhaps don the Scarlet Letter and admit publicly to being a narcissist.  This would do two things.  One, through his blog he would both normalize and desensitize the topic of malignant narcissism as well as foster a cheerleading team for himself.  Secondly, through describing his own personal experience of being a narcissist  in a “confessional” style blog, he appears honest to readers; even trustworthy.  He could ensnare victims by creating an online support group via the comment section of his blog and most of them would naïvely walk into it and never seeing it for its dark potential.   His harem, a coterie of would be stand-ins vying for place as his next primary source.  For they see him as “reformed.”

The real coterie’s purpose to him? anything he wants.  Since many subscribers have their profile linked to their social media, at his disposal are their emails, photos, and sometimes phone numbers.   He would most likely spend hours writing, cultivating, and pruning his blog as it would be no doubt a great source of ready-to-eat supply.     Simply put, narc heaven.

By the time our Kool-Aid Jones blog gets into the minds of subscribers, his words have already become like a slow-acting poison eating away at what’s left of their own self-confidence.   Mesmerizing them, paralyzing them to stay close to him for advice, dare they look right when they might look left.   After all, he loves feeling omnipotent, loves their adulation.  For only he can solve their queries.  He triggers the very trauma bonds in their early histories from which they’ve been trying to escape.

Wait, he seems so benign our Kool-Aid Jones, is there really a need for anyone to run?


Truth

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Re-read that again.  And again.   A few times.   Until it becomes real for you.  You’re worth it.  ❤️


Mwah ha ha ha…

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I’m only going to say this once

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I could give 2 shits about the monarchy, the Royal wedding, or their offspring they may have someday.  Last time I checked, they put their pants on the same way I do, one leg at a time.   Are people going to seriously waste their time watching this crap? Someone needs to give me permission to enter the homes of people watching and just bitch slap them.

Rant over.


Mmmmm…

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Nothing better than taking a long hot shower and then getting into bed naked with soft clean sheets.

Well, almost nothing.


They came, they knocked, I kicked ass

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The Jehovah’s Witnesses have been coming to my house for awhile now.

The first time they came, there were two women all gussied up at the door and another one sitting in the car.  I thought perhaps there had been a nearby car
accident or something when they first knocked.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“This pamphlet is for you and is free.” they said as they handed me this small brochure.

I didn’t want it but it had the word GOD in
huge capital letters across the front and in
some fucked up way I felt almost a superstitious kind of guilt, that if I didn’t take it, perhaps some kind of hex may befall me.

They asked if they could come in, which I thought was really forward. I mean one chick could’ve hog-tied me and the other could have maybe made me her bitch.
I told them no, it wasn’t a good time.  An utter boldface lie as I was binge-watching Judge Judy at the time in sweat pants and a tee shirt.  They said they’d come back later.

The pamphlet had a picture on the front with Panda Bears having a picnic lunch sitting next to some Zebras, which were sitting next to some Kangaroos,  which were sitting next to a little girl, who was
sitting next to a puppy.

The whole thing was fucked up.

Panda Bears and puppy’s don’t have lunch together like that. It’s just not natural….I thought. If this. is their idea of “paradise” I’m just not down with that.

Two weeks passed.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

I see it’s them and start forming my excuse as to why I don’t want them
to come in.  They want to know if I had read their pamphlet.  Of course I hadn’t but I kept it for the same effed up weird fear that throwing it out might
invite some bad Karma my way.

They asked if they could come in, I told th once again that it was a bad time. They said they’d come back later.

Another two weeks passed.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

A sick feeling comes over me. I think of an excuse as I make my way to the door. They ask if they can come in, I told them I was busy, though clearly they can see I look like the dawn of the dead and I just rolled out of bed. They said they’d come back later.

Two more weeks pass.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
I peer through the blinds.
It’s them.
I hide.
I wait.
They eventually leave.   I can’t believe I’m hiding in my own home from these freaking people.   It’s like some crazy episode of the Twilight Zone.

1 week later…

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
my stomach drops.
“this can’t go on I think,
I have to take the bull by
the horns…
” and yet I don’t
like confrontation, I am intimidated
by these people and their
Pollyanna-esque-just-got-off the-Surrey-with-the-fringe-on top weird vibe.

I go to the door and swing it
open wildy. Before they even
have a chance to speak I blurt out in my loudest speaking voice:

“I DON’T YOU TO COME BACK ANYMORE.
DON’T KNOCK ON MY DOOR AGAIN. PLEASE
DON’T COME BACK.”                                        I shut the door just as fast.

They have not returned since.

All this time and it
was just that easy?
I could get used to this
being assertive thing.
Yes indeed.

 


50 Shades of Switch

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Back 6 years ago when I was a submissive to my Sexual Sadist Narcopath Dom, I remember standing in front of the sink one evening, washing the dishes from dinner.   All of a sudden, I felt his hands from behind around my neck squeezing so hard I couldn’t  breathe, couldn’t speak.  Instinctively, frantically, I tried my best to pry his hands off, to no avail.   My vision began to see little stars in the periphery,  twinkling.  I was terrified that I was going to suffocate in that damned kitchen.  Then without warning he simply let go.

As soon as I could catch my breath I asked, “why in the hell did you do that?!!”

He replied cooly,”to remind you who is in charge.”

I was silently horrified.

Much later that evening, we were watching television in the bedroom and he asked me to get him a drink.  I of course obliged.  Upon my return, I set the drink down and I began massaging his back.

I sat behind him and ran my fingers through his hair and tossled it about the way he loved so much.  I began massaging his traps firmly and then made my way slowly up to his neck.  I let my hands slip around his neck and I began to squeeze as hard as I possibly could, until I could hear him gasp and choke.  He in turn tried to pry my hands off.

I leaned close and whispered in his ear and said , “if you ever put your hands around my neck again like that, I will fucking end you….. do you understand?   I waited another 15 seconds or so.   Until he murmured “Yezz.” Then I let go.

You may think that’s the end of the story but of course not.  I received an ass-whooping so severe as soon as he could get a hold of me, that I couldn’t sit down for a good two days.  But I still smile as I type this because it was ever so worth it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


The Stepford Bitches

~originally published 2011~

I don’t fit in anywhere.  I never have.  I will be anything you need me to.  But none of its real.  I do whatever it takes, act however you need me to, just as long as you like might like me.  I traded authenticity for acceptance long ago and never really looked back, until now.

I’ve lived in this God-forsaken shit town for 3 years and I haven’t made one friend.  I’m not looking for your pity or sympathy either.  I’ve got my pillow to cry into and a therapist who hears me vent plenty.   I am a loner, not by choice.

I just don’t fit into this cookie-cutter community.  Apparently I don’t know the secret fucking handshake in this one horse town.  Most women here are trust fund girls who went to Yale and probably have their silver spoons embedded in their snatch to prove their purebred status.  I’m the mongrel they want to spit on, the girl of which a few of their husbands sometimes secretly steal glances when they’re not looking.  Something about me makes these women uneasy.  I’m college educated too, but I didn’t go to an Ivy-League school.  I had to get to a state university through work-study, scholarships, and financial aid.

Something about me threatens them, because they can’t even make eye contact with me when they’re away from the “pack” all by themselves.  You know, the clique of women that just like in high school, stand to the side and whisper in hushed tones as I pass by.

Most of them are approaching middle-age and have starved their way to being fit through daily yoga and pilates.  They walk around toting their children they adopted from a foreign country because they were way past menopause when they decided to start their family and it just wasn’t working out having dogs as surrogate children anymore.

They drive around in their Cadillac crossovers, donning their linen attire because God forbid they wear anything but natural fibers.   They babble about their recent trip to Prague and how they are had their color scheme in the kitchen changed from avocado to mint and it actually feels cooler.   They let their kids wear capes, tutus, and strange hats to school, even though it’s not Halloween. Because they believe in going along with the whimsical ride but the truth is they can’t set limits with these little fuckers.   They let their boys wear their hair down to their ass because ‘gender ambiguous’ is trendy now.  But next month if the trend changes they’ll cut that hair right off in a heartbeat because it’s all about appearances and nothing to do with principle and surely not about what their kid actually wants.  They name their boys shit like Rocko.  I’m sorry, but that’s like a dogs name last time I checked.

Everything in their lives is sanitary, sterile, and healthful from clothing to food.   I don’t think any of their kids have ever tasted a cupcake with red dye #4 or high fructose corn syrup.  They subsist off of “organic only” products from Whole Foods aka Whole Check that both look and taste like cardboard and they bake muffins with their own breast-milk.  But those kids won’t learn that it all tastes like ass, until they get far enough away from mommy’s helicopter apron strings.

At the last PTO meeting I attended they were all clambering who’d take home the compost pile from the Harvest garden at school.   I wanted to raise my hand and offer to take a shit in the compost bag just to see if anyone would notice I said anything.

When I walk by they act as if I do not exist, like I am a non-entity.  In those moments, it makes me fantasize about being on my knees and sucking off one their husbands, purely out of spite.   I wouldn’t.  I have morals and besides their husbands equally creep me out.

Yet, I am still on the outside looking in.   Filled with a palpable sadness. A long-standing dolefulness that spans years.  The kind of penetrating sorrow which makes one turn a collar to that cold and damp, almost as if to shield oneself from its grip.

It’s like I’m seven years old again on the play-ground and some jerk kid won’t pick me for the team because I don’t have the “right” clothes.    It’s the same bullshit, just that those kids grew up and became adults.  Now they’re still the same pretentious elitist assholes just older.  Same as it ever was.  And I still don’t have the teflon I need in life to let it all roll off.

Newsflash bitches, money isn’t everything, if you lack basic social graces, respect for others, and genuine kindness you have nothing.    These rudimentary  lessons should’ve been mastered back in grammar school.


Ass slave

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I left the fetish/kink lifestyle behind 6 years years ago.  I returned back to the nilla world.  All I have are remnants from it.  Photos on a thumb drive tucked away in a wool pair of striped socks way at the back of my sock drawer.   And my “collar” I used to wear huh, collar.  It was a Tiffany choker with my ex-Narcs name engraved on it, “N’s girl”.   Because after all, I was his property, but back then I didn’t understand that. I thought it was like a legit relationship.  I mean, it felt real.

There are pro’s to the vanilla life.  Things are predictable.   Ho-hum.   Little to no fear.  No drama.  What you see is what you get.  You can expect lots of missionary sex, giving blow jobs, and watching Netflix and Sunday football.  Not so bad at all.

I read quite a few blogs here on WP with people who are still in the lifestyle.  Nostalgia I suppose.   Maybe I’ll have to ask Lee why I read them, maybe not.   Some days my mind wanders.  I re-visit things I did.   Sexual positions I was placed in.   The sheer education I underwent.  Scenes we did.  Anal sex, hot damn.  Double penetrations. The twisted porn we watched.  The amazing orgasms I had, one after the other.   I never knew multiple organs really existed until I met the Narcissist/Sociopath.   Once he learned I could have more than one, it became a numbers game for him to see how many he could get out of me.  How many were possible.  There were times thet I felt so much pleasure as I came, I actually cried because I couldn’t bear it.   Unless you’ve been there, this will make little sense.

When I was a child and I would get bored and restless, I’d think about running away and living in my Barbie camper in the Midwest growing marijuana crops and growing some for distribution and then just smoking by the campfire and eating s’mores.

Times have changed.  Now when things are boring I end up thinking about joining a nudist colony for the summer.  Or maybe becoming part of a leather family.   I imagine I could be Master (fill-in-Dom-sounding-name’s) ass slave.   Then again, I’ve have always had a hard time sharing.  I’d have to be a subordinate to the first slave, some bitch with some new-age name like Zena.  That wouldn’t work, she’d try to pull rank with me and with my temper and it would just be so on.

Ass slave, has a nice ring to it.

 


Clowns scare me

The elephants smell bad.  The food makes me sick.  The port-o- potties always lean like the tower of Pisa and I fear they are going to tip and fall whilst I am inside them.

I always end up sitting on that unknown “something sticky” on those bench seats.

Isn’t  it ironic though, that lately my life feels like it’s become a three-ring circus.

I’ve got this recovery thing going on in the main ring.  Which includes my shrink , Lee and my BFF, Tiffany.

In ring number two is the old Gypsy woman Maleva, from 1941 film The Wolf Man , who seems to whisper for me to grab her pentagram necklace for protection because a Narcissist, “the wolf” is always an imminent threat.  As she yammers her famous line,

“even a man who is pure at heart and says his prayers at night, can become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the Autumn moon is  bright.” 

Stupid gypsy,  I went on a chat forum where garlic and charms can’t be seen and he bit me, and what’s more, part of me is liking his bite.

Then in a third ring there’s me trying to balance it all 10,000 feet up on a high-wire  without any safety net below.   Half of me teeters left, intoxicated by the wolf’s advances, the other half teeters right, recoiling as if to touching a hot pan on a stove.

BUT EVERYTHING IS WRONG.

Tiffany knows everything about me, we stay on the phone for hours during the week sharing our journey  together.   Lee knows little.  I fear no judgment from Tiff.  She’s made the same mistakes I have.   Lee, there is a formality.  I have never seen her teeter, much less free-fall.  How can she help me? How can she teach me?

I think my trust issues with people are deeper than I thought.  I can even trust my own damn shrink.  Now that’s some kind of special right there.

This is scaring me, what is going on inside me….Lee pokes around too much with asking me what I’m feeling about this, or that, or the other thing.  WTF? I feel like I’m being interrogated at times.  “How did you feel when you showed  me the photo of the gun up your snatch?”    I’m like .... “I didn’t feel anything.”  Was I supposed to feel something about it?    I don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling, am I supposed to have specific  feelings? Oh shit ! Well I’m not.  Now I’m getting anxious that I’m not having feelings about something that I’m probably supposed be having feelings about.

When I let people into my real world, if I feel they get too close to me, I tend to run.  Run from safety.  I tend to sabotage things.  Sometimes unconsciously, sometimes knowingly.   I believe my shrink may be able to help me.  At other more times, I feel she can’t do squat to help me.  Right now I just want to be done with therapy.  I feel like it’s a dead end.  I feel it’s useless.  Other than sharing anecdotes and trying to make Lee laugh, I feel like I’m not working towards any thing.

At least with my ex-Narc, each week I was working on lessons.  How to give head, how to deep throat, how to rim, how to take the cane, the whip, the paddle et cetera.  There was progress but I digress..

I don’t know what’s going on with me right now.  So I have returned to what is familiar.  Those old circus clowns.  They scare me, sure they can hurt me.  But they are a swamp I know well.  I know every inch of that mother fucking swamp.   But it’s a familiar swamp.   I know how it reacts, and how to react to it.  The type of pain that lays beneath its murky waters.


I’m Living in the Upside Down

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Somehow with all my best laid defenses and a psych degree in hand,  another narcissist was able to work his magic and pique my clinical interest, to engage me in conversation.

It all began 2 years ago when I was on an online support webpage at the bottom of a deep dark depression hoping to crawl out.

Narcissist Personality Disorder is of great clinical interest to me as is other Cluster B personality disorders.

So it all started out rather benign-ish. Said Narc finds me online and poses as a woman to befriend me.  Why I was targeted I will never know.  He explains that he was using a business account, hence the woman profile, which never held any water.  This narc can’t think quickly on his feet.   I ask why he was really on the support page.  He said his wife was trying to kill him and he was there to receive support for her abuse…. more bullshit.  Eventually I call him out on all of it, realizing I have a narc on my hands.   He said he wanted my help.  If it was true, which I had serious doubts,  I was happy to oblige.   If the truth was any stranger it would be fiction.

It didn’t take long for his true intentions to be revealed.  That he wanted to talk dirty, gloating that he can get any woman to swoon.  But I told him with my recent separation and depression,  I was the bell jar.  I wasn’t going to swoon over anything but a funeral pyre.

Over time he wants me to know two very important things about him:   He has a big cock and a big wallet.

Online you can be anyone you want to be.   He could be living in his parents basement with his pet iguana making women squeal for all I know while momma is upstairs cookin’ up some bacon.   STRANGER THINGS have happened.

The difference is that I know he was a narcissist and I did from day one.   I’m a tertiary supply for him.  He comes around when his primary and secondary sources are scant.   Odd hours.   Odd texts which go nowhere.    A strange meme here, an odd web link there.    The whole thing is odd.   It finally dawned on me that’s it.   It’s a dead end.  It’s a mind fuck.  He always leads the conversations back to him and his magnificent cock.  Which by the way I’ve never seen (nor do I want to) just saying.  Right now it’s pure folklore that his cock is the Sasquatch of schlong’s.

I wonder why the hell I keep replying to this fool.  He ghosts me for weeks or months at a time then he flits in like a moth lighting for a moment under my lamp, to say that if I was in his presence I wouldn’t be able to resist him.

Oh joy,  oh rapture, unforeseen.

I had let him know my mom had died. It’s always a bad idea to disclose any personal information.   I was so depressed for the month and a half afterwards that I couldn’t function at all.  I hadn’t responded to anyone’s text messages save for my sister, for a few weeks.   This obviously had upset him, as he texted, “how is you Mom doing ?”

He’s so cold.   Interacting with him is making my self-esteem worse, my depression worse.   I told him recently that I had suicidal thoughts of jumping off a bridge.  Haven’t had anything like this I’m years.   I am beginning to believe he wants me dead.

I always end up feel so degraded.   I have no one to blame but myself.    I went in to this eyes wide open.  I just can’t understand why I’ve let this shit happen.  He uses me like an emotional piece of toilet paper to wipe his ass, save for the fact he has no emotions.   Sometimes you can’t see the forest for the trees.   Usually I have a fair amount of insight, but I cannot seem to figure out why I’m in this mess.

Please, anyone want to take a crack???

 

 

 


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