Category Archives: Memoir

Irish Spring

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The first person I ever fell in love with was an Irish man who I had known from my childhood.  My mother taught catechism through our local parish, Saint Mary’s.   But it wasn’t an ordinary catechism class.  It was a special education catechism class.  It was born out of a position that my mom was in because the local parish had kicked my step-brother out for unruly and disruptive behavior.  So my mom offered to take in other such children into our home to teach them about Christ so they could all receive the sacraments.  This was the same evil step-brother who was molesting me. Of course no one knew of his profane acts nor would they for years to come.

Cathechism was held in our living room which is where that I first caught sight of Irish Spring. He was a tall gangly boy with curly locks of sandy colored hair and bright blue eyes.  He was painfully shy and rarely made eye contact.  All I knew about him is that his father had died that year and his mother was mentally ill and could not take care of him and his older brothers.   I would peer out of the kitchen, adjacent to the living room, and spy on the ongoings.  I would try and steal a furtive glance of him and my mother would snap at me to go back to my bedroom.  Before I would retreat though, I would see him look up at me, our eyes met briefly and I was convinced that like some feral animal, I had gained his trust.  There was something about those distant eyes of his that drew me to him but I wasn’t sure what.

20 years passed.    I was working at an inpatient psychiatric hospital for children and adolescents.   It was a 24 bed, locked facility for kids ages 5 to 18 who needed acute care.  The hospital was divided into two units: a pediatric unit, where the children were ages 5 to 12 and the adolescent unit where the age range were from 13 to 18.  Their problems ranged from suicidality, homicidality, psychosis,  medication adjustments, but more commonly garden variety aggressive and oppositional defiant behavior.

One summer night on my 15 minute break, I descended the staircase and went outside the building.   I lit up one of my Marlboro Lights, exhaled and was greeted by a Department of Mental Health Security employee whose ID badge read “Irish.”  He was doing his rounds.  He had curly sandy brown hair, a ruddy complexion and bright blue eyes.  He towered over me at 6 foot two.    On a lark, I decided to ask him if he was from my hometown of  Purgatory,  Massachusetts.   He said that indeed he was.    I went on to inform him that I once knew an Irish ‘Spring’ from that town and that my mother taught catechism in my home as a child and I wondered if he was the same Irish Spring.     Of course he asked for my last name and when I said it he said,” oh my gosh! yes I did go to your home.  For goodness sake‘s what a small world. “   We went on to chit chat some more.  He asked me how my mother was doing and my father as well and told me that my father was his confirmation sponsor because his own father had passed away.  I pretended not to have known and just said, “I’m so sorry.”   He shrugged and answered, “Thank you, that was a long time ago now.”

In that moment my heart began to race 1000 beats a minute.  He was the boy that I had set eyes on many times from my childhood living room standing in front of me.  I was so excited! I asked if he remembered me and he said he did not.

No matter, each shift that I went into work I always looked for him on my way up the stairs  and if he was sitting at that front desk I always said, “hello Irish,”   To which he would reply, “good evening Miss.”

I was always secretly hoping he’d be at that front desk when I came to work.  Just as in my childhood home there was something about him that drew me to him.  Now that something had a name, Extremely attracted.

 

 


D-Day revisited

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I’ve been thinking back in time to my own D-Day, with my ex.   It was April  2010, close to my birthday.   After all my suspicions about him having an affair, I finally got my answer that night while he slept.  I was going through his computer, it was a simple photograph I had found, but what it represented would blow the lid off his life of duplicity and expose his secret life of sex addiction which began as an adolescent and had spanned decades.

Although I had no concrete proof to that point that he was having an affair, there were signs:

1. Porn – shit tons of it 

He always had loved porn, and encouraged, wait no, forced me to watch it with him. Told me that it would “spice up our sex life” and that if I didn’t said I was being a “wet rag” and “puritanical.”  If I would not watch it he would send me home.   We were only living with each other part-time then, between states, so to be sent home by your Dominant in the world of D/s was crushing.  To me, when he introduced porn, I was already in love with him.  When you are madly in love with a person, you don’t always stand on lofty principle.

To the people who are reading this that  want to say, “you should have just walked out the door”, don’t go there. I will tell you this:  when you are molested and raped as a child, it teaches you several things: that you have no boundaries,  no self-respect, no self-esteem, and no “No.”. Only a healthy person would walk out the door; and that is the important thing to note.

So against my straight-laced self’s judgment,  I began the process of my own journey delving into porn.   I discovered there were different kinds of it.  Soft porn which is the sort of porn that involves most heterosexual couples banging each other missionary style.  Then there is fetish porn.  It encompasses all kinds of things.   Pregnant porn, foot worship, Shibari, needle play, water sports.   He watched lots of BDSM porn:, girls getting beaten up and by their Masters with bondage, whipping, caning, flogging, St. John’s Cross. Chicks getting raped by hooded dudes, some of the more violent porn.  KKK vintage stuff beating up their girls, weird stuff.  Incestual films.  Beastiality.  As well as snuff films.

I saw things folks, that cannot be unseen.

2.  Lots of accounts on various sex sites

I also discovered on his computer about 20  sex sites to which he had active memberships.  When I inquired as to why this was, his answer was that he just never got around to deleting the accounts. When I asked when he would get rid of them of course it was “when I get to it, don’t henpeck.”

3.  Late night phone calls made in the bathroom while I slept

I would wake up to find him sitting on the toilet with his phone in hand and I’d ask him, “what are you doing?”  He’d snap  back at me, “is it OK if I check my voicemail? I have a doctors appointment tomorrow and I just wanted to check the time of my appointment, is that all right with you?.”   To which  I’d say ,”it’s 3:13 AM that’s all,  most people don’t take their phone in the bathroom at 3:13 in the morning.”  To which he’d quip,” I didn’t want to miss it.

He always had an answer for everything, It amazes me how quick he was on his feet. He never missed a beat in coming up with a response. Which is why at the time I wasn’t too accusatory or suspicious  because I know if I was lying, I’d be stumbling and bumbling over my words.  His heartbeat never went over 60 bpm and he look square in my eyes to tell me whatever it was he had to say. He couldn’t possibly be lying and keep a straight face,  right?

4.  The inconsistencies

There were inconsistencies that I would find.   For example he told me one time that he had a throbbing headache and that he was going to lie down that he had been snow-blowing for several hours and that he just need to take a break.  I got this feeling told me that something was off I just didn’t believe his story.  I took the half hour drive down I snuck around the corner of his house to check the snowblower and it was dead cold.   It should’ve been piping hot after four hours of snowblowing and yet it wasn’t.   There were these types of inconsistencies showing up everywhere a lot of the time.

Back to that photo.  He loved keeping pornographic photos of women on his pc.  He said he just loved the female naked body.   Of course in the beginning of our relationship I had felt insecure and even threatened by these images.  Why did he need to look at them? Why wasn’t I enough? He plainly stated it just was the way he was and it was how he’d always been.  He  reassured me that I was beautiful and not to worry about those photographs they were just a two-dimensional image.

On D-Day, the photo I found had never been there on the pc the week before.   I confronted him.  It was a photo of his hand with his Rolex watch, touching some woman’s snatch.   He explained without emotions, that the photo was from years ago.

So I told him then he should have no problem right clicking on said photo and showing me the time stamp that it was indeed from years ago.   He got angry saying that I was being controlling.  I said, “No you’re caught.”  When I insisted he show me , he told me,” get your things and get out, it’s over.”

I began to cry realizing I was right. I didn’t want to be right.   I began to beg him to tell me what happened. Saying I had been so good to him that I deserved answers.   He grew quiet.   Then he softly answered.”you really want to know?”

Yes, I sniffed.

“I went to a gang bang the first summer we were  together but I didn’t participate.  I only went.   I only touched her with a latex glove on my hand.  I was so nervous that I couldn’t even get an erection.”  Like it was somehow less bad that he went and only watched a woman get porked by 10 men on a table in some dark basement but he only took photos and only touched her with a sterile glove? WTF?!!!

I knew he was lying but I asked, “had you ever gone to a gang bang before?

“Yes,” He said ,”but that was before I knew you.  I felt really guilty this time because I was with you.  I thought because I was with you that I wouldn’t do things like this anymore.  But I swear all I did was touch her with a rubber glove.”

I lost it and flipped out and started screaming at him because I knew I was being lied to. I knew all the 13 Bacterial Vaginosis infections I had gotten with him, that I never had my whole life,  had to come from some place.

He asked me to leave.  To continue to pack my things and leave or he would call the police.  So I did.   I called my AA sponsor who came to help me with the boxes.  I left.

Three weeks later he called me.  He wanted to confess more.   That it was a lot more than a gang bang.  Craigslist hookups, swinging, women from AA, women from CVS, prostitutes from the red light district, hookups he got from fuck sites, old girlfriends he never disconnected with, friends with benefits. He even blew a couple of men. WTF? he the devout homophobe was actually bisexual?      I needed to catch by breath.  Oh, he added there was also one time that he paid money to go and watch a woman get fucked by a horse but that was cancelled at the last minute.  Was there anything he hadn’t fucking done?

I was numb.  I think I went into shock except I knew I needed to get to an OB/GYN.  And fast.  There were bits of flora and maybe fauna there were up in my muff that didn’t belong.  No wonder I was getting infections!!!Holy jumped up fear HIV running through my mind at rapid speed.

And yet,  part of me desperately loved him.  Strange to those who have not been through it.  Your brain goes through distinct phases of grief.  Shock is the first.  I could not wrap my head around that any of this was real.  It could not be.  Because I loved him.  I who graduated with honors from college could not have missed shit?!

Cognitive dissonance.  Trying to merge the intellectual part of what you know with the emotional part of you can’t yet grasp.  They are on a seemingly parallel course.

You are not ready for that degree of pain so your mind protects you in its own way.

I did what I thought to be a right course of action.  Like any good empath, caretaker, and codependent  I researched and then signed him up for the local chapter of Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous or SLAA.  He was already in Alcoholics Anonymous AA (as was I) and had 20 years of sobriety. I figured how hard could it be? just plug in the word sex where booze should be and he’ll be all set.

He got a sponsor.   I jumped into S-Anon, the spouses version of the SLAA program, to understand his addiction and help stop my codependency.  I also went to a few SLAA open speaker meetings to hear some first hand accounts of recovery. Never in my wildest imagination did I expect to hear some grandpa talking about how he molested one of his grandchildren and felt really guilty about it.   Hells bells! I had expected to hear just straightforward stories of spouses  cheating on each other?  not some registered sex offender.  It kind of turned my stomach to be honest and yet I felt bad for the guy as he was driven to act out  compulsively but desperately wanted to stop.   Then there was the woman who is having emotional affairs on line behind her husband back. A man who is crying in tears because he couldn’t stop cheating on his wife and didn’t really know why he was doing it because he really loved his wife.   The last man story I heard was a gay man who was having all sorts of sex with all sorts of people.   Ob his lunch break, after work, before work, rest stops. I’m not really sure if he wanted to stop quite yet or what but he recognized that he had a problem.

So he finally got a sponsor in SLAA after going to a few meetings.    So did I.  He got the books, so did I.   But on the way to one of his SLAA meetings one night, he never made it.  He had lied and said he was at a meeting but he was really in a hotel banging someone from who knows where.

It broke something deep in me that has never repaired, thus far.

He later told me he began masturbating at age 13 in between classes in junior high.  He’d go into the bathroom stall and jerk off.   He’d continue this behavior on into high school.  He began sleeping with a married woman who was in her 20’s when he was only 17.   As he got older his sexual behaviors changed more.  As his alcoholism deepened so did his depravity. He laughed and told me that he asked one woman he dated to put a lightbulb inside her honey pot, still attached to the lamp and then turned it on.  He said it lit up her whole tummy.   I asked him why he did that and he said, “to see what it would look like.” I told him I was pretty sure if it broke she could’ve gotten electrocuted and he laughed saying,” well it didn’t break.”

He would go to bars and bring intoxicated women back to his apartment and fuck them after they passed out.   He told me “they got what they deserved.” Then he would steal their panties and they would wake up the next morning wondering where their panties went and he would say to them , “I have no idea I don’t think you had any on.”   Then he would laugh to me and say, “stupid cunts.”   He said by the time he got married he had a huge stash of panties that he kept hidden behind his wife’s dresser.   To this day I believe it was a form of trophies that he was acquiring to relive each of those women and each of those nights.

He was of course not only a sex addict but also a sexual sadist.

I spent a solid year in S-ANON meetings working on no contact with him, learning from the experience , strength,  and hope from others, so that I wouldn’t get sucked back in, should he ever come to hustle me back when he found himself with a hard dick and a thin pool of options.   I chaired meetings, made outreach calls, and shared my story.   I never thought I would hear from him again.  They all told me that I would and that if I didn’t work on myself I’d go right back.  Sex and love are potent ties that can bind.

He came knocking unexpectedly on Valentines Day one year and a half later.   I opened my door and found him standing there with a box of chocolates in hand.   I let him in.   He tried to make a few moves on me but because of all the hard work I did I showed him to the door. His jaw dropped.  I was not the same woman he had left a year and a half before.

Valentine’s Day for those of you who don’t know are days that sex addicts come knocking on their exes doors; as well as other holidays like Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, etc  because they can’t find anyone to screw.  Not.. because they miss anyone  as I was later to find out in the meetings attended.   Those holidays are days that sex addicts can’t find anyone to screw because all of their potential  partners are home with their spouses and cannot  “play.”

It is been eight years since my D-Day.  He continues to contact me sporadically.  I will save that for another post.   His last words when we broke up were, “even if you’re with someone else, I will always own you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

For more reading about this period of my life start here:

Of Mice and Monsters

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Of interest, Alcoholism has a success rate of only 8-12% with AA being the most successful program to treat the disease.  It goes without saying that the other some odd 90% spend their time is in and out of rehabs, actively drinking, incarcerated, or die to the Disease or disease related complications

It has been said that sex addiction is more difficult to treat because involves a biological process as a part of the addiction.   95% of  sex addicts will relapse.  Relapse is a part of recovery as with any addiction.  The statistics for long-term recovery are difficult to find but are said to be lower than 8-12% as with alcohol and drug addicts.


Yer Fired!

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A few years ago I had a horrible experience with a therapist I had been working with for 2 years.    It created such a breach of trust which still impacts me to this day in my current psychotherapy and work I’m trying to do with my therapist, Lee.  Learning to trust again after it has been broken by so many is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do.

There was nothing fun about sitting with my shrink and have her stare at me while I tried to cough up my feelings that were too painful and shameful to utter aloud.  So instead I put on a good persona and artfully tried to dodge the elephant sitting on my heart that I wished I had the balls to say, but I was way too much of a pussy.  I knew if I did I would risk looking like an asshole.  I had learned early on to hide vulnerable feelings so the hungry ones wouldn’t devour me.

It took me weeks to get to the point of even mustering “it” up.  The emotions carried that much shame for me to say.

It took me awhile to get the courage up to spit out what I was hemming and hawing about saying for that 40 minute session.

The thing I said well, it made me feel weak, embarrassed, vulnerable, powerless.   All feelings I HATE.  All feelings I don’t have skills to tolerate very well.

But I did finally spit it out, because I wanted to get healthier and I thought that puking up what’s hard to do, would get me there.  I needed to tell the shrink that there is a fractured part of me; a splintered, inner-child like piece to me, who I can sense at times, is stuck chronologically at the age a lot of my child  abuse occurred.  The embarrassment for me, was that this child-like part of me seemed really attached to the therapist.  Who was younger than me.

I breathed in quickly after saying all this to her as it took all the courage to muster to say.  So I braced and waited, hopeful for a good outcome.

*****

I was totally  blindsided by her response.

The therapist began laughing out loud saying, “you don’t really feel that way, do you?”

Then I felt my face burn beat red, humiliated on top of the existing shame.  Mother fucker.   I wanted to bolt out the room and never come back. But instead I found my legs wouldn’t move, frozen like a deer in headlights.

I “present so well” and hide my emotions, I’ve been it doing for so long.  I had created a seamless veneer simultaneously as the abuse was happening in childhood.  To protect me so that no one could “see”  how ugly I was.   Some primitive defense mechanism to be sure.

The therapist was oblivious to my dual nature despite a factual understanding of the complex trauma and rather largish case file containing my trauma history.  She denied my inner fragility and vulnerability at the expense of making a chiding remark , and was unmoved by what I had shared.  She began booking next weeks appointment.

*****

Sitting there in that chair in her office feeling ashamed, my brain flooded with similar events from my past, I had try to  bury long ago.

Especially the young, impish, fractured, splintered off part of myself I thought I could seal behind a wall and bury alive.

But that girl’s muffled voice broke through from behind the bricks that day  choking back her pitiful fucking tears.

*****

There she was again, from behind the woman veneer.   Stirring somewhere from latent consciousness.  Crystallized and I’m still paralyzed.

I seem to walk through life, reflexively, a continuous loop of internal thought patterns,  “I am bad. unlikable,  unwanted,  unacceptable….. I am un-lovable.”

*****

When I told my shrink how I felt about her, she scoffed that I must be wrong.  It stung.   Walls went up.

Usually, I reject me before anyone else can hurt me.    Well, I fucked up.

******

I am ashamed….of me.  Ashamed there is a child in me so needy and desperate for love.

I am realizing that shame is a bigger part of my emotional make-up than I ever knew. It’s inescapable presence envelops me like a blanket.

If I don’t deal with “it”,  I will continue to live in misery.  How can I deal with it if I’m not even being believed.  That Mickey Mouse post-secondary degree douchebag clinician that attended a cut-rate graduate school whose clinical skills were on par with a third grader, doesn’t know shit-from-shinola about incest,  complex trauma, or the presentation of dissociation! She fucked me over!

Before that session I might have passed for an average girl, walking with a seeming look of purpose, unfettered by any stress. And in some ways, I guess that would have been true.

I left however, restricting my gaze downward to the cobblestone street, tears staining my cheeks, reflecting the ugliness I still hold inside.  Ugliness from which I haven’t been yet able to wriggle free.

I later called her and told her that laughing at me and not believing me at a most vulnerable moment was too shaming and unacceptable.  That I was done, I won’t be coming back, that she, she was fired.

*****

BDSM and bondage isn’t about rope and and submission for me any more, for I’m out of the lifestyle.

The riskiest scenes take place on the inside, with the chains that bind my very soul.

 

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All the Cool Kids See a Shrink

I started seeing a shrink when I was ten.  I thought it was pretty cool to go to the Hostess outlet store on the way to the Psychiatrist’s office but that’s where the cool  ended.   I never knew there were huge stores where they sold just treats.  Hostess, if you don’t know, are the manufacturers of Twinkies.  The best tasting or nastiest American treat depending on who you are.  I think I heard once that a Twinkie has a shelf-life of 10 years.  That, however could be pure folklore.

9DF7A98F-7DFC-4FF1-86C8-12A94695A3AC.jpegMy mom used to pick me up from grammar school and take me to the Psychiatrist’s office.  Dr. Mary Bain.  She was an elderly woman, maybe late 60’s early 70’s.  She was a short, soft-spoken slight woman.  She was always well-dressed.  Her hair was short, curly,  and neatly groomed.  She had an easy manner about her.   Her office was well appointed.  Multiple degrees hung behind her desk, bookshelves lined the wall, filled with thick books for which some titles my child’s mind couldn’t yet pronounce .  An expensive mahogany desk separated us during sessions.  She had a fair amount of stuffed animals in the office placed about.  A few lamps gave a more home-like ambiance.

I had stopped eating solid food and medical doctors determined that there was no physiological explanation for my constant nausea and lack of appetite.   I believe now, that I was in such an extreme anxiety state, my stomach was literally in knots.  I had already lost so much weight that it was deemed extremely urgent an etiology be found.

I used to dread seeing my mom’s face showing up in my classroom window alerting me that it was time to get dismissed.  I felt ashamed somehow, of her, and of having to leave.  I just wanted to blend in with everyone else.  I already felt like people may be able to “see” my unworthy-ness so this just added to that.  I clearly remember asking her to just have me dismissed from the front office.  No more “pop-ins” at my class.

I have vague recollections of sitting Dr. Bain’s office waiting area.  Every other person waiting in queue was a grown-up.  They played old people’s music.  One song I recall that is seared in my brain was:

I remember sitting down on the carpet playing with an old broken set of Lincoln Logs.  Let’s be real, no doctors office ever has any set of toys that work.  Just as I would be about to put a foundation together in some fort that I was building, she would call me in.

I don’t remember much of what happened in those sessions, except that it was really boring and she asked a lot me of questions.  She had me do a lot of creative writing assignments at home.  I remember her giving me a lot of positive feedback about my writing when I returned the stories back to her, even though they were darker in nature.  For example,  one story I wrote was about a child trapped in a castle with a vampire.  She said that I had some talent for creative writing.  Whether a lie or true, she held my fragile self-esteem, as one patch on a grand quilt.

My self-esteem had benefited from therapy with Dr. Bain but she was unable to find the cause for the anorexia.  Because I had lost so much weight from not eating, my pediatrician told my parents that if I continued to not eat, he would need to put in a g-tube into my stomach.   My parents informed me of this and I was terrified. I didn’t want that.   My mom begged me to eat anything, to please just try, so that would be avoided.

I ended up going to McDonalds.  I hadn’t eaten solid food in so long, that it hurt my esophagus as one French fry went down.  It had a scratchy feeling and I hated it.  I kept thinking about the tube, so I ate another one.  No exaggeration, it took me probably a half hour to eat maybe 15 fries. But it was a start.

It took 10 more years before the real reason why I couldn’t eat came to light, the incest.  By then, the damage had been done.

If you or someone you know has a child whose eating patterns suddenly change, don’t be afraid to start a dialogue with the adult in their life.   If you are the parent of a child, start a conversation, ask questions, it may save them years of pain.  No one ever asked the me right questions. Even my brilliant well-intended Psychiatrist missed it.

For the record, I like Neil Sedaka.


Thelma and Louise

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I had just turned 18 and my dad had bought me my first car.  It was a 77′ Pontiac Ventura.  Imagine the body of the Chevy Nova and add a vinyl roof.  Muscle Car.   This thing had an 8 cylinder engine that screamed, “put the pedal to the metal.” It sucked the hell out of gas but I didn’t care because it was all mine.  It had a gold body, an off-white roof, and some Eagle ST high performance tires that were screaming to hit the freeway.  I couldn’t wait to drive it.

The car was well-kept because it was a southern car which makes sense because my dad was a southern man.  He was retired USMC and a retired Arkansas State Police officer.   My parents had met in San Fransisco following the Vietnam.War.  He was stationed there doing Honor Guard.  They met in an Episcopal church basement social, at a “mixer”, I think that’s what the folks called dances back in the day.  He was wearing his dress blues, she wore a pretty dress and was looking all doe-eyed.  She was from Boston but had bought a one-way ticket to California to escape an oppressive and strict upbringing.  Within a day my mom cold called the First National Bank of San Francisco and had herself a job as a teller and also managed to get herself a “flat” with a roommate.  Not to shabby for nineteen.

After my mom and dad married they settled in the deep south in his home state and eventually had me.  My parent’s marriage didn’t last but a few years due to my father’s alcoholism, PTSD from the war, and an extra–marital affair.   My mom moved back east with me, which by the way is where I was trying to drive this awesome muscle car of the 70’s following my visit.  My mom flew out to Arkansas to help me drive it back to New England.

My dad knew his way around a gun and was so damned good with a weapon he was asked to be on the Marine’s elite rifle squad.  Which is why I suppose he felt the need to give me and my mom a .22 handgun “for protection” on the way home.   He showed me how to load it and unload it.  Fire it a few times.  This was such a small ass pistol, a baby could practically shoot it.   So we tucked it into the glovebox of the car.

My dad says,” now ya’ll are going to need to get this car home but it ain’t registered. So I”m gonna put these here Veteran plates on the back of the car so you don’t get pulled over.” He continued, “now it’s not insured obviously so don’t go speeding or nothin’ and there aint no insurance on it neither, so just drive careful.”

It was the middle of the summer and it was 100 degrees in the shade.  It was hot as hell.  It was the sort of weather that as soon as one would take a shower and dry off, there is the need to re-shower again because the sweat would just pour down.   This region of the country, people just go from air-conditioner to air-conditioner.   Only at night does it cool to about 85 degrees or so and even then, it’s still humid, sticky, and oppressive.   I’m not sure if it crossed my mother’s mind then but it sure crosses my mind now about the situation we were in transporting that vehicle:

  1. We were driving a car with illegal veteran plates attached
  2. The car was neither registered nor insured
  3. There was an unregistered 22 caliber handgun in the glovebox
  4. There was also an expired inspection sticker in on the vehicle

In hindsight, I’m fairly certain that we were committing a felony offense carrying a concealed, unregistered weapon over several state lines as well as several misdemeanors; which would have got us several years in jail each, had we got pulled over.   Then again, I doubt that I would have done anything any differently than I did then knowing what I know now.  I still have a set of plates (from an un-named state) that I keep around “just in case” I might need to go on the lam.

There’s always is a little rebel in each of us?  *smiles*

 


Mwah ha ha ha!

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I used to get so drunk/high listening to this song!!

 

 

 


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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


What in the tarnation?

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The main entrance hallway to my flat smells like someone crouched down and copped a squat.   This pungent stench has permeated my nostrils for two weeks now.

I’ve racked my brain for ideas with how this could have come to pass.  There are no animals in the building, yet it smells like a zoo.

I’ve got three possibilities:

The first floor tenants could have gone too far with their fights and one could have murdered the other.  They speak a foreign language so who knows what they are screaming at each other or throwing about down below.  It sounded like a WWF match down there some nights.  The smell could be the early stages of decomposition.

The nearby migrant workers could have  somehow gained access to the entryway and did use it as a port-o-potty. You never know.

Some University of Massachusetts students had a party that got wild and some drunk kid did shit in the hall one weekend I was away. Now it’s embedded deep into the carpet fiber.

I am reluctant to call maintenance.  What am I supposed to say? There is a phantom shit smell wafting in the hallway? Then why isn’t anyone else saying anything? Have they all gone nose blind?

There is not enough clean linen Febreeze in the world I can spray to rid this.  I am resigned to just try and deal my own way.

Oh, it’s so on shit smell.  I’m bringing in the big guns tomorrow.  I’m buying a plethora of stick-ups. There going to be hidden everywhere…..


Of Mice and Monsters VIII

The relationship had degraded so much and yet I did not know to extricate from it. Fear was a large factor keeping me in it, but also as hard as it is to understand for those who have never been involved with a pathological, I still had a faint hope that he would somehow return to the man I had initially met. The nice, sweet, charming, caring person who was attentive to me and hung on my every word. However, that man whom I fell in love with had fallen away. He was replaced with an empty, selfish, highly sadistic man who ignored my boundaries, was prone to give me silent treatments on a whim for reasons I was told to “figure out.” Every once in awhile that old nice version of him would return leading me to believe it was me that was the problem.  This “intermittent reinforcement” I would later find out, was done deliberately to keep me hooked in the relationship.  At times he even said to me that if I could just stop the (insert bad perceived behavior by him) or begin (insert a desired behavior which he had yet to see from me) than perhaps things could be the way they once were between us. Deep down though, I had a gut feeling he never had any intention of making good with the follow through.

Giving false hope is the devil’s work.

At some point I believe I had chalked up 12 bacterial vaginosis infections in the course of 5 years with him. Prior to knowing him I had never even had one my entire life. My gynecologist said they were sexually indicated but they could be acquired by other means such as swimming in ponds, douching, using tampons and not changing them often enough. Yet none of those applied to me. She made it clear it was not something one could get from a toilet seat. How did I get these infections? I couldn’t help thinking he must be having an affair.  My heart was sad thinking why wasn’t I ever good enough?

There were the middle of the night wake-ups where I’d find him gone out of bed. Only to find him using his phone in the bathroom sitting on the toilet seat checking his voicemail because he couldn’t sleep or so he said.  When questioned about it he would always deflect the question and blame me with an accusatory tone,” how dare you try and control what I do when I am having trouble sleeping!!!” Or that he was booking a doctors appointment. WTF? Are you kidding me.  You are booking a well visit with your primary care physician at 3:30 am?

There were lies.

That he was snow blowing for hours during the winter and couldn’t answer the phone , yet when I arrived I touched the snowblower and the entire machine was totally cold.  He never knew I did this.

Lies about going to his regular AA meeting but when I’d ask what the topic was, who chaired the meeting, or who the speaker was, he said he couldn’t remember. Anyone who is in recovery knows this is total BS unless you are drunk going to the meeting.   He was 26 years sober.

There were so many lies, so many inconsistencies, so many scary things that I had been fervently praying. Begging God to please remove him from my life. To please keep me safe and release me from this man. Day and night I prayed. Because for reasons unknown to me at the time, I could not seem to muster leaving him of my own free will.  Each time that I tried my heart would be overcome with a  sorrow so deep and painful, that I would do anything to avoid that level and degree of pain; including not leaving him.

Then my prayers were answered.

I was on his computer and had noticed a photo that hadn’t been there the week prior.  It was a photo of a naked woman lying on a table, with him wearing a green shirt on with his hand outstretched touching her genitals.

I asked him about it.  He claimed it was from years ago.   I knew it was a lie.   So I said, “All photos have time-stamps, right click on the image and show me it was years ago.”

He replied, “You don’t control me I’m not going to do that.”

I said,” this has nothing to do with control, if you can prove that this was done years ago just go ahead and right click on it and prove me that I’m wrong.”

He said, “get out.”

“Excuse me?”

Get your all your things together and get out , we are done, it’s over Lexi.

I told him, “I’ll be happy to get out if you want to be done , but just the same I want you to show me that the photo was from years ago, prove that I am wrong.”

“Just get out.”

My lip began to quiver and tears began to fall down my face as I begged him,”Please tell me the truth about that photo, I’ve been good this you for 5 years,  I loved you and I don’t deserve lies, please just tell me the truth.”!”

You want the truth?” He said.

Yes,” I whimpered.

“That photo was from when I went to a gang-bang the first year I was with you…….I am a sex addict.  I have gone on Craigslist hookups, done a fair share of swinging,  paid for prostitutes, and have a steady pool of friends with benefits that I have sex with, some that go back for many years,”  he said cooly.

I was shocked, replulsed, and terrified all at the same time.   They say when you die your life flashes before you at rapid speed.   Well it was like that.  I kept thinking of all the sexual partners he had been with.  How many had there been?  Had I been infected with HIV and didn’t even know it?  My heart skipped a beat and my blood ran cold.

Before I could say anything he said,” you need to leave now Lexi, are you happy you got your truth?”

I carried my things to my car.   The cross on his kitchen wall for reasons unknown, slid upside down on the wall and inverted.  It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

As I walked out the door I felt mostly  numb as the tears had already dried on my face.  My thoughts still raced a mile a minute, though mostly consumed with one persistent thought, ‘how could I have been deceived by a man without a conscience.’

~~~~~~~Part 8/10

Of Mice and Monsters VIIII


Of Mice and Monsters VII

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One evening he was sitting in bed and I was on his computer. He said to me, “hey why don’t you do me a favor, go look up on the State Police website the unsolved homicides between 1993 and 1996.”

So I went to that site and I looked and I found 19 to 25 decedents.   They varied  in ages, ethnicities, and gender. Their manners of death, disposal sites, were all different.

I told him my findings and  then told him there appeared  to be no connection between any of these victims.  To which he replied,” that’s right.

I asked him, “why did you want me to go here and look for a connection during  these random years?

To which he answered, “no reason.”

It freaked me out enough that I ended up calling the State Police after our relationship ended and I told them what he had said. The officer laughed at me but it was a joke and probably hung up the phone they thought I was a wingnut. No one would ever believe anything I said.

All I know is that he is the most dangerous man the most I’ve ever met and yet if you ever met him on the street he seems like the most benign sweetest man that you could ever meet.


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