Category Archives: Memoir

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…..


When I was seventeen….

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It was a very good year….

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but really it wasn’t, it sucked.

I remember sitting at highschool dances never getting asked to dance.

To this day I have never learned how to “slow dance”.

Shocking, I’m sure.  Yes, I’m over 30.

Two left feet I’m afraid, the result of no practice.

It was a vicious cycle:  can’t slow dance so run from the dance floor, never get asked to slow dance so don’t learn how to dance…. and so on.

I remember wishing a boy would ask me out back then. I so wanted to have a boyfriend, a first kiss and all that. After going through 4 years of high school alone, and watching my sister (only a year older) have guys pounding down our door wanting to see her, I always assumed I was ugly.  Fair assumption to make so I thought.

I didn’t have the “in” clothes that the popular kids had, I wasn’t involved in athletics, I had job bagging groceries afterschool. It was a good way to stay out of the chaos that was my home.

Today, I look at this photo from when I was 17.

At the time I felt like the ugliest girl on the planet, because no one wanted me, no one ever asked me out. My sister later told me I never go asked out,  because I wouldn’t “put out.” That me saving myself for marriage sealed my fate.

Now, I look back at photos and think wow! I was smokin’.

Today, I look at my own photos or my face in the mirror and I am right back to feeling the way I did at seventeen. Ugly and less than.

Relationships . Nothing like a break-up to make one’s self-esteem plunge even further.

Unable to keep a relationship afloat to save my life.   Developmental lessons not learned, that should I’ve been mastered at a younger age.  They are being learned now…….but rendering me at a deficit…..and coming at a  high cost in intimate relationships in present day.

But I bet, if I am to look back on pictures of myself now, in a few years; maybe I will think that I don’t look so “bad”? Funny how life goes.


1970 something

Going to my elementary school, there were about thirty kids in my class.  Hell, my graduating high school class there were 562 of us.  Recess was always fun.  Our playground was pretty nice because I lived in an affluent suburb.  It had what most nice school playgrounds in suburbia do.  Plenty of swing sets, slides, see-saws. Box-ball and hop-scotch were even painted right on the hot top itself.

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I became friends with Jimmy in second grade.  We were in Mrs. Drapeau’s class.  There was a few unforgettable things that happened that year.  Like the time that Henry Altenwen puked and peed his pants at the same time in the front of the class.  The time that Eric Frobert puked all over his reading book.  And the time that Mrs. Drapeau yelled at me in front of everyone for helping a classmate pronounce a word when they were struggling, during oral reading.  Asked me if I thought I should teach the class.  I remember feeling my face felt hot and I felt ashamed. I was only trying to help him, my heart was kind.  It’s amazing the influence that teachers can have in shaping children.

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Jimmy and I stood next to the teacher aid at recess you see.  I didn’t get much attention at home, my life there was a living hell that no one would ever find out about.  Jimmy? well he was physically sick.  I didn’t really know with what.  His shoulders were always raised up by his chin because he struggled to breathe.  So we both had different reasons for hanging out with the teacher aid at recess while all the other kids frolicked about on a beautiful sunny day.

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Me being the little chatter box, and not really grasping at age 7 that Jimmy was so sick I treated him like anyone else.  I asked him all sorts of questions since he could not run or walk around much.  Why this, why that.  He laughed at my questions.  I told a lot of stories and a lot of jokes.  I asked if he was ever going to get braces.  I asked him all kinds of crazy shit.  (I used to ask my Catholic grandmother if I was reincarnated and maybe I were a rock in another life)

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Jimmy and I went to St. Mary’s Church together as well.  So I am sure that I yapped about CCD too.  I liked our time together.  Me, Jimmy, and the teacher aide.

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Jimmy had been out from school for a few weeks and one morning I came into school and the Mrs. Drapeau said that Jimmy wouldn’t be coming back.  That he was in heaven.

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Her words hung in the air like a garrote, choking the love in my little heart.
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Jimmy as I would later learn had Cystic Fibrosis.  I spent a good deal of time in my teens doing the Stair Climb, an annual event during the early 1990’s at the Prudential Center in Boston to raise money for my favorite childhood friend that I lost to death.

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Every year my dad would drive me to Boston and I would get people to sponsor me for each floor that I could walk up. I always made it to the top of it’s 52 floors. Course my legs felt like rubber when I got done. I have asthma, and  sometimes it was a struggle and I would get winded.  It would occur to me as I walked, how Jimmy struggled day after day. How winded he must have been.  That I get relief with an inhaler…. that he suffocated.  I cried as I climbed.

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Since 1965, the term “65 Roses” has been used by children of all ages to describe their disease because it’s easier to pronounce.

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After Jimmy’s funeral, his mother sent me a card.  It read, “Thank you Lexi for being there for my son.  You were his only friend.”  Her words gripped me and I will never forget them. To this day I never realized that all the other kids, were frolicking around, never talked to him, never stopped to get to know him.  Strange, how because of the hell I lived and the horror of what happened in my house, God brought Jimmy and I together.
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2 weeks ago, I received a text from my mom which made me ecstatic! It read, “there is a new treatment for Cystic Fibrosis!”  So I ran over and googled it. Sure enough, there is.  It is a brand new FDA approved drug called  “Kalydeco.”

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It reminded me of Jimmy and I smiled, then cried.  Some 35 years later, the love for my friend still lives in my heart.

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~miss you Jimmy~ xoxox
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