Ms Viola. Ms. Renee. You have broken me. Crushed me. Thank you.
When not fully engaged, my mind is like a kangaroo – bouncing from thought to thought – doing free association I suppose… an image begats a thought which leads to another further out and then another… until I’m somewhere unknown and unexpected.
So, I watched the movie 127 hours yesterday which is the story of a hiker who got his arm caught between two immovable rocks and after 127 hours, in order to free himself and to survive, he cut his own arm off.
Movies like that force you to examine yourself. Would I? Could I? One of the bouncy thoughts that hopped through my mind and looked over it’s shoulder to see if I would follow it, was that his reactions during his ordeal mirrored the stages of grief – denial, anger. bargaining, depression, acceptance. Of course, maybe the bounce there wasn’t so random, given what I was feeling in the moment…
I’ve long known the stages of grief appear throughout all our lives in all kinds of situations… death obviously, a breakup sure… leaving an addiction behind. Having something of importance to you taken away. Your ‘binky’ as a child. That favorite, oh so comfy sweatshirt that is finally just too worn. A society that at least had a veneer of respect and decency towards one another.
An ego. A sense of self-esteem. Self-importance.
Yes, that’s right. Having your ego stripped away from you is not some nice painless mental exercise – “Huh. I think I’ll mediate a while, then give up my ego before lunch. Oh yes, I’m a slave with no ego now!” It involves emotional pain. Psychological agony.
And all the stages of grief.
After all, you are losing something that was once important to you. Your self-esteem. Your self-importance. Your sense of worth.
Age brings experience and experience brings awareness, so I can usually see grief coming… I am aware of what it is and I can navigate the steps a bit faster than the less experienced,
but no less painfully.
This weekend started with Ms. Viola’s call to her online retinue to offer themselves up for a ritual. I’m pretty sure I knew her intent – a Zoom-like conference with us all on our knees, edging ourselves over and over while she basks in our adoration and obedience and masturbates herself to glorious, powerful, pleasurable orgasms. It’s good to be Queen! I wanted so bad to obey. Humiliating myself in front of her and a group of other men was nothing! And I responded as any devoted servant would, “If I may be of service, I offer myself to you Ma’am.” Then I realized it was not likely I could slip away in the middle of an evening with my wife and participate. With deep sadness, I deleted my response.
Her next post was of an impossibly handsome young buck with a to-die-for accent. The man I wished I had been 40 years ago. Self-aware and soon to be snapped up by a woman who would gleefully enslave him for life, for both their pleasure. I felt a pang of jealousy at Ms. Viola’s verbal drooling over him, then an overwhelming sense of loss and depression. I closed my laptop.
I would never be this man.
A deep breath as I pushed the thoughts from my mind… using all the tools gained from age and wisdom, I rationalized the pointless stupidity of my jealousy and the feeling eased.
At about the same time Ms. Renee posted a series of provocative images and texts about cuckolds, about powerful, sadistic women and Ms. Viola followed shortly there after with two blistering (pardon the unintentional pun) posts about caning robbi into submission and her intense state of arousal and animalistic need to devour some willing men!
Next she discussed the other sexually powerful, sadistic women she knows. Women I have adored from afar for years.
And tears formed in my eyes.
I wept that women like these exist. That I want with all my heart and soul to crawl to them and beg them to take me, possess me like an object, train me like a pet. To revel in their sadistry with me. To see them smile with the joy and sense of power that comes from absolute control of another human being. Me.
And it will never be.
I’ve denied it in the past. I got angry that the women in my life don’t accept me as I want to be. I bargained, by doing slave labor for years and pleading for an occasional unreal, unfelt, ‘play time’.
This weekend, reading all of Ms. Viola’s and Ms/ Renee’s posts about their lives… I entered the stage of depression. I became depressed. I ignored all my usual daily chores. Litter boxes sat uncleaned, I didn’t do the shopping, the bed was unmade, dirty laundry just sat piled on the laundry room floor. I did nothing. I just sat. And stared. And thought and felt.
After a lot of soul searching and feeling my way through that depression, I’ve reached acceptance. My ego is crushed. Burned away. Gone. I had finally completed all seven stages of grieving over the loss of my (false) sense of ego.
I am nothing at all to these women. They took control of their destinies, they live their existences fulfilling their kinky passions and are rightfully served by men far better than me. It saddened me and in one of those sick twists the universe loves, because I’m a masochist, it made me hard.
Not everything in this universe is linear.
My service to them does not continue to bring more and more control and more service and more discipline and more experiences with them,
It goes nowhere. This is it. This is all there is. Just serve and be happy with that.
What is the purpose of an ego when there is nothing more to strive for? No bigger goals? I can only continue to serve and hope for the occasional ‘good boy’. That is the crumb I am permitted in my life. Enough to barely sustain my continued service and my never to be realized dreams. Don’t assume for a second I am some dick-in-hand wannabe who would burst into tears at the first real smack of a palm against my ass. I am experienced in what I sought – I married a pro domme for god sake. Of course I’ve been whipped, caned, flogged, bound and gagged, had needles pushed into my flesh, burned, made to pass out… but all play. Not because my partner truly got off on her power. She did it for the worst possible reason to any submissive. She did it for me. I’ve never smelled a woman’s arousal as she beats me bloody, never seen a woman’s nipples grow hard with excitement of her power, seen the fire burn in her eyes as she sits down on my bound body and slowly strangles me with her stocking, feeling me buck and squirm beneath her and beg for my very life.
Yes. Their posts devastated me. I am nothing to them. I am a footnote. A ‘Hey, remember that guy…’ in a conversation about ugly, fat, old, sad, pathetic men desperate to live out their dreams.
I am nothing… but I am not useless. I can serve. I can be a gimp. I can sit silently in the shadows of their beautifully lit drawing rooms, to crawl out and serve at their beck and call, then crawl back into the shadows, completely forgotten until I am needed again. Maybe forever.
I no longer have any ego, at least in regards to these women. How can I? It would be pointless. My jealously, my sadness… it would be just another slave yelling unheard in the pit beneath the basement floor where he was thrown.
Thank you Ms. Viola and Ms. Lane for showing me my truth. I am nothing. I am nothing now and I never will be.
And now… I’m okay with that. 🙂
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