Tag Archives: big girl problems

Day 28


28) Has your submission ever let you down? Have you ever been criticized for your submission? Have you ever regretted being or feeling submissive in a moment or in a relationship? Have you ever looked back and realized you made a mistake and how did you handle your submission going forward from that.

We are human, submissives and Dominants. Sometimes we wish we weren’t. I know that there is a part of myself that always wants to be the BEST submissive possible, to please him more than anyone else has.

I am going to start this question off by answering the last part of it. I have never thought my decision to submit was a mistake. Never. It is as natural to me as breathing. It is a part of myself I shoved away for a very long time. I may make mistakes in that submission from time to time, but do I regret deciding to be who and what I am at any point in time? No. I am what I am. And to be honest, I love what I am. I have doubts about myself constantly…but not about my ability to submit or my skills as a submissive. It is the one place where I am completely sure of myself.

I had parts of my submission criticized, very early on. Very, VERY early on, back when Cal was still mentoring me. His girlfriend at the time decided that I was a threat to her, and my poor friend was so enthralled by the woman that he didn’t see for a long time just how much he was being manipulated. Every time I saw him, it was with her as well, so that we could never talk privately. At the time I was a little bit of a mess.. I was growing up, feeling those aches and pains of the first time you stand on your own two feet away from any outside help. I was scared, and just needed someone to tell me that it was going to be okay so that I could keep going. When we were alone, or when we talked privately, he reassured me that this was a normal part of growing up, and that this too shall pass and I would be okay. He would then list fifty thousand logical next steps that would short-circuit my panic button and make everything better. When I saw him with her, however… She noticed when I was upset and jumped at the chance to make it worse, telling me I wasn’t prepared to be in a relationship with someone of his age and experience, and that I should just move on.. She was right about the relationship, but I didn’t WANT a relationship, I wanted a teacher… She spent a good couple of months telling me I was a horrible submissive and would never learn to be one properly. Eventually I stopped talking to her and my friend, because I couldn’t fucking take it.

As for my submission letting me down.. The end with Kane. It wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t mine.. It was both of us stretching something out that should have been left behind and miscommunication all the while. He kept trying to tell me that he could no longer be what I needed… but he couldn’t find the words. He would try it gingerly, not fully wanting to let me go just as much as I didn’t want him to let me go.. And I misheard him time and time again. Every time he said “You deserve so much better.” I would go no no no. I don’t want better I want you… Subby mind was just too devoted to here Dominant. I loved being his. I loved wearing his collar… He gave me Disney. He gave me my first taste of feeling cherished, being someone’s princess… and I loved it. Letting go of that, even knowing that it was the right thing to do, was a heartbreaking process. Even then, it took me months to take off the collar. I felt at war with myself, pulling apart my day collar. I had to take it off myself because he didn’t have time to see me..but it felt horrible. It felt disloyal. I now understand why being properly released is so important. Because otherwise a submissive will eat themselves alive for doing something that they know is right but feels so wrong.

Phew.. Okay. That was a loaded one that brought up much emotional baggage… I’m going to go and pick out my dungeon outfit for this evening… Nothing like corsets and stilettos to make the night better.

As always, yours


Emotional Masochism

Sometimes, on a particularly low day, I go on Facebook and look at Kane’s photos. Some I love. From time to time he posted selfies that are just…him. The man I love.

Others I look through for reality checks.

I never forget the fact that he’s married. I would love to sometimes. Would love to have him to myself, to be able to proudly show him off to my family and friends as much as he shows off me when we’re in a dungeon together. I want to be able to tell everyone and their mother that we’re dating, and that I’m madly in love with this man. That we talk about a future sometimes. That we talk about trips to Hawaii, and from time to time to see my family.

The reality of the situation is that I am the “other woman”. I have been since July. The moment emotions got involved he was cheating, and I cheated with him. The guilt eventually turned to resentment; resentment that this person that seemed horribly incompatible with the man I meshed with so easily had all the claim to him when I had none.

It wasn’t so bad in the beginning. In the beginning, I was spoiled. I got weeks with him instead of days and lived in this sheltered bubble that he was mine as much as I was his, and that we were meshing worlds. I cooked him dinner. We curled up and watched movies together. We slept in the same bed. We went away on an incredible weekend vacation that I never wanted to end, where for the first time in my life I felt not only like a princess but his princess.

Then the weeks turned to five or four days…then every other week..for four days.. Then weeks apart. Now this.

Each time I resent her, I go on his Facebook. There staring me in the face is his relationship status, the first check. “Married to”. I wince, I breathe. I click on his photos and scroll all the way to the end. The very first photos are from his wedding. I make myself scroll up and look at the photos of the two of them, happy and in love. I can hear his voice in my ear as I do this. “I married her for a reason.” I wonder sometimes if he can really understand my resentment.

I look, really look, at what I’m asking him to end. A life together, a real, acknowledged, merging of two people. A house together. Friends together.

The friends don’t know about me. No one does outside of the kink community. None of his friends know we’re together. His family doesn’t. It dawned on me when he left for Hawaii that if something happened, Godde forbid, I wouldn’t find out. No one would think to reach out to me because for all they know I’m a casual friend, if they know of me at all. I have photos of the two of us together… on my phone, away from the public. I don’t even post them on Fetlife for fear of his best friend finding them and him having to explain. I don’t want him to have to explain, to be stressed, to be uncomfortable.

It’ll be six months December 2nd since he first said he loved me. Six months since we recognized what was going on between us, and that it would be more than either of us ever thought. And for months we tossed around ideas. He could come home for Thanksgiving and meet my parents. By then he was sure he would have made progress with his wife and if he went to Hawaii it was just to keep things civil. Maybe by November we would be looking at places together, we said in August. Maybe a small transition place that we can start moving his stuff in. Something we could build together. We were going to go to Ikea and get a bookcase months ago. But timelines were never our thing. He didn’t want to give me time frames he couldn’t guarantee. I quit my job and suddenly my extra income was gone. Eventually, the frames and the talk that went along with them disappeared.

When I am ready to scream with frustration I force myself back on to Facebook and see the ways that she is compatible. That financially she is fifty thousand…more like three hundred and fifty thousand… times more put together than I am. She is established, with her life put together when mine continually splinters apart. She has the time put in, the established relationships, when I’ve been around less than a year. She’s the same age as him. I’m a lot younger.

Sometimes my mind decides to travel down hypothetical lane. Hypothetically what would have happened if we met before? She’s been around since I was a teenager… It’s very possible we’ve crossed paths in the city before. He lived there when I went in every other week or so. But he wouldn’t have looked at me, dressed vanilla and young as a pup running around the museum with my family. And after? Would we have crossed paths years from now when he finally pulled away and was on his own again? He may not have been looking for a submissive anymore…may have given up on that route, along with children.

There are so many mays, and maybes, and perhaps, and possibles. There are no more promises. Just hopes. Lots of hopes that help me sleep at night. We have this little app called You and Me on our phones.. It’s supposed to be for a relationship, to send things between the two of you. I go back and look through what we sent each other in August and September and I smile. I think about apple picking. About that long ride where we drove together for hours and talked about everything and nothing; I felt that zaa-zaa-zoo that drew me to him as a person in the first place. There was a moment, looking at the sunset in Santa Cruz at the end of a perfect day. He stood next to me, just for a moment looking at the horizon. As corny as it sounds, in that one moment I loved him so fully and completely. I saw how we would work together long term. I saw the future, and I smiled..it made all the other shit worth it.

I picture that when all the maybe’s raise their ugly head. When I sleep alone, knowing he’s sharing a bed with her, and I miss him so bad it hurts. When I selfishly want to scream at her to go the hell away so that I can start a life with him already. I never forget that she was there first..and when I want to beg him to give me more time, to finally tell people about me, to walk away from his wife, I check myself. I go on his Facebook and force myself to see the relationship there. I force myself to give her respect. He married her for a reason.

I don’t know what will happen when I see him again… When talking will begin again. But I continue to check myself. She earned that place in his bed beside him.. regardless of where they are in their relationship now I can’t scream at her to relinquish that right because I’m lonely. Because I miss his heat and his touch. She was here first. I never kid myself in that, as a submissive or a girlfriend. He picked her before me.

I ended up writing this whole thing because of a conversation I had with a friend I am quickly becoming close to. I had sent him a text telling him that I was trying very hard not to be bothered by Kane’s wife being in Hawaii with him. He immediately called in response. He’s in a poly relationship with a woman who’s in an open marriage for all the RIGHT reasons, and the first words out of his mouth were “I’ve been there. I understand exactly how you feel, and how illogical it is. And you just want to reign it in and put on a smile for that person and tell them everything is okay because it’s all your internal war… and that’s fine. But you are allowed to feel what you are feeling. It’s okay to acknowledge it. It’s okay to be jealous, and lonely, and not have words for how much you miss that special person. All of that is okay. Just let yourself feel. Put on whatever face you want to keep the person you love sane but let yourself feel“. And so I did. I’m hoping writing all of this down will get some of the non-concentual pain out of my body..

Sometimes, I really am a damn masochist.

Thoughtfully yours,


Growing Pains

Motherf*cker. OWW

Sadly, this post has very little to do with me being a submissive and everything to do with me being in my 20’s. These are not the fun sort of growing pains.

I knew they were coming. I think it was a combination of things that set it off today. One was the warm weather. It feels like home this time of year (well, normally. Jersey’s had really wacky weather this year. They got slammed during the winter). Another factor was lack of decompression space. I work an 8-5 job, a job that I adore, but a job that involves being around people all day. After work me getting the chance to have some time and space to myself and breathe is.. kind of important. I went from work to a sardine-packed hot bus, to an apartment crammed with roommates and ALL of my roommate’s painting supplies and giant canvases (she’s an amazing painter..but I no longer have a floor. Or hallway). Near my breaking point and recognizing that, I ran outside. We are blessed to have a back deck, and it was such a beautiful night I thought I would sit and read.

And then the neighbors came outside and started barbequing.

They were quiet, unobtrusive, and whatever they were making smelled fantastic. It wasn’t that. It was the combination that formed the image in my mind of home during the summer. Normally this time of year my dad has just opened the pool. The water is ice cold, but my sister and I still go in and freeze our asses off. My mother comments on us being insane while my dad stands in front of the grill shirtless, with his swim trunks and ugly-ass Crocks on grilling whatever it is we will eat for dinner. It’s usually involving something fresh from our garden..

That did it. I started bawling. Not hysterically…just enough that my body shook. I gave myself a minute or two of just crying..and then took stock of myself, and emotionally dissected myself. Why was I crying? Was it really that bad, or was I worked up? WHY was I worked up? I texted Sir a bit, filled him in on why I was worked up, and told him I was fine, because I knew I would be. I just had to figure out why I got so damn worked up.

I grabbed my journal, the one Sir has me write in daily, and filled up some of the last pages inside of it. I come from an incredibly close family, so missing them is natural, but I also chose to move 3000 miles away. I chose to stay out here, because feeling like my whole self and discovering a side of myself I had often shoved away was more important than running home for familiar comfort. I want my life to progress, and there is very little for me where I am from as far as opportunities go, and friendships.

San Francisco is a clean slate for me, in certain ways, even though I’ve been here for a year. I’m diving into a new community, and for the first time trying to make friends that I don’t just go to school with or live with. You know, actual big girl friends. I have a real job. That means not being able to go home for a month and do all those “traditional” things I’ve done year after year, because I can’t miss work, but it means I can make new traditions. Okay, so I can’t run to the Jersey shore every weekend this summer, but there are beaches here, and they’re quite beautiful. I can’t go swimming in the pool ever night. But I will have at least a week home where I can swim all I want and get that fix. I miss my parents. Like I didn’t see that coming. That’s what webcams and cell phones are for, and it makes when I see them something special and cherished instead of something expected.

The hardest thing for me being here, I think, the thing that really pushed me over the edge was the lack of anywhere to just… decompress. I have no space that is mine. I don’t have a door to shut. Even the bed I sleep on (futon…) technically isn’t mine. I miss having a safe space to hide. I like the local kink coffee shop a lot. I can go hide there relatively frequently and curl up with a book. I get left in peace and get affordable food on top of it. I went there after I calmed down today and it was…packed. To the gills. No, no no no no no. No. TOO. MANY. PEOPLE.

I decided on my way back to my shoebox of an apartment that if I couldn’t have a stationary safe place to hide in I would do at least one thing a week just for me, and would start Googling my creature comforts that I had left behind in Boston, where I got my undergraduate degree and lived for four years. I used to love to swing dance, for example. A group from school ran West Coast Swing socials in a local restaurant once a week and I loved it. I was a damn good follower by the time I graduated with my undergad. Turns out, there are quite a few swing groups here…not surprised. That’s more people to meet and socialize with..and you know, dance and drink with (tequila before a whip makes the move fuuun…hehe). I used to belly dance as well… and found a studio near my apartment that has affordable classes.

Big girl shit sucks sometimes… It hurts, but everyone goes through it. It’s how you cope with it that matters, and how you grow from the pain caused by it that matters. I don’t want to go back to Jersey. I want an actual life here. I don’t want to have to run to my parents for support. I want to build a support network here, and also be able to stand on my own two feet and support myself. It may be hard at times, but I’m making it, both in and out of the BDSM world. Yes, I know I can turn to my Dom if I need him. I can tell him anything, but he can’t make this stuff better. Only I can. He did the 20something shit already. It’s my turn to trudge through it, and improve myself through it. Even if I shed a few tears along the way.

On a side note, I kind of wish personal growth led to actual growth… I feel like I would finally be over 5 feet tall if that was the case! Wishful thinking.

I also made one last important promise to myself, after a shit tone of Googling of activities. My next apartment will have a room for just me, and a door that I can shut. I don’t care if it’s in Oakland, as long as it has space in it that is MINE.

Yours always learning,