Memento Mori

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Seattle, Washington, United States
Professional Darling

Wednesday, October 26, 2011



Like Children in the Dark

I resisted the urge to grab your hand and skip down the street with you;
we could laugh and swing our arms like children playing.
I'd let you pull me behind you, if I struggled to keep up and I'd smile
when the sound of your voice rang out and echoed with my name.
We are hypnotized by the streetlights reflected off of the black pools of concrete beneath our feet as
we watch the yellow lights guide our way through the city of our salvation.
Instead, I looked away and pretended that I couldn't feel the pull of your spirit.

You'd look at me, the way I wanted you to, the realization was
marked in our knowing smiles.
Your gaze pouring a tell tale blush across my cheeks and breasts as I dropped my gaze
and felt the warmth of your touch without a touch of your flesh.
A depth being found that I thought I had hidden away; that I was sure I had locked away.


You will know of me and of what is inside me at some moment when I least expect it.
Time wearing away, eroding the shell I have abandoned myself inside.
When my walls fall away, to crash down upon the winter ground and
to expose my skeletal frailty and the thin pink lines of the scars on my emotions.
Will you be the one that I expose it all to? The one that gets to see what others have failed to?

At night I curl up with my over analyzations and rationalizations.
I pro the cons and con myself into putting it all to rest and just going with it.
Taking my own advice and allowing the palm of your hand to touch the palm of mine.
To feel the warmth of you, of what I perceive of you to slowly seep inside me.
Through the frozen ground water mixed with the darkest sorrow and malcontent.
Past the fear that you won't want to grab my hand and pull me with you when I ask
if you want to laugh and play like children.





Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Fresh Girls...and other stories

"They could have loved each other, measured out equal amounts of light and dark for each other, if she hadn't been on the verge of what she thought was death. If maybe, just once, she had not called him and made herself ugly by whispering I need you. Because though he is the one person who could live with her level of pain, he didn't choose to. I don't think he was contemptuous of her, exactly. It was only that once, just once, he would have liked to see her real smile, not the crazy butterflies that flitted around her mouth. He would have enjoyed that, I think. They could have built something together then, from that one smile."


From the short story, "Glass" by Evelyn Lau



Slave to Sadists

My name is Disposable Darling, and I'm a masochist.

mas·och·ist  /ˈmæsəkɪst/ [mas-uh-kist] noun

1.Psychiatry. a person who has masochism, the condition in which sexual or other gratification depends on one's suffering physical pain or humiliation.


2.a person who is gratified by pain, degradation, etc., that is self-imposed or imposed by others.

3.a person who finds pleasure in self-denial, submissiveness, etc.

I really like the fact that the first definition is defined by Psychiatry. I'm already defined by the label of bi-polar so this new definition makes me laugh. This leads me to the conclusion that I am inherently crazy and so are the majority of the people I hang around with. Most of my friends these days are heavily involved in the kink community and I myself am heavily involved as well.

Underneath my clothes right now I'm sporting purple bruises and red raised welts. There are cane marks all over my thighs and single tail lashes on my back. There is an unidentified red mess on the right side of my ass. There are even marks around my neck and faint marks around my wrists where the leather cuffs bit into my flesh a little from being chained to the ceiling and struggling.

Last night was what I would classify as a good time. Being choked, slapped and having delicious pain inflicted upon me by someone that thoroughly enjoys watching suffering. It remains to be seen if he particularly likes to watch me suffer, I'll get back to you on that one. R. can be extremely sadistic and although we have only done a scene together twice he is by far one of my favorite sadists to play with. He's intuitive and has this knack for knowing just how much you can take without pushing you over the edge, well at least if you don't want to be pushed over that edge.

If you would have told me 5 or 6 years ago that one day I would enjoy being tied up and beaten, I would have laughed. Perhaps you would tell me that I would enjoy being humiliated or degraded and then I would have most certainly been "ROTFLMAO" as the saying goes. What changes a person? What turns that switch? Is there a switch? Have I known all along that I was a masochist? No, of course not, this discovery of the extent of my masochism is so new to me. I never would have thought that suffering would be a turn on.

I don't think that there really is a masochist that "enjoys" pain, because lets face it, its pain. No, there is something underlying that makes that discomfort bearable and cravable. My body responds to it. And while my mascara may be running because of the tears I'm crying and I may flinch before I'm hit don't mistake that for something that is unwanted. Inside there is a struggle to reconcile what I'm feeling to how my body is reacting. Yes, I'm starting to sweat and the lights dance before my eyes as his hand is around my throat. The stars swim at the edge of my vision and there is a heat that starts to flush all over my skin. I'm turned on and I am in pain. It is a delicious mix of something forbidden, and something that I cannot even begin to understand, nor, quite frankly, do I want to understand. I'm just going with it.