Tuesday, 15 August 2017

Sticking to the Black and White

Ok.... trigger warning...which is why the Wicked Wednesday sign is here right at the top creating some space... Go away if a reference to sex abuse is a trigger for you. I'm sorry to include it here, but this is important to my backstory and will undoubtedly influence my writing from time to time.

In the recent past,  I was at the IPCC misconduct hearing of the police officer who made mistakes that allowed an identified sex offender to apply to work in my home, and ultimately commit further sexual assaults. 

Their barrister gave reasons in evidence as to why they had allowed mistakes to happen. They were all completely trivial. Mainly they were included because months before, when the mistakes had been uncovered, they had been full of bluster and self defense. 

The reasons they had tried to work on the case, where they were out of their depth, were more important. They wanted to learn about this line of work. Wanted to improve their own knowledge. Wanted to help other people in the future. 

They wanted to apologise and I was not ready to hear it until I had made my mind up on the evidence. I didn't want them to think words were enough to fix this. But then I heard about the steps they had taken to improve their practice, their time with offender units and social services looking at the damage missing an early chance to stop someone could do and I accepted their apology.

They were found guilty of multiple counts of misconduct. The chairperson of the enquiry then turned to the two parties of interest...myself and representatives of another caught up in the offending that followed. 

Did we want the officer dismissed?

Ask me when I found out about their mistakes. YES. Ask me if I'd read their first "defense" rather than explanation.YES. 

Ask me now? Ask the other representatives now?

We asked that they be allowed to keep their job, and the chair told us this was the defining and only reason they were not dismissed. 

Why am I saying this now? 

Partly because you don't know me. I am anonymous here. This reference to my "other"life allows me to let out the emotions without you knowing me. And you won't know the police officer from Eve either. 

And this is not a self-righteous thing either, but I have had to think a lot about what a gift forgiveness is. The morning after I had forgiven them I felt lightheaded. Literally reeling. It didn't feel good, but I knew in the longer term, their being an officer was probably going to be a positive thing. 

When making an apology I think about the old prayer from being a child at church. When we confessed in the Church of England we asked to be forgiven for 
"thoughtlessness, weakness and our own deliberate fault" against God and persons unknown. 

The first two I could see. Easily. The first two I could forgive. We really were persons unknown

Deliberate fault. From me much harder to forgive. Good job I'm not God. 

Twitter has been full of angst recently. Lots of forums I follow too. World politics. The whole world is angry. 

Things are black and white in their immediacy. 

Stepping back everything becomes greyer. 

I am not just sex positive, but life positive. We learn and move forward. We teach the ignorant. We put forward better, more persuasive points of view. We cannot make up for things that are wrong in the past, or beyond our own actions, but we can demonstrate the tools to improve things. 

So my story...

Sticking to the Black and White

The view from my window was apt. Enough storeys to quite literally look down on the world. I couldn’t look at him, so I watched tiny people doing things that from here looked quite meaningless.

He was kneeling still. Not a perfect position, but one that showed his genuine emotion taut in the stretched sinew at his ankle, the tight muscles of his shoulder line. He was sorry. But was it enough?

Fuck it all, I’m angry with him! Or, I was. Something that is mine and he shared it with his blog readers as though it was no more personal than a holiday snap. I’m just so tired and disappointed, irritated as though his transgression was an insect bite I cannot ignore. Perhaps the start of anaphylaxis. God knows, I think of what he’s done and I nearly can’t breathe.

But then I am to blame. I think. People don’t have the power to hurt us if we don’t give them that power.

Bullshit. I am not a cartoon. Individuals crawl under our skin without a second thought from our conscious brain, and they can colour our lives or let us down in the same vein.

I am to blame for embarrassing him. I could have handled my response differently, but it was just so immediate, so hot a flame that I called him out in public. His peers and mine. On fucking twitter.

So… I sit here, musing about forgiveness as though it was a one way street. The power in our sex lives rests with me. He looks to me to be strong in other areas too. His family. His friends. I encouraged him into this public dissection of our lives and wasn’t strong enough or involved enough to make sure he didn’t fuck up.

I thought he was able to negotiate this without… without this. This clusterfuck that I am unable to ignore or sweep away with another orgasm from his talented body.

He is a puppy. My pup…or I wouldn’t be so fucking… Shit. I just don’t know anymore.

And that is just it. I am with him because of those traits. He was my discovery. I loved to show off his creativity and revelled in his excitement until it became my own. I loved to show him new things, in bed and out and loved the uncensored joy and exuberance he brought to my black and white world.  

When he first posted an almost dick-pic I let it go. It wasn’t tasteful, but it was honest and raw and I respected that. I remembered him being that hard for me and glowed with pride, but hoped no-one could see it. That pride was private.

I did take him to task when a few months later, his cock bounced into life in a post again. But the meme he followed, the one where I introduced him to, had a theme of anticipation and again, I could see his train of thoughtlessness. He had forgotten that sight was now just mine. It was an old picture, from before our time and worse, taken by a previous lover. I raged, but rationalised that he would learn. I fucked him through my anger and into our mutual pleasure, because that was, in that second, more important than correction and practice and all the fucking basic ground work I should have done to make sure we didn’t end up here.

My thoughts are tortuous and while I think, he kneels in supplication, each second I deny him forgiveness mentally pulling him down.

I think I have to cut him loose. He shared his pleasure with his blog followers when it was meant to be all for me. His blog followers that include my friends. I am so fucking embarrassed. Some of them will know that is not what I expect. Some of them will know how rules work.

Like I said. Black and white.

I can’t be associated with him anymore. Can’t let …Who are these people I am so frightened of?

A few hundred people saw his post. Of whom I know a few tens.

Most of whom will have discounted his fuckwittery as just that and will assume I am beating some sense into him right now. Or at least would have done had I not exploded our entire relationship on fucking twitter. Now it is my followers. A good couple of thousand. And some I want to impress.

Why the fuck did I do that?

He could be kneeling now and I could be anticipating the correction. Not that it is fun, but the joy when he’s forgiven can have spectacular results.

Now he has to go.

My fault, or his?

Sunday, 6 August 2017


The nearly blank page was stained with the line "Experience is what you make of it and I am one who loves the clarity and rush of endorphins." I don't know if that is me, or the character for this piece. Certainly, it is not the easily accessible version of me. The clean and tidy public version. Perhaps I like to think it was left in the angst of teenage self harming? The search for something I couldn't ask anyone else to give me. 

I love writing the dark side of erotica. Like eating spicy chili. I could have felt the brush of her breast as she leant across me. Her breath on my cheek. Perhaps I did, subconsciously. But the prompt dropped me here without a second thought. 

Thank you Marie for your super prompts that drag me out of the daily grind. Last weeks glorious, soaring music, played through noise reducing headset whilst I met my new Doxy for the first time...in its beautiful and fictionalized version of course... didn't appear on paper in time for the deadline for Wicked Wednesday, but your ideas continue to be an inspiration. Perhaps it will appear here eventually. This week I have gone with the prompt. If you can't work out what it was...follow the link. Or enjoy the story without. 

The difference between me and the teenager with a knife, is that peace from letting go is available without the input of physical pain. 

But sometimes eating chili is exactly what you want. 

Experience is what you make of it and I am one who loves the clarity and rush of endorphins.

Reclined in the embrace of the leatherette chair, I center myself in the moment. Externally, I’m responding to questions and comments because this is definitely a situation where informed consent is important, but inside I am already anticipating the dull lance probing raw nerves.

Outwardly, it is about pride. The duel is between me and the pain. The promise not to flinch or pull away. This is the convention of our society. To be tough and defiant. We are so black and white, either brave or coward, proud or weak. There is something beyond this though, something to be found in embracing or letting go. The infra-red or ultra violet of humanity. A thing we choose to ignore, to not even develop language to discuss. That is what I am anticipating.

This woman leaning over me, is just the tool. I am sure she is competent, but to a point that makes her irrelevant.

I am surfing this wave for me. Climbing this mountain for me.

I have walked into this room free and whole knowing she is going to hurt me. This should worry me. Scare me. But I am floating at the thought. Free and ashamed in the same moment.

The first scratch of a needle. A sting with an icy tail.

I have time to think and send a silent apology for using her this way. Then I forget her, forget the chair and the intrusively bright lights and sink into each raw second.

Vibration. Each nerve is woken in turn and like frightened animals the messages race away. I should run with them, pull away from the strangeness. The battle is only with myself. I stand as a solider at post, accepting the intensity increase through slowly creeping minutes from something intense to something beyond. I want to say unbearable, but that isn’t true. The cliff edge of bearable recedes rather than racing closer. To fight is to lose. In letting go, I win.

With little effort, you have led me to a place where the scrape and probe of each of your tools is a bright spark of brilliance. Where the silent scream of a nerve is a lightning show, spreading in magnificence through the wide sky. Time slows. Each flickering fork tears me free with a unique beauty.

Something snaps, breaks free. Finally, swimming in the night black sea. Tumbling formless. Timeless. Until the destroyed becomes recreated.

Even returning is not mundane. Each shiny, shimmering jigsaw piece falls into position and becomes clear, but special in itself. Each takes its moment of focus before it is normal. The new normal. Sharpened senses burn with fragrance previously ignored. Metallic taste of blood and fear. Tension returning to muscles.

Energy. Exhilaration and exhaustion swirl and merge until there is no telling one from the other.
Stepping through the doors allows the final pieces to fall. I am returned. Aware of the residuals. The wobbly knees. The discomfort, suddenly a bad thing. The sweat trickling like cum down the inside of my thigh.

The waiting room has flowers and a fish tank. Children’s books and a few obtuse customers.

Incongruous, I make my way home.