My involvement in the Eden community has always been loyal. I’ve written over two dozen reviews on sex toys, have made a few friends, and am constantly trolling the forums, sometimes pleading for advice. The forums are a minefield of controversial topics from asking if a rape victim’s choice of clothing is partly to blame for her being attacked, to issues involving silly members posting inane questions for “points farming”. I have tried to take everything with a grain of salt but sometimes I feel overwhelmed and so, so small. I’ve noticed clique behaviors and folks ganging up one poster or another. I have had a hand in the latter when an issue came up about a certain poster who had aliases was flooding the forums with dribble to collect points. The issue was gingerly addressed by the staffers at Eden and was taken care of, so why did I, and a few others, feel the need to continually hurl insults at the girl?

I’ve also been punished for being *cough* a bitch. That’s the only way to really categorize what happened. A thread was getting out of hand and several people found it offensive, meanwhile myself, a fellow poster and friend were specifically called out to behave. I received an official warning, and the staff talked to all three of us separately, no real punishment doled out. Actually, there wasn’t really anything TO punish. After all, we’re adults who have formed opinions and one would think we could learn to embrace each other’s views, even if we disagree at times. In a perfect world, that is.

I’ve learned that just because we are open to all kinds of sex and sexual activities, we aren’t so open when it comes to others stepping on our toes. I’ve received warnings to behave several times, and I think that above all else, it is because of the perceived tone of the message. You ever read a text message from a loved one that you read as completely off-base and just mean, but in reality, they meant it in a nice way? Because so much has to be conveyed in those scribbles we call English, a lot is lost in translation. What’s funny and snarky to me may be offensive to you. I have no way of knowing it’s offensive to you until, well, you get offended. And by that point, damage is done.

I have read completely horrid, mean posts about things or people but just have to ignore them. Why not flag them? Well, I used to. Then I realized that what is offensive to me may not be offensive to another poster, or the administrators at Eden. This doesn’t mean I harbor any ill will whatsoever to anyone on the forums, hell no. I’ve met and connected with a plethora of very witty, intelligent, down to earth people (this includes the hardworking staff). It’s just lately I’ve been more absent on the forums than previously, to kind of step back and reassess, and rethink what I say, and what I MEAN, because those two ideas can be very different.

Thinking now about the people I’ve encountered at Eden, I’ve been talking to people and been kind of introduced to new sorts of activities, new lifestyles. Let’s say someone is polyamorous (a word which Microsoft apparently doesn’t think exists). Now me, being a super sex friendly, savvy sex toy reviewer, I must be open to everything, and so must everyone else, right? Well, no. There are a few people at Eden who identify themselves as being polyamorous, and I respect that. I literally can’t wrap my head around that lifestyle, but it works for them, and works quite well. Who am I to judge? Hell, I get my boyfriend to push me up against a wall and drag a knife down my back while he calls me dirty names. That may make some people just think I’m a freak. Not just a freak, but a “fuh-REAK”. Who cares? There are transgendered people, homosexuals, swingers, sadists, masochists, and people who genuinely love just doing it in the missionary position. We all love sex toys and we all have our own hearts and minds and opinions. Who am I to get offended by a differing opinion?

I think I’ve forgotten my intent on sitting down and writing this. I want to half-assedly plea for everyone to just get along, but that’s boring. I know we can’t. If we did, life would be boring. I suppose I want to be more open, not just SAY I’m open and accepting of everything. I try not to be offended by some questions, but it’s so hard. It’s hard for lots of people to look past and accept other’s opinions and stances on controversial issues, and that’s because we all have different pasts and experiences that shape the way we look at issues and opinions. It’s impossible to set those aside and objectively look at what others have to say, but it does absolutely no good to let those experiences in the past have control over hearing what others have to say.

Personally, I have a very hard time when I read posts about people losing their virginity at age 13 or so. My insides scream that that is offensive and is underage sex and should never be mentioned, but what if it’s just someone answering a poll question about when they lost their virginity? Should I really be offended that someone had the guts to say they were so young when they had sex? No, I shouldn’t. Neither should you.

I’ve been a slave, of sorts, for close to 3 years. My owner loves me fondly, and I absolutely adore him. I hang on his every word and love his goofy, crooked smile and the way he fucks. When we are together, we live the life of Reilly. We smoke pot, drink top shelf tequila and spend half our time naked in bed watching Adult Swim cartoons. When we don clothes it is usually to visit our friends, who often sit around and drink and smoke, occasionally playing a wild game of Guitar Hero. I love our friends. I love our life. Lately I’ve been thinking about what it means to really be a slave, and if rather or not I really AM one. Am I?

I recently discovered FetLife, and signed up for an account. I’m a reviewer for EdenFantasys and I’ve noticed that fellow slaves often have accounts and mention them on their profiles. It struck my curiosity, as I had never heard of the site before. Admittedly, I haven’t had much activity on the site at all since signing up maybe three or four days ago. I’m not sure exactly what to do. At first I figured it was a kinky Facebook of sorts, but I’m just confused. A part of me is conflicted at talking to more people like myself, more people like my owner, my lover.

My owner has voiced wanting to meet and befriend “other people like us”, he calls them. Other slaves, other masters, maybe talk tricks of the trade and tips for cuff-rashes and hiding bruises. Neither of us wants to go to a club, one of those clubs where people of a like mind can find and play with others in that mindset. It’s too “swingy” for our tastes. Too personal. But talking to other people in the BDSM arena? What’s wrong with that?

My lover adores the scene as it’s called. Collared women, submissive and silent, seemingly versed in all ways of pleasuring a man, being able to withstand all pain, maybe some sorts of pain that I myself can’t take…yet. I’m always afraid one raven-haired beauty or another will catch his eye and woo him away, take him away to send his mind and body reeling. I’m jealous. Yes, let’s admit that’s the problem here. I’m jealous because he likes women in the stripe of Christina Ricci. I often picture petite slaves being chained to radiators, and what he would do to them. After all, I look sort of meek in comparison. I have long dark brown hair with bangs, glasses, and I wear jeans and T-shirts, and sometimes not even jeans, but these tight black Old Navy yoga pants. I’m not visually arresting or alluring. I don’t wear crimson lipstick and stilettos on a daily basis. I’m not physically svelte or splendorous. I have an hourglass shape with a mushy, soft belly and a round ass. He adores my large breasts, and losing weight makes me fear the loss of my DD assets. He often tells me I’m beautiful, but is that ever enough in any relationship?

I think I’m being somewhat hypocritical and bitchy. Aren’t I assuming what other more “vanilla” people assume? That BDSM-minded ladies are all dark-haired mysterious women with red lips and come hither eyes? That they can steal your man in an instant? Why do I think this? I’m a loved slave in a long-term relationship with a wonderful master. He’s a wonderful man. Loyal, respectful, charming, intelligent, funny, hung like a bull. I often wish I could be that “dark haired woman” he so deserves. Yes, it’s stereotypical. I apologize. But I do have some fears. But is this why I don’t want us to meet any other kinkster couples? Maybe.

Sometimes he mentions a certain “festival” of sorts in Atlanta. It’s a convention-center congregation of dominatrixes and collared subs being lead around on leashes listening to seminars on how to do this and that, how to find worthy fuck machines and leather equipment. I don’t want to go. “Why?” He always asks. I tell him I don’t know, which is the truth. Do I REALLY think he will be seduced by another more submissive slave? Doesn’t that kind of go against being what a slave is all about? I start thinking like this and my mind spins in circles. I know my thoughts and fears are irrational and unfounded. I know. I just can’t push past them when my master takes a gander at a “Goth chick” in the bookstore we are visiting. What’s he thinking? Probably thinking about how her pussy feels, how big her tits really are. Or maybe he’s thinking she’s a skank. I don’t know, nor do I want to know. I just know I want to be the only slave, the only submissive woman he is around.

Yes, it would be nice to get together with another couple or two or 8 for some wine and talk openly about our sexual life. It would feel so good to be accepted and understood. But it’s hard for me to picture being so close with people who I know are thinking the same way I am. Comparisons are often made, comparisons in the mind that drive me insane. I want to keep my master all to myself. He’s mine goddamnit. I’m the only one he should spank and tease and talk down to and humiliate. Not you or anyone else.

Am I really a slave, then? He calls me stubborn and feisty at times. I often say no and cry and he gives up doing whatever he was doing. I’m very selfish, greedy. A threesome would never work. Ever. But couldn’t we have friends? Maybe. If they’re ugly, I’ll think about it. As a slave, shouldn’t I be bowing down to his wishes, doing what he wants, what he tells me to do? Only recently have I started referring to myself as his slave. Of course he’s always called me his slave and I’ve called him my master, but technically, I worry I’m not making the grade, that I’m not official. It’s silly but when I signed up for FetLife, it asked me to identify myself in the community. I chose slave. And yes, it gave me pride and made me feel slightly more official. But I am still afraid of other slaves getting too close. Silly, huh?

I’ve taken a step in the right direction, I think. I’ve joined FetLife and have tried talking with other slaves in the EdenFantasys community. Striking up conversation and maybe friendship is so much easier through a computer, a box to contain people in. I’m trying to open up more. Slowly, it’s working. I will show this piece to him and let him ask me questions, and maybe he will sign up for FetLife, too and we can discover new people together. But would it be too much to ask that I know his password? I will give him mine as well, of course. I said I’m working on this slowly, dammit. It all takes time.

My lover pours kisses all over my body, caressing each sweet spot with enthusiasm. I lie there and squirm uncomforatbly. We are about to have sex and I’m scared to death. He looks into my eyes and enters me. I know it’s going to hurt. I feel that familiar pain in my belly and begin to cry. I push him away. Just another day in my sex life.

Since May of 2007 when I survived an ectopic pregnancy I have had several reproductive maladies. I’ve had one ovary removed after a huge tumor and endometriosis ravaged it. I’ve had countless ovarian cysts and infections. Now I have a buildup of scar tissue and another case of endometriosis and will soon have to report to surgery for the third time in two years. Everyday I look down at my belly and inspect the seven inch scar above my pubic mound. It’s crooked and a blood blister has formed near the middle of the scar. The crooked fault-line has made my belly fat morph into some parody of a mismatched stuffed animal. I’m puffy and lopsided, and feel assymetrical due to the loss of my ovary. I often run my fingers over the scar and then inspect the bubbled scar in my navel, a result from the laparoscopy surgery that removed a large cyst. It’s twisted, pink and white, like a blister. I love my scars and I love my body. I’m just beginning to hate sex.

The man I love lives 300 miles away. I’m in the backwoods of redneck country and he lives in a throbbing metropolitan. Due to the error of geography and fate, we see each other maybe 6 times a year. During those times, sex hurts. Either it’s been too long and my vagina has to painfully stretch around his girthy cock or our first session after seeing each other leaves me chafed and swollen and sore. The last time we had sex, I felt the familiar twinge of belly pain that I recognized instantly. With each thrust, the pressure increased in my lower abdomen. It felt as if he was poking a huge water balloon; I was afraid I’d burst. It hurt, but I hid it well and we continued to have sex. I downed alcohol and smoked enough pot to kill a horse, and this made sex manageable. I was even able to ride him frantically. The pain was gone, thanks to Patron.

I ignored my problem when I returned home. I ignored the cramps and swollen and tender belly. I ordered a dildo from Eden and readied myself for penetration. I thrust the dildo in deep. Deeper. It hurt so much. I kept thrusting through the tears and pain, trying to make the pain go away. I took my medication for anxiety and fell asleep crying. When I woke up, I called my doctor to make an appointment, the same appointment I’d been in there for several times. I got an ultrasound and peed on the bed, which made me burst in tears. I have a follow-up appointment next Wednesday. Then I’ll get a referral for my gynecologist who will do an office ultrasound, then book me for surgery. I’ve done this many times. At least surgery is less painful than a Brazilian wax.

My problems before had me anxious to recover so I could resume fucking my wonderful boyfriend. Now I’m just afraid. I know I’ll clamp my thighs tightly as he tries to enter me. I will tense up. He will try to relax me and go easy on my pussy. It may or may not hurt but I don’t want to find out. I’m scared of the pain. I’m scared of the possibility of pain. I’m scared for my future. I’m scared I’ll lose my sexuality, my lust, my libido for fear of getting hurt again. I don’t want to lose the wiggle in my walk, the swish in my hips as I go over to my lover to tell him how badly I need him and want him.

I know I’ll get over the physical pain soon enough and I don’t mind another scar, another battle wound. I just don’t the twisted emotional scar of being afraid of the thing that used to drive me, that I craved more than anything. I still do crave sex, but I’m so scared. I don’t want to lose my womanhood. Have I lost it already?

I’ve always been in charge of my sexuality, my fire, that burning passion in my body. It’s flickering out and I feel like I’m just letting it go without a fight. The recurring pain is beating out my lust for sex. I only hope that during my recovery, my sex drive and want recovers with it. I don’t want to be a former shadow of my sexy self, too scarred by life to enjoy the throes of passion.