I stood at the door afraid to knock and afraid not to. Beads of sweat rolled down parts of my body not exposed by my fitted low cut shirt and ankle length pencil skirt. In that moment, I questioned the choice to not wear panties. But it wasn’t my choice. It was his, and I obeyed without question. I never questioned him, from the time he slipped me the naughty catalogs on the bar as we watched the naked woman dance seductively on stage to Jimmy Hendrix, to the phone call that gave me directions to that hidden hotel.

In that moment, I thought of how willingly I walked into the devil’s lair without hesitation, or a second thought. Behind that door, I hoped to find the answers to the hunger that panged me. The hardness of the door against my rapping knuckles was almost painful, although I knocked softly. I could feel single hairs rising on the back of my neck and wetness pooling in between my pussy lips. And then, panic. Not from not knowing what to expect, but from the fact that I was late.

He opened the door and stood taller than I had ever seen him. His white skin seemed to glow, and the silver hair that cascaded down his shoulders shimmered. He stood before me a lord, and I, a lamb looking for shelter. I fumbled for words to explain my tardiness and brushed past him. He said nothing, but the locking of the door behind me rung through my ears with a piercing force. Before I turned completely around, he was in my face breathing heavy against my lips. Before I could utter another word, my face was stinging from a swift blow to my cheek. I lost my balance, and my eyes were greeted with uncontrollable tears. But I was not in fear. I felt so good down to the blood that ran to the tips of my toes. I tried to hold on to the sting, but it left as quick as it was delivered, and I wanted more.

No words were exchanged, only actions that a vanilla being would classify as abuse. He did not maliciously abuse me. He ushered me into a world that I had tip-toed around since I was ten. And in a single moment, I fell in love. After our session, he ran to my aid because he thought he had gone too far. He massaged my bruises, and my brown flesh that now glowed red. I took his hand in mine and thanked him for his gift. It was then that I knew I belonged in a world that at the time was so far hidden you needed a password to find.

I am 34 years old. I am a lesbian, bisexual, black, Cuban, vanilla, and submissive. I have watched women have sex for drugs, married men whore out their wives, pastors court prostitutes, women getting gang-banged, subjects pierced with fifty needles, pins driven into nipple holes, fucking machine appendages forced into holes smaller than the tip of my finger, and human ponies. I hold my head high, but behind closed doors, when it comes to my sexuality, I speak with the confidence of one who is proud, and within my soul, I cower from silent judgment.

I cannot make excuses for what I am, because my heart will not allow me this luxury. I can tell my soul what I want it to have while it makes me do what it knows I need. I envy pain sluts for the torture they are able to endure. I admire the pioneers of BDSM who have made a life of teaching those who still hide underneath their white linen made beds. But again, I cannot apologize for who I am.

Am I kinkier than most? I think that is relative. I am different than those in my circle. But behind closed doors, those who have had the privilege of becoming my lovers fall in love with my acceptance of their deviances, even if I just watch and listen. But once we emerge from our respective dungeons and welcome in the light, they refuse to speak of our “moment”. I don’t judge them, even though they would persecute me at the drop of a dime. I relish in the moment we shared and know that I have marked them deeper than the ink that dances up and down my body.

I can look at a being and see their darkest desires. I am drawn to them like a kitten to a crinkling plastic bag. The only difference between me and them is that I can’t stop myself. I can’t turn it on and off as if it never existed. My kinks expose themselves in the simplest of my words. It taunts those who look at me from afar as I twirl my hair. It flashes itself like a streaker on an open field. Even when my thoughts don’t involve sex, it lays there, never dormant. My waters are diseased with kink, and I choose not to become well again. I will continue to self-medicate until my soul calls out its safe word.

My flesh melts while in restraints. It feels as if the rope sinks underneath my skin and binds my bloodstream. I sometimes wish that I could capture what my body goes through in a painting, but a canvas has yet to be made that is big enough to encompass all that I experience. Maybe one day God will let me borrow the sky.

Those who are close to me are surprised that I choose to submit. They, at times, cringe at the scenarios I weave in their virgin ears. But I never speak to those I know truly are offended by my “tastes”. I can tell, you know. I can see through those who send me representations of what they feel a “normal” person looks like. But you can’t truly hide your taste for kink. It is embedded in your flesh like the stench of garbage. But it isn’t pungent; at least not to those of us who share in dark.

I have been called an expert in kink. A beautiful title I would love to have one day. But for now, I consider myself only an expert in knowing what it is that I like. The fascination that I have for BDSM kinks has nothing to do with sex, regardless of how wet it makes me. It is the mental connection and utter trust that I experience when I’m in that “space”. Writing about it makes my nipples stand tall. I could pretend that I don’t like to indulge in edge play and its associates. But if you have ever been a victim of insatiable hunger and desire then you understand why I can no longer hide from that which calls out to me.

I didn’t know what to expect my first time. A part of me thought maybe a little sex with someone who reminded me of Shawn Connery. But my inner being knew the truth. It is what showed me the way to the hotel and got me lost so that I could enrage him and receive punishment unlike that I had ever had the pleasure of partaking in. My soul is that of a submissive, and I never chose for it to be. As I always say, it chose me, and I no longer choose to make excuses for it.

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The women in my family are equally strong as they are weak. What has always been strange to me is how alike they are, and yet fight so hard to be separated from one another and better than the next. Watching this going on as a child always bothered me. There were questions that I had about myself, and when I watched them live their lives, I saw my answers. I just never heard my answers vocalized.

I don’t know at what point I learned of my grandmother’s breast. I knew she was always sad. I knew that she constantly did things to improve herself that left her worse off than what she was. I remember finding empty vodka bottles stashed throughout the house. And I remember when I answered the phone to be greeted by my grandfather’s mistress. But I cannot pinpoint the moment that I saw the source of her unhappiness.

One day I was being my usual pain in ass, and in the way, childish self. My grandmother was shedding her burgundy polyester nurse pants and white polo. I saw the sweat belt she always wore under her clothes to hold in her flabby tummy. But as my eyes wandered up, I caught a glimpse of a prosthetic breast. It was an oval mass that I wanted to grab and squeeze, but instead I blurted out something that she overlooked because of my age. It is all kind of hazy now, but I do recall her saying that I knew she was missing a breast and needed to stop acting like I had no clue, and cease with the questions.

The thing is, that I never knew, and she never explained it to me. Things were said here and there on occasion. But no-one ever sat down and really told me that she was missing a breast. After my first encounter with the fake breast, I watched her chest more and more. I tried to hide my curiosity, but I am sure that she knew that my innocent eyes investigated every inch of her chest. The next time that I got a glimpse of her chest I saw the scar, and it was then that I truly realized that her breast was completely gone.

The scar appeared jagged and poorly done. But I was looking at it through the eyes of a child, and my memory too is that of a child. In my mind, I traced along the scar with my small fingers, and in my mind she explained what had happened to her. But in reality, I only saw it for a brief second, and she never went into details.

I believe that it was my mom who explained it to me, and even that conversation was encrypted. At first, I was simply told that she had cancer. Then I was told that there was a lump in her breast. Then I was told that my grandmother found the lump some time before she went to the doctor. This is where the confusion really hit because gammy was a nurse. Even then, my mind couldn’t wrap itself around the fact that as a nurse she procrastinated for so long to the point that the only choice left was to take her breast.

See, for some reason I always assumed that they took her breast because back then that is what they did. When the whole story came about, I was made aware that out of fear she ignored what she knew was true; there was a lump in her breast, and it was due to cancer.

What we never talked about was the emotional aspect of cancer. What it did to my grandmother reached far beyond the jagged scar across her chest. When she looked in a mirror she no longer saw a woman. She saw deformed being unworthy of being loved. Because she thought that she was unworthy of being loved, she accepted whoever came into her life proclaiming false love. Because she thought that she was unworthy of being loved, she pushed her children far away from herself and pitted them against each other. That thing, that cancer, took away her being.

We never wore pink ribbons or goofy hats to celebrate her life, which God spared. We never participated in any marches or told her story to offer inspiration. We never acknowledged the bright side of things, or how grateful she was. Instead we functioned as if it didn’t exist, and the few moments of my life that one of the women in my family acknowledged it by accident, we brushed it off like we heard nothing. It was as if the cancer was back all over again; a plague over our house.

The women in my family now handle depression and much needed talks in the same regard as my grandmother did her breast. We simply do not talk. No-one ever once stopped to acknowledge what it did to the children. For years I felt up my breast worried that I would find a lump. At 10, I was reading how to give myself a breast exam in the shower.

Some of us have gotten cysts or benign masses in our breast and other regions. And all of us react the same when we find out. In panic. But to this day, they don’t talk about it. Instead they would rather pit each other against one another, and brag about whose kid is the best. Meanwhile, we all have had some type of medical issue that rules our lives for the time it remains with us.

Funny thing is that cancer doesn’t care who’s kid graduated from college or won the spelling bee. Cancer cares not if we are rich, married, have a house full of kids, or a lesbian like me. And yet they still won’t talk. I want to scream at them, “Just speak, damn it!”

Instead I am forced to use deductive reasoning and piece together just how it destroyed my grandmother’s self image. And I’m sorry, but I don’t see commercials that talk about how it destroys families. However, once there was an episode of “Law & Order” that covered the subject. But maybe we don’t see those type of commercials because it is the people who destroy the family unit and not the cancer.

Cancer didn’t make my grandfather cheat because he couldn’t have sex with his wife and saw her as deformed. Cancer didn’t make my grandma dye her hair red to try and please her husband, or become a hording closeted drunk. Cancer didn’t invade their throats and make them not talk. Cancer didn’t turn my grandma into the senile, unhappy, hunchbacked woman she is today. They did it to themselves. The cancer was just an unwelcomed edition.

I love the women in my family, although they suffer from something far worse than cancer. But I hate the cancer. I wonder if maybe my grandma would have never gotten it would her mother have loved her more, and then showed her how to love her own kids. And maybe, just maybe, my mom wouldn’t be exhibiting the same symptoms as her mother did that kept her from loving her children.

Everyday this month, for the first time, I have worn a pink ribbon. I have gotten a mammogram earlier than the normal age to receive them. I talk to my daughter, and I have shown her how to check for lumps. I even check myself in the shower with a little more knowledge than I had when I was 10. Maybe the cancer played some part in the destruction that went on before I was born. But I will not allow cancer to taint my own family. Thanks grandma for the lesson…

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Society tells us that to idolize or worship is to be reserved for those not of earth. And yet from birth we are taught to do these things. Mothers covet their sons, and fathers covet their daughters, and when they grow up, some crave this worship. It’s fresh on their breath like a mother’s breast milk. And some of us seek one on this earth to worship, because in our hearts we feel we were made for this purpose. Is it wrong of me to feel this way? I asked my former Dominant this once, and was told that it was only natural for me to idolize and worship her. She explained that the feeling was as it should be. And I chose not to argue, because she gave me the answer that I had always longed to hear.

But where does this need come from? Is it taught, learned, or just expected and simply done? For me, it invaded my space like a stranger who ventures too close. It happened without warning, without prompting, without words. Before I could analyze it, the feeling took over my being.

What do Gods do? They protect, they deliver, they save, they teach, they chastise, but first and foremost, they connect with something within you that goes deeper than your soul.

I went on an internet search regarding worshipping. I typed in, “Why do submissives’ worship”. What came back to me was a plethora of information on worshipping poses, types of worship-erotic body and submissive body worship, porn videos, personal ads, and spiritual leader advice. What I didn’t find on the first page of Google was what in us, or me rather, makes me crave to worship.

Now let me be clear. It is not a feeling that overtakes me at every turn. It is something that has only invaded me once. And having tasted it, I long for it to grace my being once again. I almost feel ashamed saying that it happened once, and I want it again. It obviously means that the one I once worshipped is no more, and makes me feel like a failure. It makes me feel like I am not worthy and appear this way to others. In my heart, I know the truth. However, in my soul, I cannot shake it.

This one made me feel this way because she spoke to my dark in a way that no one had. For her, I shed my mask and showed my nakedness. She helped me to face my secret demons and expose them for what they were. She also made me feel normal. It sounds funny when I say it, “normal”. All my life I have held on to the title of abnormal, so why would I crave to feel normal. But it wasn’t that. She made my kinks, fetishes, and thoughts feel normal, so that I would not hide from them. She exposed me to a world where others like me roamed. So, of course, during our journey I wanted to worship her. I cried fighting it. But when I shared this with her is when she told me that it was to be expected. So what happened? She did not show me her truth, and in the end used my “tastes” to solidify with her friends that I was crazy and dark. The truth…she was a lie, even to herself.

So this has got me to thinking about the whole idea of it all. Worshipping. Was I wrong? No, I don’t feel that I was. It was what she represented that spoke to my submissive mind. Her “false self” accepted me for what I was, and to repay her for this gift I gave her me on bended knees and lowered head.

Until this day it is hard for me to separate the lie. My soul only knows that she was my Lord. Before her, I had never spoken of my age-play fantasies or edge-play lust. And now it has hit me, as I write. She sent me her representative, and what she represented spoke to me. And it was worthy of being worshipped.

This thing that I am, this submissive nature…I didn’t wake up one morning and decide that I wanted to be this way. It found me. I have always said that a submissive does not choose to be, it chooses her, and if she is lucky she will find the one she was made for. Gender, nationality, location, and all the other little dating site preferences matter not. When the “one” crosses paths with his or her sub they both know. And one day, the sub will be forced to worship and not by his or her Dominant, but by pure unadulterated need.

Worshipping goes beyond the act of kissing one’s feet, or bowing to their presence. Worshipping is the overwhelming need to do simply that…worship. It happens slowly at first, tiptoeing through your thoughts. Then it blows through like a world-wind, and brings you close to tears. You will not want to sleep, eat, awaken, live, or breathe without their permission. And it is natural.
Of Loving Other Gods…

Before I knew what I was, I found myself always wanting more–sexually. Every woman has the fantasy of being made love to in a sensual setting, and having every part of her explored. I too held on to these fantasies for some time, but after a while my fantasies began to turn on me. I no longer had visions of being laid out amongst strewn silk sheets, or watching our shadows dance along the walls in the candlelight. My “fantasies” started to go dark. A hand morphed into rope intricately tied, sweet coos of “I love you’s” evolved into harsh words of derogation, and I no longer wanted to exist as a single entity.

I ignored my urges for some time, hiding behind multiple partners (safely) under abnormal circumstances, but that too wasn’t enough. My urges went past sex. I wanted to give my being over to someone, and feel safe in knowing that I was now a part of them. I wanted to be renamed, for I felt that my birth name was not of me. I wanted to give up the control I displayed at work, and in parenting, and be weak. Weakness for me was not about helplessness as “we” define it. For me, I had power by letting go of mine.

It wasn’t a want for me to have this type of union. It was a need that could have easily replaced nutritional sustenance. But I had to keep this a secret. See, I am a single mother of African-American and Cuban blood. By birthright, I am supposed to be strong and independent. For those in my circle, for me to say that I wanted to give myself over for someone else to control would be a travesty. When I started to research this “thing” that started to take precedence over my life, I saw others like me, but the reasons they shared weren’t in-tune with mine. Sure they talked about love and sex, but I didn’t see “me” in their stories.

One day I found myself looking online at some personals. My search criteria changed from woman looking for woman to submission, slave, bondage, and discipline. As ads popped up, my search list grew, and that is when I realized what I was; submissive born. I went into sensory overload and ended up on the floor in tears, screaming out in an agony whose source was unclear to me.

The next day I was back on-line searching for explanations. I found tons of information from personal blogs, podcasts, e-books, and clubs. But the more I researched, the more hungry I became. For every overseas video I saw on BDSM, I found myself masturbating and longing. It got to the point where I was ravenous, and decided to close myself up in the house so that I wouldn’t do anything unsafe. I wanted to be fucked in an alley by a stranger, and feel concrete ripping my flesh and a fist deep within my womb. I wanted the filth, the danger, the pain, and torment. And because of this I knew I was in no condition to be amongst others. It would have been easy to find a random fuck, but to find one who understood where the source of my need came from, and would protect it and me from myself, wasn’t an easy find.

Some of my past lovers claimed that I was weak and easy to run over and manipulate, which made me unattractive to them. While others simply thought I was a freak. There was one man, during my “erotic entertainer” days, who showed me glimpses of the BDSM world. He would bring me magazines and catalogs, and let me ogle over the pictures. We continued our talks in a hotel room on some deserted road every Monday at 6pm. Those sessions with him never included intercourse, but instead were filled with punishment unlike anything I had ever experienced. And afterwards he was kind, so very kind. He held me taunt and explained to me what we were doing, and made sure that I was okay. But even then I didn’t understand. I thought we were just two closeted pervs. And there was no way that I could tell my friends what I was doing with this Sean Connery look-alike. It was my secret.

I went back to that time during my confinement. I also reread a lot of my poetry and other writings; I even took out a few drawings and paintings that I had forgotten. Then I came across an article on submissive frenzy. It wasn’t like the articles you see now-a-days that solely talk about the frenzy. It explained about submissiveness and showed me traces of the trait throughout my life. And I looked at all of my artistic outbursts in a different way. There were submissive parts of me that tried to show themselves, but I didn’t recognize them for what they were at the time of creation.

I will never forget calling my best “kink” friend, crying and ranting about how I finally realized that there was never anything wrong with me; I was just submissive.

“There is nothing wrong with me, I am just submissive”. Seems simple, sounds simple, right? I envy “pain-sluts” and dream of being collared. I work as an executive assistant because it is the closest I can come in real-life to submitting, but I struggle with it because ultimately I am always given control. I hide within poetry and fictitious stories of submissive super-heroes and lost little subbies. I try to live my life normally and find myself constantly straying away from this path to seek out others like myself.

I am comfortable with who I am. It is natural for me to submit. The quality runs through my words and dictates my actions. My sexual kinks are just an addition to it. The one thing I wonder about is finding one who understands one like myself.

I have had the pleasure of coming across great mentors and teachers, but never one specifically for me. I have also had the misfortune of coming in contact with misrepresentations of what a true dominant is supposed to be.

If you believe in the submissive’s prayer, which I have memorized and plastered in all my journals, then you identify with the connection and purpose mentioned in it. When I close my eyes, I see myself transforming into a root that nourishes a strong and prosperous tree. I feel my limbs taking in water and nutrients in the form of training and knowledge. And in my soul, I understand that one is not complete without the other.

People look at me and think I am just a freak, or the product of abuse. Although these things are true, they don’t make me who I am. I was born submissive before I could understand mistreatment, and I knew of kink before I was ever touched with consent. It runs within my blood. My eyes do not lower, nor my head tilt, or my hand fold simple because I choose.

I believe that every submissive has an owner, and I will remain unclaimed until I am found. It can be a sad place, but in my waiting room I am not alone. It would be wrong of me to just fall for whomever. But I believe that my soul will sing when my true dominant encounters my life. And I am okay with that…the waiting.

I remember watching this movie a long time ago that still haunts me to this day, although I can’t recall its name. The fragments that dance around in my head consist of a storyline that goes a little something like this…

There is a doctor, who I believe to have been a Dom, who is seeing this man’s wife. I gather that she was once his patient before they became involved sexually. Come to think of it, I believe that he was a sex doctor of sorts. So, this grieving man goes to the doctor and begs for him to stop seeing his wife. Instead of granting his wish, the doctor offers to teach him how to please her in a way words can’t capture. The man agrees.

So the part that haunts me?

The husband and wife are in a dark room of some seedy hotel. I could only make out the silhouette of her partially covered body. A leg, a thigh, a hip, her chest heaving up and down, her sweat forming pools on exposed skin, and him – the husband. His hand is plunged deep inside of her. From her erotic moans, I know that he has crossed the line where pleasure and pain meet. She is crying uncontrollably, and flashes of memories attack her mind while reality fights for its spot. After that scene, I remember no more, except that I wanted that moment.

The doctor explained to the husband the correlation between sex, pain, and emotional trauma. The husband needed to bring her to that moment to save her from herself and the clutches of another. She needed to relive the past that haunted her. She needed to cry the song of sorrow. The doctor taught the husband how to reach the G-spot.

I consider myself well rounded sexually. I have had the pleasure of frolicking between the vanilla and the land where sadism and masochism run free. Because I crave so hard, it takes a lot to break me. And like the touch of another, I crave to be broken. This is why the movie has held me captive for so long. He broke her with a single touch. Before recently, I had not had the pleasure of that type of touch.

I have been brought to utter destruction via a fist buried where my soul resides. I have felt the damage a 12×4 dildo can deliver. I have screamed to the Gods for deliverance, and yet have not felt what the one in this nameless movie endured. I guess you can say that I have been on this quest to be her.

A normal orgasm has varied levels that will leave you in many different states. From a blubbering mass to a chain smoking freak; the intensity of the orgasm dictates your state of being. Some orgasms make you cry, while others may leave you laughing. And I heard a rumor once that not everyone orgasms when they have sex. (I am truly baffled by this phenomenon, and a support group needs to be established to help those lost souls.)

I must orgasm when I have sex. This is not a declaration of a spoiled brat. It is my truth, and I have accepted this. If I am refused this luxury, I turn into an evil monster with an insatiable appetite that will hunt for a victim. I don’t like this feeling at all, and it goes against my submissive nature.

In the beginning, I could only have a clitoral orgasm by riding. An old issue of Cosmo traces this back to the subconscious – whatever. The bottom line is that I had to have it that way. Through riding, I was privy to some of the most earth shattering climaxes out there. But I still was not her, my phantom actress.

The first time I was brought to tears had nothing to do with my partner at the time. There was no love, no infatuation, and no butterflies. The act was simply to serve a purpose, and I knew this. But somehow I was penetrated deeper than I had ever been, and I felt an emotion that had no name. I hated that it was wasted on the person I was with, but grateful for the gift. I lost myself in that moment, and for a second I thought maybe I had obtained what my mystery actress had. But I hadn’t. I went somewhere, but not there.

After that experience, I compared all lovers to the one that made me cry. Some exceeded, but mostly fell. But still I had not obtained what I had been looking for. In my mind, I believed that a G-spot orgasm would give me the answer to who I was. I guess I thought that it would help to define me, break me or rebuild me. I would be happy with either.

The night that it happened, there were no candle lights burning in the background nor sweet crooning over the airwaves. I was in the backseat of her car folded into a postion Yoga hadn’t discovered yet. And she had found a way to infiltrate my personae; revealing the lost one I try hard to hide. All of this through a simple act…

I remember her hand going deep inside of me, and then a part of me being touched that hurt but pleasured. It was a different type of pain for me, that flooded me with memories I had buried, emotions I had ignored, and a connection reserved for the gods. I had become my forgotten actress by just a slight of hand.

The difference, for me, when it comes to G-spot orgasm and clitoral orgasm is a long list that I will attempt to shorten. The regular O has so many factors; timing, position, partner, girth, and etc. But the G-spot is much simpler. None of those other things matter. Once it is touched, it is touched, and there is no running away from it. My first time was almost like reliving the moment when I went from virgin to plucked.

I have tried using G-spot toys, and I have found that it is like being broken all over again. I’m on edge, but I want it. I give a little, open up a little more, and brace myself. I try and relax, I try and take it, but it takes much coaxing. I don’t know if it is because I am new to this type of orgasm or if I fear reliving that moment. I am unsure, but I keep trying.

By her touch, it is much simpler. I don’t have to try anything. I know that she is there, that she won’t hurt me, that she will hold me when my nightmares surface, and please me when eroticism takes hold over my senses. And so I allow her to go there.

G-spot orgasms have not become the norm for my sexual play, but I welcome when it happens. I prefer the sporadic encounters, and my mind revels in the release.

I can’t speak for every woman, only myself. And this is my story. Not to be confused with a lifetime movie or a support group admittance. You can’t deny the way sex parallels and even imitates life. And like life, there are those rare occasions when you see light, find God, or have an epiphany. My moment is when my G-spot is touched. What’s yours?

I find myself stuck within that moment…that single moment where we ceased to exist and she and I blended together to become something new. Her fingers reached past the stopping point my pussy had become accustomed to, but I had not the strength to stop her, nor did she show any inkling of retreating. It would be brave of me to say that I allowed her. On the contrary, she took; conquered even. And my soul surrendered at her feet, in the form of wetness and muted screams. And this is what I am imprisoned within; stuck between remnants of a good fuck and a longing to return to a moment I can never have back.

Avery loved when the presence of winter began to cover the ground. She didn’t need the snow itself, or the chaos that came with it as a result of bad drivers that operated their vehicles as if they were foreign objects. No, she enjoyed the coldness it brought with it in its simplest form. As others walked around the city bogged down in fur coats and gaudy wraps, she rushed home to strip down to her bare skin and stand on her balcony in the night air. If the thought of privacy had ever been a factor, she rebelled against it. She explained it to me that night, while we drank cheap wine and listened to music neither of us cared about.

“Take off your clothes and try it.”

“Umm yeah… no, my dear. I will leave the exhibitioning to you.”

Her laugh still rings in my ears. Oddly I felt no jesting in it, but rather a challenge to join her in her freeness. I did, however, partake in watching the night sky cast shadows on her nudity. She rambled on about how she enjoyed the way the air crept between her thighs and kissed her clit. And there was something or another about how it intermingled with her wetness, sending her body into a frenzy. All that I remember, really, is her grabbing my hand and demonstrating just how deep she could consume my tips. That I remember relentlessly.

There were no clearly defined labels in our banter. She attacked me subtlety. A slip of my hand deep inside her womb turned into her breathing heavy against my neck and begging me by digging her nails into my spine to not stop. I accepted her plea, and she thanked me by returning the favor. And that’s when it happened. The beast in me that I had tamed in order to embrace my perception of a true lady fell away, and I had her on her back. Her legs were wrapped tightly around my waist, and her throbbing heat pulsated hard trying to push me out. The empty bottle that once held the poison that ran through our bloodstreams, made for a makeshift dick that she covered with her essence. I smiled at her crumbling; an obvious insult to her psyche. Before I knew it I had been flipped on my back and made to spread like the bitch I pretended not to be.

Our session went beyond pussy sucking and fingering. To this day, I believe the stains of my cum still linger on the railings of her porch, just as the shirt I never washed holds on to her scent some months later. I didn’t mind being stretched across the banister and fed by the same bottle I introduced to her pussy. And I didn’t mind screaming her name, or feasting off of her tears of pleasure. I didn’t mind fornicating before the world in the middle of the night with a random chic that caught the attention of my telescope from across the street. But I do mind rocking back and forth on this cold bathroom floor from withdrawal.

I lie next to her, fighting with my oversized t-shirt to get comfortable and wonder just what she sees in me. I turn my thoughts to my laptop and stare at a blinking cursor and silently scream… “What do you want from me?” And then my daughter skips down the stairs and peeks her head into my room and asks what am I doing sitting in the dark at 3 am. As she walks away, my thoughts envy her freedom, her purple hair, and her mix-matched Chuck Taylors, because they represent what I am not. And again I am back to wondering. This time focusing on who I use to be, and claim to be, and how “they” truly see me.

Everything in my space seems to want something. Even I want something from myself. All of this chaos, and I have a deadline in the morning that I won’t meet. Stale cigarette butts are spewing out of my makeshift ashtray and even they seem to want something. But what is this “thing”?

The infomercial says it’s body image. By their definition, I am not perfect. My writer friends says it’s sense of self, whatever the hell that means. This reflection staring back at me through my web cam says it’s…well it says nothing. I, on the other hand, have loads of disapproving comments to share.

I don’t feel like going to the shrink that I begged to get a session with, and then rescheduled my initial consult five times to date. I don’t feel like hearing how I tattoo my body to escape the pain, and how I am submissive to fuel my addiction for pain. I don’t want to talk about the detachment and love I have for my mother, or how I see her as fragile, and yet she is the one I dedicate my strength to. I could care less how my past makes for far-fetched stories that are filled with words I hide behind. And I really don’t want to hear about how the years of past molestation and rape have molded me into the eclectic being that I now seek to define. If you ask me I can save my money and self-diagnose.

It’s beginning to storm now. I want nothing more than to run out into the welcoming arms of the rain and wash away this “thing” that’s attached itself to me. I can’t call it sadness, nor can I call it happiness. It’s just there, feeding off of me and trying to force my mind to conform to something, anything…I can feel it washing over me as I sit inside, safe from its grasp. I need the raindrops running down my extra flesh, slipping in between my toes, cleansing my hair, and removing the remnants of my drinking binge from the night before.

The rain doesn’t care that I’m in between sizes, or that I have a split earlobe, or crooked tooth, or 14 tattoos, or dark skin, or curly hair. It won’t manipulate my kindness, take advantage of my weakness, or prey on my moments of blondness. The rain doesn’t care that I work a 9 to 5 that is killing me, or that my BP is high for my age, or that my womb may not be able to procreate. It cares little that I appear to have everything and struggle desperately to obtain nothing. It cares not of me…

According to the infomercial, I care little of me as well because I won’t spend $19.95 to improve my appearance. The doc says I care even less because I won’t stop smoking. And sometimes I could care less. But sometimes, on those rare occasions when I’m “feeling” myself, I think I’m kind of beautiful and not just on the inside. Despite my ‘lil belly and short stature I rather like myself…sometimes.

I can’t say that my family ever drilled it into my head that I needed to be slimmer. Instead they threw side-ways remarks at me about my weight. And then when the inking started, the side-ways innuendos became straight forward. It’s funny now when I think about it, because I use to be very thin, and I remember during that time feeling very fat. When I look at the pictures of how I use to be, I am almost disgusted at the thin thing that stares back at me blankly and silently taunts me.

When I walk into Lane Bryant I get looks like I don’t belong there from the other shoppers, and sometimes the way the clothes fit me seem to add to the ridicule. When I go to the next teeny-bopper store I get looks there as if this too isn’t the place for me. I find myself sucking in my belly just a little more, and praying that my bra doesn’t look as if it’s cutting off circulation in my back or adding to the love handles. I am a wo-man without a country.

For everything that screams at me to be smaller, there is someone else telling me I am perfect the way I am. There’s a doctor who says I am obese by medical definition, a daughter who says I’m pretty, a suitor who calls my fatness thick, a horde of scales whose opinions vary as much as the weather changes, and then me. Depending on what day, what time, or what I am trying to fit into determines how I see myself for the moment.

Then there is location. For every state I have been to, my “image” is received differently. In Atlanta, my size didn’t matter, but what I wore did. In Florida, depending on how close to the beach I got played a factor on how I was accepted. In New York, they were too busy trying to get from point A to B to care. The list goes on and on and on. Throw into that, the type of people I associated with at the time ,and a girl’s head could spin right off her neck.

I’m back to watching the rain and wondering just who is this girl that hides behind the name of Spoken Pandora? I am a little over weight. I have breasts that I am ashamed of because I think they are too big. My ass isn’t the “bubble booty” my nationality has come to admire. I prefer to walk barefooted in red clay, and if it was up to me, I would be inked on over 40% of my body. How I see myself is all that really matters, because ultimately that is what determines how high I hold my head in a crowd of strangers, what ventures I choose to pursue, and how much courage I have to live in a shell that others deem unfit.

She had my body pressed hard against the rough brick, and I tried desperately to focus on her words, but all I could hear was my body screaming for her to unleash her anger onto it. Her forearm against my neck had me pinned so tightly that even the air I breathed fought to find escape. But she didn’t care. She didn’t care that my toes barely reached the ground, or that my hands fumbled aimlessly trying to find stability. She needed me to hear her words, and even there I failed her.

My heat pounded against lace panties that were barely hanging on to that little dip between my hip and thigh that she use to love to lick. We had been going back and forth for an hour, fighting over a phone call that she thought I ended too quickly. In her eyes, I had pushed her across her line of tolerance, and we were now frozen in time within a moment that could end all or start something new.

Her spit tasted salty as it hit my trembling lips. I had put off tasting it with my tongue, but the urge took over my faculties, and every part of me was responding in ways that horniness dictated, and I submitted to it.

While she screamed obscenities, my mind heard that “vampire theme” music I loved so much but couldn’t recall by name. She said she hated me…I think… but not really sure, and I saw her fucking me against the same brick that had begun to tear bits of my flesh. I wanted that. For her to fuck me into oblivion and torture my body for whatever imaginary indiscretions she believed I had taken part in. Then again, I had always been that “why argue when you can fuck” type of girl.

Maybe if I had received her type of discipline in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this moment on the brink of destruction. Deep down though, I believe destruction was what I craved.

“Are you even fucking listening to me?! I swear to God, I will take every inch of air from your sorry excuse of a carcass if you don’t answer me!”

“Yea Michele, I hear you. What else you want me to say?”

I purposely fucked with her, just to see the anger. It was a type of foreplay whose pleasure I couldn’t contain in a mere word. Her anger was a monster of its own, and I liked little monsters. Tonight I wanted hers to play with me…fuck the call, it didn’t matter.

Michele did more than pull my hair and drag me. She completely ripped the panties she had tried to tear from my lightly shaved pussy only moments ago, grabbed my neck, and walked me to the bed. But I didn’t have the pleasure of enjoying its softness. Instead I had the pleasure of choking on every inch of her man-made cock, while on my knees and crying for deliverance.

While I gagged and slobbered on her dick, she pulled her belt out of the few loops it hung to and put it around my neck. I felt it getting tighter, and I tried to continue servicing her, but I couldn’t breath. I could feel my body tightening, and my eyes began to sting…and I…I… loved it. I loved it all. But joy was not an emotion she needed to see. She needed to see the authority she had over me through my eyes.

Michele used the belt to turn me around and bend me over. And while she fed me with all of her 10 inches she pulled on the belt, turning me into her personal fuck pony. My pussy hugged on to it tight, and I kept telling myself not to push her out. But between my wet, her girth and force, and my shaking body I thought it was inevitable it would slip out. I just hoped she nut first and I reached at least one orgasm.

I didn’t even get to the one before she had pulled out and replaced her dick with her fist.

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Fuck Yes!” I screamed ‘til my throat felt like someone had ran sandpaper along it.

And I came all over her five digits, as she laughed at how easy I had turned from deviant to pleasing.

“Now, who was on the phone?”

“The slut you are fucking when I go to work. She is still on the line if you want to speak to her. I didn’t hang up.”