insidesuzyssoul












Lipstick used to make a symbolic kiss.

Image via Wikipedia

Thank Heaven for the Last Train

So, here we are again Diary; another day, another meet. And to think we were just about to give up on meeting couples altogether. It’s always like that though, just when we decide to knock it all on the head, not just one person, but also often a whole host of people in a flurry of interest, message us. Nothing much comes of it usually, but this time we did actually get to meet.
They sent us a lovely message, acknowledging that they were probably a bit outside our age range, and understanding that we were a soft swap couple and they had no intention of pushing us outside our boundaries. Paul and Sally was a couple in their late forties. She was apparently bisexual and attractive for her years. He was a genuinely nice man, although not the sort to make me think of sex. He made me think of my daddy, even though he wasn’t that much older than me.

My daddy… I fell in love with my daddy when he left after my mother divorced him. During my late teens I shamefully realised that I fantasised about him and kept a picture of him on his wedding day in full Teddy Boy style quiff and drainpipe suit. I used to marvel over his resemblance to James Dean and thought how handsome a couple my mum and dad made on their wedding day.
I was to be reunited with my daddy many years later. He had missed my adolescence, and when he saw me, I had transformed from a gawky pre teen into a breastfeeding mother of one, who bore a striking resemblance to his ex wife. Daddy used to hit the bottle quite a bit. It was one night when he had been drinking steadily while I was visiting him with his granddaughter, that he called me over to his side. “Let Daddy give you a massage” he said.

Paul and Sally had been together for four years and were committed to each other. I chatted to Paul on msn, and established that he was very comfortable with watching me play with Sally. In fact he had never full swapped before, but Sally had once. She was a psychotherapist, which came as some relief to me, as surely she would be relatively sane and aware of the pitfalls of playing in the polyamorous arena. I was so tired of encountering mentally unstable women in the swinging scene, so far, so good.
In our chats, Paul asked me if I was comfortable kissing. It seemed important to him. I replied that I always kissed the woman. That was very much a part of the bi experience for me. Kissing another man, on the other hand, was not so easy to guarantee. I told him that that depended entirely on chemistry and my mood at the time. I didn’t entirely rule it out, which I later grew to regret.
We set a date to meet. We had to travel outside London to meet them. We noted the time of the last train home, popped my rubber knicker strap–on in my handbag and set off.
Well the evening was pleasant enough. We chatted freely with them in a quiet bar in town and they invited us back to Paul’s home to take things further. I had made a conscious decision I was not going to drink, as I wanted to stay in full control of my emotions this time. A very wise decision as it turned out.
Small talk turned into an invitation upstairs to play. After all, we were on a tight schedule and only had a few hours to play before the last train.
We all trooped into a small neat bedroom upstairs and we all somewhat awkwardly disrobed. It felt odd and quite artificial doing that. Almost as if we were some kind of sacrificial lamb… gosh no that sounds too dramatic! Anyhow, I started off (as usual) by kissing Sally. She wasn’t very responsive. Oh no, not one of those lizard kisses again…Hmm? Was she really bi? Or did she just not fancy me? I really wasn’t getting much reciprocation from this lady. She seemed to cheer up a bit when Dexter came near. I’m not surprised really. He’s quite a sexy beast. But still. It really wasn’t the idea for me to just be there to loan out my man to some other woman. I had no intention of swapping my Dexter for her man. That was not a fair trade!

I decided to up the ante and see if the lack of response was just a false start.
I went down there. (Grey pubic hair, oh dear. Keep going, keep going.) Oh dear, seemed that this lady didn’t wash before she planned to meet. The feast I was about to undertake was going to be a pungent one. I’m no fussy eater, unlike Dexter, so I stoically lapped on. The response really was not forth coming. I knew my technique wasn’t the problem. I had been validated enough in the past. Then Dexter joined me. I saw him flinch and pull a bit of a face as he started. Lucky for him I had already had the lion’s share of pungency. We continued to kiss and lap between her thighs and she began to respond. Paul came over and touched me. It didn’t feel great, but I thought I better not show my feelings. I didn’t want to hurt his. I should’ve listened to my inner voice then, in retrospect. Then what I didn’t want to happen, happened. We split up into two male/female couples. We had swapped.

Nooooooooooooooooooo!
Sally seemed to be really enjoying Dexter’s attention. She was diving in for kiss after kiss and was enjoying his manual skills. Paul had his hands inside me. He was trembling, face flustered, breathing shallowly and rapidly as he descended for the kiss. I shut my eyes tight.

Daddy sat behind me hands on my shoulders. I felt his firm fingers kneading and circling my tense muscles. This felt wrong. What was the matter? It was just a massage after all. Stop being silly,Suzy. Then I realised what the problem was. The sound of the television faded into the background as I focussed on the source of my anxiety. His breathing; it was odd. He was trembling. He was sounding like a man aroused! His touch wasn’t right. This wasn’t right. I got up and ran to the bathroom.

I tried to shut out the memories of Daddy and the paedophile trembling between my thighs but to no avail. It wouldn’t go away. Something had to stop. I looked across at Dexter willing him to look at me and see my obvious discomfort. Sally was keeping him far too busy, as she sucked greedily at his cock. I battled with my discomfort versus my manners. I hadn’t said that I wouldn’t do this, so how could I stop it without appearing rude?

STOP!

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at me. I made light of it.

“If you are going to do what you are doing Paul, you better get a towel before its too late!”
(Female ejaculation to the rescue; who’d have thought it?) Despite what most people imagine, it is very possible for me to ejaculate without feeling anything at all. I don’t know if that is due to abuse issues, but it can be used as a performance tool. Give the audience what they are baying for…

So there I was, 16 and finding myself making the trip to Bob’s house. Bob was a man I had met at the local bar. I looked much older than my years, could easily get in. He wasn’t terribly handsome, stocky, with a beard. He did have eyes that glinted, cold, blue eyes that drew me in.  Bob and I had an arrangement. We would party with his best mate who lived next door. They were both married. That was evident from his house, the frilly dressing gown hanging behind the door, the make up in the bathroom cabinet. So Bob, and his friend (can’t remember his name, just remember he was blonde.) and I would get on down. Do the dirty. Sometimes another man would come and sit and watch. Something didn’t feel right about him. I knew I didn’t want him touching me. He gave me the shivers. We met quite often. Once I felt unsafe and hid in the bedroom while they discussed who was going to do what to me. All I could think was I needed to get home because my mum will kill me if I don’t get home. I think I ended up offering special favours in order to procure my lift home. I think there were a few tears involved too.  
One evening we were going to ring the changes. They were going to take me somewhere. We got in the car and Bob and mate whispered conspiratorially in the front. We arrived at an apartment block. We climbed the stair,knocked on the door. The door swung open and we walked inside. There in front of me was the fattest man I had ever seen. I couldn’t get the image of Bluto from Popeye out of my head. The mixture of fear and surprise and the surreal image before me made me giggle.
“Masturbate!”
Bob and mate barked out their orders.
So I did. Thank goodness it doesn’t show when a girl isn’t aroused like it does on a bloke. I acted and performed like an Oscar winning When Harry Met Sally clone.
Good performance equalled safe trip home.
I got my ride home.
That was my last visit to Bob’s house.
 A few weeks later, the man who used to watch me, who gave me the shivers, beat me up at the pub where I met Bob. No one helped. He said he hated me because I didn’t want him. I hated him too.

So doubled over towel in place, we resumed the play.

I cursed myself for not seizing the opportunity to move over to Dexter. Somehow I felt powerless to change the order of things. I duly gave Paul the water feature he was so desperate to see. He leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “Is it alright?”
What could I say? If I were to tell the truth his feelings would seriously have been hurt. So I pursed up my mouth and nodded my head in affirmation and hoped for quick release.

Darling Dexter saw what was going on. He introduced the idea of my strap on into the gathering. I could see that Sally was disappointed. She was more than happy with Dexter, a rubber dick could hardly compare. Black rubber dick to the rescue, I donned my manly knickers and set to work.
Needless to say, it didn’t go well. She clearly wasn’t enjoying being humped by a woman wearing a rubber dick. She was dry as a bone down there and complained of discomfort. Despite Dexter’s tireless effort to gee me on, the strap on was abandoned. The time had conveniently ticked on, and it was time to leave for the station to catch our last train. We all hurriedly dressed and left for the station. We pondered why we had been dropped off at the station a good twenty minutes before the train was due in.

Perhaps she couldn’t take that rubber dick any more.

Dexter and I both agreed, that was an experience not to be repeated.

They were lovely people, but definitely not our sort of bedfellows.




The Wake-up Call

Mood : devastated, empty

 

Dear diary ,
Oh my god oh my god oh my god!
Tonight was the worst night of my life! We just got back from the swinging club and I think that maybe it’s over between Dexter and me. I can’t stand it, I don’t understand.
What did I do?
All I know is that I’ve just spent an hour standing next to Dexter in silence waiting for a bus, feeling like the loneliest person on the planet. Now he’s lying next to me, not saying a word as I write this.
I never thought I’d find myself in this situation with Dexter. We can usually talk about anything. But right now, it looks like I’m the last person he wants to talk to, and quite frankly, I’m amazed that he’s still here at all. I’m sitting here barely able to see the screen as I type this on my laptop; the tears are running down my face.

Maybe if I tell you what happened tonight, I may be able to see more clearly where things went wrong for me. I sure hope so; I so want this relationship to work and would do anything to keep it. At the moment it feels like it’s hanging on by a thread.

Okay, this is what happened.
We had invited two other couples along to the club, a sexy experienced black couple who were travelling down quite a distance to meet us, and another interracial age gap couple similar to us. I had been chatting to the woman from the latter couple (Dee) for quite a while online and we had developed quite a rapport. I was looking forward to meeting her in the flesh. It had taken some time to gain her trust as her man without her knowledge made the initial contact. He had chatted to me online and his conversation had quickly turned sexual. She had felt quite threatened by this, so I had spent time reassuring her that I was not going to try and steal her man, quite the opposite, I was more interested in her. Her self-esteem wasn’t great, despite being a very attractive woman and I had spent quite a few hours reassuring her through online conversations that both Dexter and I found her attractive.
We arrived at the club, which was busier than usual. I went to the ladies room to change into my rubber dress for the night. It was hard to get on, but eventually I did it.
I chatted to Dangermouse who looked pretty worse for wear. It was early in the night but she had clearly been drinking heavily. She sprayed me with silicone spray so I was all shiny while she related her story of how she hated her own body since she had been taking steroids as part of her medication for her illness. She had been seriously ill, close to death in fact, and I think that this had impacted emotionally on her very hard. It would explain her reckless, self-destructive behaviour that we would witness later on. I sauntered out of the ladies’ and basked in the attention that I received. Oh I felt good.

We spotted Dee and Jerome (Jerome looked so young! There was no attraction for me there at all!)  we tried to make them feel at home. That was hard as they were both clearly terrified. Dexter chatted away with them and did a sterling job of making them feel at home as much as possible. I was ever conscious that the other couple were due to arrive and I went outside to welcome them in. The woman was very sexy indeed. I hadn’t had the opportunity to chat to her; all the initial contact was made by her man. I hoped she found me as attractive as I found her. I didn’t really feel any way towards her man. He was a nice enough man, but didn’t make me feel like she made me feel.
My attention was seriously divided that night. So I ended up chatting to Steve and Beverly, the black couple and thought that Dexter would look after Jerome and Dee and come and join the conversation with Steve, Bev and myself when he was ready to do so. I ended up kissing Beverly and going down on her; it seemed the natural thing to do. I wondered where Dexter was. I would have loved for him to join in with me. I felt a pair of hands creep towards me. I panicked…who’s hands were they? I looked down and realised they were Steve’s. Although I didn’t really want his involvement, I thought it would have been rude of me to take them away, so I allowed him to touch me, and I returned my attention to the very gorgeous creature in front of me. I felt another pair of hands touching me from behind as I was kissing Beverly, so I ducked down to kiss elsewhere, avoiding the touch from behind. I really didn’t want this to turn into a free for all, ideally I would have been happy to just play with Beverly and Dexter.
Dexter called me to look at an attractive woman who was being fucked by some geeky dude. She was a squirter just like me. I was a little confused at the significance of this interruption. I had seen that scenario at swinging clubs a hundred times over.
He walked off.
I stopped playing with Bev and wondered where he had gone. Why was he acting so strangely? Oh well, I was here to enjoy myself and I wasn’t going to spend my time walking around looking for him. I didn’t want to restrict Dexter’s movements in the club; that would have made me look really possessive. He would find me if he needed me, I figured.

My friend Queen of Sheba introduced me to a friend of hers. He clearly wanted to play. I think she must’ve said something about my squirting because he seemed to be on a mission.  I didn’t really want to, but I had nothing else to do and I figured that if I let him touch me and made no attempt at reciprocating that would be okay. If I distanced myself from what was happening to me that would remove my burden of guilt. It was only his fingers, what was the big deal?

In previous visits to this same club before I had met Dexter, I had let countless anonymous people touch me. The strange thing was though, that although the idea was appealing, the reality of it was strangely dull. I felt removed, distanced, as if I was watching someone else being the focus of attention. I could hear myself moan and groan but couldn’t equate that with any feelings of bliss. In fact feeling anything would have been good, the best I could feel was numb.  I made noise to keep myself from being involved. I was performing, and the very point of performing is to please others. The louder I groaned, the quicker I hoped the finale of the performance would arrive.

And so I found myself in a familiar environment, in a familiar position, moaning and groaning to speed up the process. Every now and then I would bear down to achieve the much anticipated (and I think over-rated) gush. I wasn’t coming. This was no proof of orgasm.  I felt nothing. This was faking it on a dramatic level. If he thought he was doing a good job, he would end it sooner, surely? I felt uncomfortable performing. I knew deep down that it couldn’t be a healthy thing to do but I was stuck in a groove, re-enacting a familiar part in a familiar play on a familiar stage. It seemed to go on forever and I got increasingly loud as I looked towards a speedy conclusion. I looked up and saw Dexter dancing with the lady friend of the dude who had his hand inside me. At least he was having fun, I thought.
Lucky him.
Eventually the man withdrew his hand and I was free to go: job done. I had provided the prerequisite puddle on the floor to prove what a fabulous job he had done on me. If only he knew.

I found it hard to get through to Dexter. Half of the time was spent wandering around trying to find him.

In my search I couldn’t avoid noticing Dangermouse jumping onto countless naked dicks and riding away bareback. Did that woman have a death wish? And why did the men let her do that? Why did her husband let her do that too? I had really presumed that in a swinging club full of open minded adults, safe sex would have been a given. Clearly it’s better and safer not to presume.

I felt really foolish in front of our guests as they witnessed me wandering around looking for Dexter. My irritation at him grew as the night wore on. He wasn’t behaving like the Dexter I knew. He had never been like this before.  I eventually found him sitting with the interracial couple we had invited along. His face looked like thunder. I knew that he didn’t want to be there. I went to sit with him to talk to him. I asked what was wrong but he just said he was bored. I knew that was rubbish. We could sit doing nothing at home with each other and still not be bored so why should he be bored in this stimulating environment? No, I knew he was masking his true feelings, and that unwillingness to communicate honestly with me was really pissing me off. I felt totally ineffectual at dealing with the situation. If he wasn’t honest with me about the real reasons behind his mood, how could I help resolve it?
I needed the bathroom. Unthinkingly, I gave my tiny handbag to Dexter as I really had no need for it in the ladies’, and started to walk through the crowd on the dance floor towards the ladies toilet. A hand reached out and grabbed me; it belonged to the co-owner of the club who turned out to be another friend (and ex fuck-buddy) of Sheba.

“Go on, dance with me!” he demanded.
Although I needed to urinate, I thought I could hang on for the length of the average record. I didn’t see the harm in dancing. How could anyone take offence to a dance? So I danced. He didn’t try and get too close, I didn’t see the harm. My rubber skirt rode up, I was aware of not wanting to expose too much flesh in this situation, so I pulled it down sharply. Oh no! It tore. A whole handful of the skirt came off in my hand exposing a great big area of my bottom Oh dear that was most unfortunate and embarrassing. My dancing partner pointed out to me that Dexter wasn’t looking too happy. That just made me mad. How unreasonable was Dexter being? I was only dancing. I hadn’t restricted his movements in the club, and jealousy was not something I thought belonged in a swingers club. The previous irritation I had been feeling for Dexter and frustration of not knowing why he was so grumpy seemed to boil up inside of me.
“Oh its ok, that’s his issues” I said.
I could understand if he was mad with me for doing something other than dancing it just seemed so unreasonable for him to be sulking right now .The dude who had played with me before came over and started to dance behind me.
That’s when I saw Dexter get really mad, he got up and grabbed me by the arm and marched me upstairs to talk. He was clearly angry to a degree to which I’d never before witnessed. Upstairs was locked so we never did get to the bottom of the problem, and the night ended up both of us standing in silence waiting for our night bus home. And here I am crying and wondering where it all went wrong….

Thursday evening

Hello diary. I feel a bit better now.
Things are clearer.
God, I love this man of mine. I’m feeling pretty fragile, as I know now just how close I was to losing him on Tuesday night.

Dexter invited me out to lunch at our local gastro pub. We hadn’t really managed to talk about that night’s goings on, so I was pretty nervous about what he was going to say to me. He sat down and opened his heart to me. Told me just how he felt. I had had no idea that he had been feeling like I was ignoring him!  That was odd to hear because I had felt almost the same.
I thought he would rather be with other people that night and I didn’t want to ‘cramp his style’ by hanging off of him. After all it was a swingers club; we were there to interact with others so I confused his hurt / rejected /ignored signals for aloofness.
It did confuse me, hence my building anger. It seems like I had behaved like an idiot without realising it. If only I had known that my lovely man wanted my interaction and attention! And to find out that those were his hands that I had ducked out of that time. No wonder he had felt so rejected. Baby, I didn’t know!

As he sat there and poured out all the hurt and anger that he had felt that night, I was overwhelmed with so many mixed emotions. I was scared that I could bring such vitriol and violence out of my man. I was touched that he cared enough about me to be so hurt by my seeming rejection of him. Most of all, I was grateful that he was still there, in front of me trying to sort this situation out. That emotional investment touched me. I had never met any other man who was prepared to look past my complexities and try and understand my troubled, confused behaviour in such a challenging situation. It all got a bit much for me as his obvious hurt and anger poured out. I fled to the bathroom to have a good cry on my own. He didn’t like to see me cry so I needed to get away to let the tears flow unrestricted. I just let it all pour out of me. I was so sorry that my lack of sensitivity at that club almost cost me the best relationship I have ever had. I was frustrated that I couldn’t seem to explain my motivation for behaving the way I did without looking like a fool. Why couldn’t I behave like other women? What was the problem with me? I knew the abuse I had gone through in the past held the key, but I had no idea of how to use it to unlock the padlock of confusion.

I just let the tears fall until I had none left. I knew I looked a mess but I felt safe in the knowledge that my man would look past that, so I bravely ventured back into the pub, crumpled tissues in hand, secretly praying that it wasn’t too packed with customers. Turned out it didn’t matter. All I saw was my man sitting there. He filled my whole world that day. When he looked at my swollen red face, with a look that only a man who deeply cared could muster, I knew we would get through this. I knew he understood that I would never knowingly go out to hurt him. Sometimes it’s good to show pain and sorrow. My dejected blotchy face was worth more than a hundred sorrys. We held hands across the table. I caught my breath in that pathetic way that a baby does after it has been sobbing for a while and my bottom lip quivered.

No more swinging clubs.
Something inside me told me they weren’t good for either of us. I clearly couldn’t handle being in that situation with a man that I loved. I couldn’t switch off knee jerk behaviour that stemmed directly from hardwiring from my difficult past. I couldn’t adapt. Dexter had often suggested that maybe the scene was contributing to my abuse issues and making them worse and he didn’t want to be responsible for that. I had always refuted that claim. I stubbornly maintained that I could stay on top of the situation and behave in an appropriate manner in a swinging club situation. Tuesday night had shown me just how wrong I could be. Dexter was right. I could not behave appropriately and with awareness in those situations. Oh it’s so hard to admit to being damaged. Someone please fix me.

I was young, barely 16, and I was seeing a much older, cooler man who was well loved and respected in our local community. He was an ex surfer, with the prerequisite blonde dry hair, deep tan and pale blue eyes. He ran his own seafood restaurant in the nearby seaside town and was quite the catch. I never quite understood how I had managed to catch such a man; I can’t quite remember how I was introduced to him in the first place. We didn’t date, I didn’t question that. He would just pick me up in his open top sports car and take me back to his very stylish bachelor pad at the nearby marina where we would have sex. He had a yacht moored just outside and the living room windows opened up straight onto the waterfront. This was seductive stuff. I wish I had the knowledge I have now, back then and could have seen that I was nothing more than a sexual object.
In my eyes Ronnie was my boyfriend and I was lured in by his glamorous lifestyle and his pale blue piercing eyes.
I stared up at those eyes as he lay on top of me. We had had sex three times already and now he was starting over again. Not that I was complaining, I loved making him happy. We had barely begun when there was a commotion. A big gang of men, around eight of them, walked into his house seemingly uninvited, hadn’t he locked his front door? They seemed agitated but they clearly knew Ronnie, not that Ronnie seemed pleased to see them. They burst into the bedroom; saw Ronnie and me in bed. One of the men seeing what was going on said,
‘We gonna get ourselves some of that’
I wondered what he meant.
I soon found out.
Ronnie got out of bed and went to go and speak to the men in the living room. Some of the gang leered at me, as I pulled the sheets up around my nakedness. I heard voices being raised and an argument broke out. One of the men ran into the bedroom, ran straight up to the wardrobe, opened it up and took out a suitcase. Ronnie started to shout and jump up and down to try and reach it as the man held it over his head. Ronnie was not tall, his attempts at retrieving the case were futile. Then I heard the man holding the case say:
“I’ll give you the drugs in exchange for the girl.”
The next thing I knew all the men were in the room and it was quite clear that I was some sort of drug trade-off. I froze. I didn’t know Ronnie was a drug dealer, but I suppose it explained the flash bachelor pad and yacht, the restaurant business doesn’t pull in that amount of money when I came to think about it.

Did I scream? No. Did I fight? No. Did I even protest slightly? No. I found myself in a strange state of limbo where I found myself unable to respond as man after man penetrated me and collapsed after climaxing inside me. One face blurred into the next as I stared straight up at their eyes, imploring them silently to stop. I was numb. I didn’t feel any pain or pleasure, just a deep sense of horror and fear and confusion. Why was this happening to me? Why wasn’t Ronnie doing anything to help?
I recognised the next face that loomed over me. I recognised a local man who I knew from around the way, I knew that he was due to be married in the morning. I smiled as he pushed his erect penis into my semen drenched pussy and started to pump away. I was waiting until he was about to come…
At the moment of his orgasm I sank my teeth deep into his neck and drew blood.
‘Go and explain that one to your wife in the morning when she walks down the aisle with you” I whispered.
I didn’t know if he heard me.
He swore.
“Fucking bitch! What you have to go and do that for? Watch out boys, this bitch bites!”
The rest of the men made sure they had their hands firmly over my mouth as they had their fun.
I don’t know how many times they did it. I don’t know how long it lasted.  I don’t know how I got home. I put it to the back of my head in a file labelled “stuff to ignore” and got on with my homework.
I never saw Ronnie again.



{August 18, 2011}   Looking back to go forward

A girl with her possible boyfriend.

Image via Wikipedia

Hello again diary.
I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching.  Dex and I have been having a few arguments just lately. Nothing we can’t resolve but to make sense of it all I’ve had to go back, right back into my past to confront my demons to understand my present behaviour. All therapists agree that writing down stuff is a good way to sort out our head, so I suppose that you will have to suffice as my therapist right now. Hope you don’t mind. But here goes…

You might say I’ve had an interesting past. For years I couldn’t answer the question: ‘When did you lose your virginity?’ and that’s because I honestly couldn’t work it out. That part of my life was definitely foggy. Dexter often comments to me that I tell many versions of stories and that he has a hard time working out the truth. It’s taken him time to understand that it’s not deliberate on my part. I really believe that the things I tell him are the truth. The fact is that when that stuff happens, I genuinely don’t know what the real truth is, so I try and logically work out what the truth may have been from the fragments of memory left over.  Does that make any sense at all?
Gosh, I can’t help feeling that I’m sounding a bit crazy right now.
But diary, you can’t judge me so I am safe to continue.
It could have been John, my friend’s brother who I was seeing at the time.
I was 13 and he was in the 6th form. Highly inappropriate, you might say. And you’d be right to say that. The truth is, I didn’t even find him that attractive. At that age, all that mattered to me was that he was a boy and he found me attractive. Just being desired was enough. His age just made it all the better.
I felt so grown up.

So the beginning of my transition from girl to woman began with John or was it David? It really is hard to know. Who came first: the schoolboy or the paedophile? Why does my memory blur so?

John was my first proper boyfriend. I was a freshman in high school; young, innocent, albeit with raging hormones, and keen to be accepted into the exciting new environment. My classmate, Cassie, said her brother fancied me and would I be his date for the Graduation Dance? Oh boy. I didn’t have to be asked twice. This was an opportunity not to be overlooked. Of course I went and he got to second base in his mates flash MG with me on the way home. So we started on our little relationship. I pretended to love him because I needed to look cool and I wanted, nay needed, to be in love. The funny thing is, if you pretend for long enough you start to believe in the lie. So there was I, thirteen and in love with a seventeen year old boyfriend and all was well.

It was important for me to be cool you see; because I was a good girl. I couldn’t help it could I? I was one of those quiet, well-behaved girls at school who just gets on with her work. I was a biddable daughter, a pleaser, always reasonable, always relied upon to do the right thing. I was teachers pet and a guaranteed prize-winner on prize giving night. I needed to get out of this goody -two-shoes prison that I had constructed around me. I was fed up of being the good girl. I wanted to be bad. Little did I know how bad I would eventually become.

Alright diary, let me get back to the story.
So I was with John, we were just regular kids playing at love, going to the cinema, hanging out together, kissing and cuddling and the occasional grope, nothing more.
Then one Saturday afternoon my mum dropped me off with a group of my girl friends to go and see Heidi at the cinema matinee. John didn’t want to come. I didn’t blame him. Heidi was hardly teen flick material.

Now let me explain about my mother. She meant well. She just tried a little too hard to protect me. Deep down, I think she was afraid of my burgeoning sexuality as her own high sex drive had adversely affected her life and made her make some wrong choices. It made her afraid for my safety. So I wasn’t allowed to be comfortably sexual. My hormones were surging through my system making me think and feel bad thoughts. It was dirty; it was to be avoided at all costs. Nice girls like me didn’t do that. So sex was ignored, outlawed, vilified, became Suzy’s enemy number one. She didn’t realise that she was as ineffectual as King Canute trying to hold back the tide. Unbeknownst to her, I had been masturbating furiously to my dad’s not so carefully hidden soft porn collection from the tender age of eight. I looked forward to their trips to the supermarket so I could be alone with the huge pile of dirty magazines and put my right index finger and fertile imagination
to some use.
All mum’s protective behaviour, while well intentioned, had a dangerous side effect: it made me naïve. There I was, a horny, nubile innocent thrust into the big bad world of grown ups. I was looking for opportunity to break out of my squeaky clean prison cell and be bad. Surely that was a recipe for disaster.

So, there was pigtailed Heidi gambolling across the daisy strewn Alps on the cinema screen. There was I, lying back in the plush cinema chair, long blonde hair trailing over the back of the seat, aching for some stranger to touch it.
My wish was to be granted.
Before long I was no longer concentrating on the screen, but closed my eyes in sheer bliss as an unknown pair of hands expertly caressed my hair. I tingled down to my toes. Oh that felt even better than masturbating!
I wanted more and I got it.
When the lights finally went up, I looked across at the man who had had his hands under my bra. I hadn’t even bothered to open my eyes when he had moved from behind me to sitting next to me. Somehow my not knowing who he was made the thrill more intense, naughtier. I was able to sink into my well-rehearsed sexual masturbatory fantasy world.

I was pleasantly surprised at the man sitting next to me. He was very much more handsome than John. And goodness me, he was not a boy either: I metaphorically patted myself on the back.
I had gone and bagged myself a real man.

Now this was it. I was cool. This was irrefutable proof. This man must think I was much older than my years. He must have thought that I was really sexy and grown up. Was I going to tell him I was only thirteen? I wasn’t going to spoil the moment. He probably wouldn’t notice.
David Jones, thirty six years old, became my boyfriend number two. But I didn’t tell John. I didn’t see the point. I just felt even cooler; I was two timing my boyfriend with a man. At last I had real credibility.

He would pick me up from school in his souped-up car everyday. The word would go around the playground: ‘Suzy’s boyfriend’s here!’ and I would totter off, in a cloak and high heels of cool, admired by my peers.
I had done it. I was officially cool!
I hoped John didn’t know though.
Every day my new man and I would drive to the beach nearby my house, just not near enough to be noticed by my mother or neighbours. I made some excuse of an extra curricular activity at school to explain my tardiness. I became an expert liar.
We would sit in the beach car park, reclining in the front seats and kiss and fumble. He never got past first base though. He wouldn’t disrespect me like that. My David loved me. He wasn’t crass like the boys at school. He knew how to treat a lady. He would buy me ice cream and chewing gum and tell me how he loved me. Oh I felt so grown up.

Then one day, a few months later, he took a detour on the way home. Instead of going to the beach, he took a right turn and headed up to a mountain drive. He explained that he needed to talk to me. I started to feel funny. Was that nervousness causing the butterflies or excitement? I wasn’t quite sure. We pulled up in a parking space at a deserted picnic spot. He held me gently and whispered that he had to go away to the army. He loved me and would miss me when he was gone. I started to panic. I didn’t want him to leave me- not now! He explained that he had to go on a training camp and would write to me every day. Before he left he wanted to give me something special.
I grinned in expectation. I looked around in anticipation for the gift; maybe it was one of those teddy bears that said I love you on it. I liked those.
Instead he reclined my seat as far as it would go. He climbed over the gear stick and crammed his body into the foot well between my trembling thighs.
What was he doing?
He then started to sweat and tugged my panties aside. I froze.
What was he doing?
He pushed his face greedily between my thighs muttering over and over again:
‘I just want to make you happy. I just want to make you happy.’
Happy?
How did this thing he was doing to me equate to happiness? Ouch it hurt!
Whatever he was doing felt like nasty pinching, sucking and biting. It certainly didn’t feel good, or right. For the first time, I felt scared.
Why was my love acting like this?
He got up, face all red from his efforts, opened the car door, dragged me over to a large boulder , pressed me up against it , and with a single grunt he penetrated me. Blood trickled down my thighs. I had become a woman.

If only my mother had thought to tell me about paedophiles.
Maybe I would’ve been able to see through the thin veneer of teenage longing for romance and acceptance.
Maybe I could have recognised his grooming techniques.
Maybe I could have seen David Jones for the paedophile rapist that he was. But instead, I was thirteen and hopelessly infatuated with a man who had just raped me.
I even had a pet name for the weapon: Torty.
He taught me to kiss Torty discreetly on the beach so that people didn’t see.
I became proud of my ability to make Torty happy. I loved the way Torty would stand up proudly when he saw me. His love for me was irrefutable.

Around this time, John and I embarked on a full sexual relationship.
I can only surmise that this must’ve been the time when David was away. We had access to an older brother’s mate’s flat nearly, complete with a king-size bed and alcohol. Whoo hoo! When the flat wasn’t an option, we made do with al fresco; there was always a quiet place in some bushes.
I used to chuckle at how my mother thought I had suddenly developed an interest in nature. If only she knew. Now at last, I felt bad. But oh so good!

Well diary, that’s how it all started.
Odd thing was, it took me till recently to recognise that what happened with David was rape. Somehow my head didn’t want to allow it. It wasn’t to be the only time I was raped either. But I will tell you about that another time. We shall leave things there for now.

I’ve recently been making a connection between my first sexual traumatic experience, and my tendency to want to please or perform during sex. I’ve had to face that I have been hardwired to respond differently to sexual partners than other women who haven’t been through abuse. I realise that the only way to change this is, firstly to be aware; very aware. I also realise that this has to extend to anyone who has a vested interest in understanding me and my behaviour, Dexter, for instance.
So that’s why I’ve deemed it essential that Dexter knows all about my past.  Between you and him, I hope to be able to dispense with my demons and sort this shit out.
As I said earlier, there is more but I’m feeling worn out now. I’ll tell you the rest some other time hey?




Diary 3
November 30th
Mood: Ecstatic

Oh my god, oh my god oh my god!
He loves me!   HE REALLY LOVES ME!
Forgive me, diary, I just had to shout it out over the rooftops.
Sorry…I’m getting ahead of myself here, let me explain. I went away with my best friend to Norway for a few weeks. I needed the head space after that last ‘shrink’ incident. Although I knew I would miss Dexter like crazy, (bless that man, he never gave up on me, even after I made that stupid mistake) I knew that I needed time and space to sort my head out. My friend has a country house away from all civilization, nothing but trees, lakes and mosquitoes. She invited me away for a break. I think she could see that I needed it. Poor woman, she’s been getting it all, instead of you, dear diary. Of course I took my mobile phone with me and Dexter and I text messaged each other as much as we could. I also used that time to clear up all the loose ends with the other men I had been seeing.  All of them unceremoniously dumped by text. Only one seemed bothered. He tried using humour to deflect his true feelings.
“What! You’re dumping me, from Norway? But I’m pregnant with your baby!” Nice try dude. Like I cared!

I used the time away to read and reflect. Although part of me was angry with myself for being so far away from Dexter. I longed to see him and hear his throaty laugh. I needed to see his wide smile that lit up a dark room. I longed to feel his gentle kisses. I sorely missed our heated debates that would go on long into the night and end up being resolved when the birds started to sing in the morning. And yes, my pussy throbbed at the memories of our times spent locked together in passionate embraces. The sex I had with Dexter made sex with other men pointless. No one could ever come close.

I knew that when I returned to London I had to come clean with Dexter  about my true feelings for him. I had to know if it was reciprocated. It appeared to be, in his actions and the way he looked at me, but I needed to hear it coming out of his mouth.
I knew I had to ask him if he loved me.

When I got back from Norway, I almost didn’t need to ask. He held me close on the doorstep, rocked back and forth, for about half an hour, muttering
‘Don’t ever go away again’ over and over.
That touching gesture made me cry. But I wiped the tears away; Dexter doesn’t like to see me cry.
When we finally made it inside my apartment, I gritted my teeth and knew I had to confront my worst fear… the fear of being rejected by someone I loved.
So I asked him.
“Dexter do you love me? Think very carefully about your answer because it will affect us from here onwards.”

(If he said no, I had decided I had to move on)

I saw his face flicker as he thought through carefully what he was going to say. I inwardly flinched as I anticipated the worst.
“Yes, I guess I do.”

And that was how DexterandSuz came to pass.

November 12th
Mood: content / contemplative

Well it’s official. We are a couple. Beyond my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have wished for a better thing to happen to me. We have both deleted our individual profiles on the Internet and set up a joint one as DexterandSuz. Since we met on scene, we thought we might as well continue on scene. Dexter’s not the sort of person who wants the person he fell in love with to change, although since meeting Dexter I have felt myself changing for the better, emotionally. He knows all about my sexual history, and I know his.
Nothing is taboo except dishonesty.
There’s one thing I have learnt since meeting Dex, and that is that it is always better to be truthful, no matter how hard you think it’s going to be. Once the truth is out, that’s as hard as it will get. So, neither of us are going to deny that we are attracted to other people sexually. As long as it stays open and honest, I don’t see any problems. I’m not sexually jealous, I’m emotionally jealous, I think.
The scene is far too entertaining to give up anyhow. Some say it’s addictive.  I wonder if I’ll feel any different now, though. I’m curious to know how it will change my behaviour. Will I feel jealous if I see him with another woman?

Will he be hurt if he sees me with another man? How will he react seeing me with another woman? I’m a little anxious as to what he would think if he saw me in full flow in a club situation now we are established as a proper couple and I can be open about my love for him. I’m sure I shall find out.  There’s a whole new world out there to explore together. I just can’t wait to get started.




The Incredible Hulk #1 (May 1962). Cover art b...

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Tuesday am
Okay, it’s the first Tuesday of the month; that can only mean one thing: swinging club!
I’m really excited about going. The first time is always the most stressful, now that’s over and done with, maybe Dexter will be able to relax and have fun at this next one.
Whatever happens, I’ll be happy. It’s being held at a new venue in the poshest part of the West End. Its dress to impress I reckon. Ooh what fun!

Wednesday am
Well, that was not quite how I expected it to be. It wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t as much fun as the first time I took Dexter.
Let me explain.
We dressed up, Dexter all in black as usual, me in a halter neck red dress and heels, most unlike my usual style, but a girl has to make an effort sometimes. We looked good together.
We found the venue in a small club that had just recently been refurbished in the most exclusive part of Mayfair.
How chic. In fact, some of the club was unfinished, but it was a very aesthetically pleasing start. We signed in like old pros; Dexter managed to handle the butterflies quite well this time. We bought drinks and found a seat in the bar area. Saw my mate, Queen of Sheba. It was always good to see her.  She was so bubbly and vivacious, larger than life and always a source of great stories.
I introduced Dexter to her and we chatted for a while. She told hilarious stories of procuring herself a submissive male slave who sat beneath her generous posterior unnoticed at fetish clubs servicing her orally while she held court.
Dexter seemed much more comfortable here. I was pleased for him. I didn’t want to feel like I was dragging him into something he didn’t like, just for my sake.
As we sat drinking and chatting I spotted in the distance an old friend. This man used to be a regular fuck buddy friend of mine. We had met at this club and had kept contact ever since. He was married, but his wife didn’t play. She knew of his antics though, but felt, for cultural reasons, unable to join him in a club to play publicly. She wasn’t averse to a spot of private playing I was later to find out.
This man had the biggest dick I had ever encountered. It was a good 12 inches long but as thick as a forearm. It was quite the albatross around this man’s neck. I mean, how can a man live up to his dick when it’s such a monster with its own reputation? I soon found out that despite his gigantic endowment, it didn’t make for the best sex. Huge size has its own limitations. This was the man I had texted from Norway, telling him that I was no longer going to see him because I had met Dexter. We had had some interesting, if lurid, times together in the past, but his charms had faded into insignificance once I had found Dexter.
I waved at him.
He looked right through me.
What? That wasn’t like him. Eventually he could no longer pretend not to have noticed me and came over. I introduced him to Dexter and they shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. He was acting really odd. What was wrong with him? He eventually wandered off, and Dexter and I went for a tour around the venue. It was small, the playrooms were fairly cramped, and a wave of heat hit you, as did the smell of sex, as you walked through the door. There was that sexy lady. She was an interesting woman. Shaven headed, but extremely feminine in a floral dress (most probably with no underwear underneath.) She was curvy, almost heavy set, but she exuded an extraordinary powerful sexiness that was evident to anyone who was around her, something that no supermodel could possibly compete with her for. She was also slightly unapproachable. As much as I was attracted to her, I found her a little intimidating. She made me feel unworthy in her presence. It was not unusual to see this woman standing on a table, surrounded by men and women alike, just feeling privileged to touch and pleasure this incredibly sexy Diva. Dexter acknowledged her allure too.
In the small room all eyes were on Dexter, the women were eating him up with their eyes. I didn’t mind. I was proud.

Oh there was my monster dick friend! He was trying to get his huge member into the mouth of a very pretty Eastern European looking girl. He was not succeeding. Arousal was a curse for this man. He could only receive head when limp. Either that or find someone with a huge mouth.
Dexter leaned over and nodded his acknowledgement of his fellow brethrens endowment. It was impressive to behold.
Dexter was being propositioned left right and centre, but he was having a hard time getting aroused. I thought I had best leave him to it. Maybe my presence was inhibiting him. I would give him some space.
I went to the bar to get a drink. I texted my big dick friend. Where was he? I couldn’t see him in the club. He was worth a chat at least.
He replied that he had left. Now that was very unlike him. Surely he wasn’t sulking?
A week or two later he would text me and tell me that he had been jealous of how I was around Dexter, that he never saw me look that way at him! Why should I? I had never loved him. I think that his ego could not cope with the fact that I would chose someone else over him, what use was his big dick if it didn’t get him the girl? Not that I was under any illusion that this man had any feelings of any kind for me, it was just that he was used to being the centre of his universe and I wasn’t playing the game.  Silly man! It didn’t matter how huge his manhood was, it couldn’t make me feel about him the way I felt about Dexter. Anyhow, big dick man had his lovely wife at home. What was he doing being jealous over someone he had only fucked?

I wandered over to Queen of Sheba. We stood and chatted for ages. We swapped stories about a certain man on scene called Luvyouall  who thought he was the bees-knees, but we both knew differently. This man was nothing more than a dirty opportunist, who couldn’t hold down a relationship in the ‘real world’ so had to settle for conquests on scene.
I had previously given Sheba the number of a nineteen stone muscle-bound, submissive man who I had played with in the past. He was just her type. Turns out they had linked up, but he had freaked out when he had woken up to find a slave collar around his neck. He panicked and ran. When she told me that, I almost wet myself.  Ooh poor Jeremiah!

I opened the door to see a huge, dark man standing before me. Bald,  baby face, around six foot five. To anyone who didn’t know him, he would have certainly been intimidating, but I knew better. This man was a pussycat. We had met at a swinging club where he was the bouncer and I was very bored with my companion. He gave me his number and I had called him.
Here he was, for my delectation.
He came into my room. I smiled as I noticed that he had to duck to get into the doorway and had to turn sideways to fit through the doorframe. Damn! This man was huge! He made me feel dainty in comparison, not easy when you are a good size 16, like me.
For all his bulk he seemed really nervous. He told me how he really loved the Incredible Hulk. How sweet, I thought, but then I realised he wasn’t talking about his childhood hero here, he actually thought he could emulate him as an adult. I wondered if that’s why he was so big. I wondered also if he realised that the Incredible Hulk was a fictional character?
I’ve never really been a fan of muscle men, and this man was no exception. But there was something about him that fascinated me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was, but I was soon to find out. .
He stripped down to his underwear and stood before me waiting to see my reaction.
Well now, he was a big boy. Too big really .He didn’t really get the reaction he was waiting for as I burst out laughing. Was he really wearing a Superman thong?  I teased him and said that I bet his dick was small as he had clearly been pumping himself full of steroids to get all that bulk, and we all knew the side effects of those drugs on a man’s endowment. He looked hurt and showed me that I was wrong. He was big all over. I can’t deny that the sex was good. He absolutely loved the fact that I was a squirter and insisted on me sitting on his face despite my protestations. I didn’t want to drown him. But he seemed to love that prospect even more. The more he coughed and spluttered and choked, the more he liked it. He would tug away at his dick while he gave me orgasm after orgasm. After a while, I thought it was time to do a bit of vanilla sex, good old fashioned fucking. But no, that’s not what he wanted. He much preferred to stick to oral. I thought that was a bit odd, as most men see oral as a necessary evil before they get to penetrate; clearly not this dude! At one point when I was giving him head he asked me to stick my finger in his ass. Not a problem usually. But given the size of this man, I wasn’t sure I could reach around! I told him I was going to go one better. As he got closer to the point of no return,, I told him that I was going to organise someone to fuck him in the ass next time he came to see me. That was all he needed. That pushed him right over the brink and he reached orgasm with ferocity.
An evil plan was brewing in my head.
I had realised that his huge man was submissive, and enjoyed being told what to do. I knew I could never physically dominate him given his bulk, so I knew instinctively that  I had to dominate him mentally. I asked him as he got up to leave, what was going to happen next time we met?(by now he was calling me Mistress)
He said “Someone’s gonna fuck me in the ass Mistress”
“And who’s that going to be?” I asked.
“Don’t know Mistress, some girl with a strap on Mistress”
I slapped him.
Hard.
In the face and retorted:
“Don’t be foolish bitch!  It’s going to be a man, a big strong man with a big fat dick”
(I was enjoying myself now, I was in full improvisational flow and loving the buzz it was giving me)
“But I’m not gay Mistress!”
(I could hear the panic in his voice which urged me on even more.)
“I know” I said with an evil glint in my eye. “That’s the whole point .You are going to do as you are told aren’t you, slave? Be a good slave and Mistress will reward you”.
“Yes, Mistress, I’ll be good.”

It was at that point that I realised just how much pleasure I could derive from taking the Dominant role. It gave me an incredible buzz, thinking on my feet, trying to keep one step ahead in the game. I wasn’t really being serious about organising a man to fuck the Incredible Hulk. Or was I? I did make the call to a man I knew who would be more than willing to help me out. He would have been very happy to oblige, but I thought I preferred the mind fuck more than the real fuck.
The next time Incredible Hulk came to see me; he sat in his car outside my apartment for an hour before he could summon up the courage to come upstairs. I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed when he didn’t meet another man. Things fizzled out for me soon after as I got bored. I needed more mental stimulation with my sex.  So I passed him on to my good friend Sheba. And the rest is history.

Dexter sauntered out of the playroom looking pleased with himself. He went to buy us ladies a drink and came back and told me how he had been singled out by the most desired woman in the room. She was a drop dead gorgeous dark haired beauty who was sitting in a corner picking her ‘victims’. Dexter bashfully related how despite her being stunning, the fella downstairs just wasn’t going to perform on demand. To be honest, I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed on his behalf. I knew that the opportunities for him to play were far greater than they were for me at this club. The men there were not to my standard, and although some of the women were lovely, it wasn’t altogether obvious whether they would appreciate advances from another woman and to be honest, they were being kept more than busy by all the men. We left after a while. I think Dexter enjoyed himself far more than I did. It was more of a social event for me. Hmm, it was odd going to a swinging club with someone you loved.
I wasn’t sure if I was going to know how to behave in future visits. Being in love and ‘on scene’ was proving to be far more complicated than I had expected.

August 24th
In between having fun at the swinging clubs, I still find myself confused. I don’t understand why no one wants me. I’m a good person, decent cook, kind, clearly attractive, fairly intelligent, and funny at times, and of course, experienced in the bedroom. Why do I keep getting overlooked? Can’t anyone see the person beneath?
I wish things were simple. I still find myself caught up in stupid acting out behaviours, despite having periods of calm sanity. I wish I could do something about it. Dexter tries his best, but he’s too close for objectivity. I find it hard to explain about my abusive past being the cause of my irrational behaviour without seeming to be making lame excuses. I think I need professional help.

September 1st
I think I have found someone who will listen to me at last. I have had a few conversations online with one man who is an ex-psychiatrist. He didn’t say why he doesn’t practise any more, I think it’s through choice but he messaged me on the site. I’ve been having deep conversations with him and he has never mentioned sex and has listened intently and responded when I spoke about my sex addiction. He has offered to listen and advise me over dinner, so I am going to travel to his place tomorrow to give it a go. Fingers crossed that he can fix this mess I call me.
Pm
Oh God, I just called Dexter because I was excited about the potential of fixing my craziness. Maybe if I can fix me he will have me? I think that’s what I was hoping. I know that sounds dumb, but Diary, you know I can’t hide anything from you. Trouble is, Dexter doesn’t seem to share my enthusiasm. What’s a matter with this man? Gosh, his stubbornness is annoying! Can’t he see I’m trying to improve myself? He hasn’t told me not to go, he never tells me what to do, but I can hear that he really isn’t happy about my going. He keeps going on about it being an ego boost that I’m planning travelling all the way out to this man. He kept saying that dude would expect sex after I made such an effort to get to his abode. What was he going on about? It’s just dinner and a chat; this man is doing me a favour. I had no intention of sleeping with him.
I think that Dexter must be jealous.
If that is the case, good!
He’s not going to stop me.
It’s odd though, I’m sure that was disappointment I heard in his voice…

October 2nd
Mood : crushed/defeated
Diary, don’t look at me! I’m so ashamed. Why didn’t I listen to Dexter? He called me when I was on the long train journey to get to dude’s place, clearly not happy that I had committed to this venture.
Am I such a fool?
He met me at his doorstep, a large framed, mixed race, average looking bald headed man, not ugly but certainly not my type (not that that mattered as I was there for advice).

Firstly, dinner turned out to be take-away from the local Indian. (He had earlier offered to cook dinner for me.) I should have suspected things from that point on. But I was blinded by hope, this man had promised me answers, he held the holy grail of my salvation, or so I thought.
Then he listened while I told him things about my past that I’m not prepared to share with you yet Diary, maybe later; things that led me to the inner turmoil that I am trying to deal with right now.
So after opening my heart up to a perfect stranger, hoping and expecting answers, he told me that he could only counsel me a bit at a time, I had to know that was the way counselling worked .It was done in short sessions and I would have to come back a few times in order to get to the bottom of things.
Despite my begging for answers, he pled professional responsibility and ethics as his defence and left me feeling frustrated, let down and duped.

I didn’t believe him. The truth was slowly dawning on me that I had made a bad mistake. But there I was in a strange man’s house, vulnerable, far away from home. I was now starting to wonder if this ‘ex psychiatrist’ may have been struck off for unethical practise, or maybe he just wasn’t a psychiatrist at all.
Silly, naïve me.
He asked me to choose a movie from his extensive DVD collection. I did so: Donnie Darko, I’d always wanted to watch that. He decided my choice was not suitable (huh?) and selected one for me that he thought made for better viewing.
Now I was starting to feel really uncomfortable. I had been involved with controlling men before and this didn’t sit right with me. This felt rather too familiar.
It turned out to be a boring and tedious vampire film and I sat, blindly staring at the movements on the screen, confused and uneasy and just a little scared.  While I pretended to watch the film, he snored, oblivious to my boredom and discomfort. Why was this man sleeping in my presence? Was I that insignificant?
As he slept, the more concerned I became.
I retreated into myself and started to shut down.
My old habit of self-preservation had kicked in; I could do nothing to stop it. Reality became dimmed, dreamlike. I relinquished responsibility for my actions and myself. I placed myself numbly in fates’ hands. My body was present, sitting on a sofa with a snoring, middle-aged man next to me, but my mind had taken leave. When he awoke and pressed himself against me, claiming his reward for being such a selfless philanthropist, I didn’t argue. I felt too unimportant and too ashamed to have the right to a voice. His fumblings were clumsy but mercifully brief. His climax startled me back to dingy reality. Despite my lack of presence during this soulless act, I automatically checked for the condom. It was there.
Old habits die hard.
I left, muttering empty words of gratitude (why? he didn’t deserve them) feeling violated, foolish and even more damaged than when I had first arrived. I sat in the taxi and was quiet and reflective on the long journey home.
It was at that point that it dawned on me why he wasn’t a practising psychiatrist anymore. It was then that I need Dexter more than ever, but now I doubted that he would ever want me after this. The taxi couldn’t get me back home fast enough.
Mortified, crushed, belittled, humiliated, stupidly unworthy, who would ever want someone like me? Clearly ‘psychiatrist’ had seen me coming and I had fallen straight headfirst into his pathetic, obvious trap. I must have victim stamped all over my forehead.
I need to get away.
Please hide me, world!



et cetera