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What I missed

I’m being taught to ask, and ask I do. Sometimes I give him hints, like the other day, when I cuffed myself and then spent my day in nakedness, dressed in bondage.

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A gasp, and then I come up for air

We come together, our first night, no less than four times. It is desperate at times, frenzied. No slow, calculatedness to it. Pure lust, simple desire, enough power and passion in it to blow a house down.

My voice pleases him, its higher and higher pitches as he continues his assault. My dream comes true, that evening, as he has me dressed in cuffs. They are clipped, wrists to ankles, and he wraps tape around my head, creating a hasty bit-gag in my mouth. It is my bridle as he fucks me with wild abandon. The look on his face has changed, is no longer the whimsical happiness I am used to. His teeth are set in determination, bared with passion, his new muscles jumping as he yanks repeatedly on my body, riding me to his completion.

I am home.

It pleases him, this usage of my body. He giggles at following me into the shower, pointing out his red handprints on my ass. It’s a pleasant feeling, to be helpless, and it’s equally pleasant to be mounted and ridden without bridles and cuffs.

He delights in my new talents, in how well-trained I’ve become in his absence, that I can take all of him most effortlessly. I am shaking with my need, and he is pleased, fairly humming with his pleasure. We are learning too, our little cycles and silliness that we want to eradicate. He has come back trained in his own way, more ready to deal with these things, more willing to negotiate, to apologize, quicker to acknowledge his flaws, less easily frustrated with me, and all my frustrating little quirks.

Most of all, he’s come back. It’s the littlest things that I’ve missed, his silly faces and our in-jokes. I’ve missed antics and wrestling and play most of all.

There’s still adjustments, of course. His job takes up a majority of his time, and is extremely draining. I’m finding myself having to jostle for time. What time I get is precious, though, and he is better in his own ways. More vocal about his love. More appreciative. More thankful, in many ways.

Any love that I forgot about with him gone so long is being experienced anew. New love? Is woven in with the more familiar. And the mellowness is helping us develop ourselves more easily than we did before. Topics that were touchy, that result in tears, that could have been the topics of a fight, are instead the topics of serious discussions, weighty thoughts and weighty words but handled gently, instead of with frustration and anger.

This feels good. It feels like a future, like a life, like we are building on what we have, like there’s a strong foundation under my feet. I’m strong. And I’m finally alive.

As cliche as it sounds, it feels truest to me, right now.

I accidentally erased my text message cache with Master today, and my disappointment was immense. Gone are long conversations about the feel of my mouth on his cock, about what exactly he will do with me the moment he has me alone.

A visit around Canada day was not nearly enough, with my parents around and cramping my style (including arguing with him, loudly, when he introduced me to his friends as his wife. “You’re not married yet!” mother cries. And six-and-a-half years of dating and nearly three years of cohabiting are worth what, exactly?) and keeping us from what we do best. An hour to ourselves was not nearly enough time, though it was enough time for us to get up to a quickie and a short massage.

Mostly, it felt good to lay there, with him, and be held. I don’t have the same protected feeling when T holds me, as when my Master does. He is slender, but he moves with grace and power, and when he holds me, that power is focused on cradling me with gentleness. It makes me sigh inside, and writing about it brings tears to my eyes. I often cry when writing about him, and re-reading what I’ve written. The last letter he sent me made me cry, tears of longing, missing him, but I re-read it every now and then, when I want to feel that familiar bubble inside my chest, that tells me that I am loved more than I will ever truly understand.

I worry, as I am wont to do, that my love is not enough, or that I somehow do not love him as much as I should. (That word again.) The reality of the situation is that our love for each other is reflected back and forth so many times it is impossible to truly measure even the magnitude of it, least of which whether it is adequate.

He reassures me, soothing me in that way that I suspect he would soothe no-one else besides his own children, that my love for him is enough. I meditate on these thoughts, in keeping with my promise to try and take his love for me and hold it close, closer than I tend to hold my worry. I am learning to self-soothe, a task many people learned as young children. I am learning to repeat his words inside my head, in his beautiful voice, framed by his lips; that knowing that I am here, and that I love him, is enough. He is satisfied, he insists, as I fret about my perceived inadequacy. I am here, and I love him. That is enough.

I am missing him acutely now, officially in the part of our separation where we are apart the longest. It hardly feels as if the last time I saw him was almost exactly 31 days ago. It feels like far longer, and I have three weeks left to go.

Our separation has had the side effects of making us cherish each other more. Living together, a couple hardly discusses things like how they would love to snuggle in bed and breathe each others’ scent. After months and months apart, it’s practically all we do. I am going to have to be careful about who gets to touch my cell phone, however, as my cousin grabbed my phone from my hands to play with it just at the instant Master sends me a text message inviting me over to give him a shower and a blowjob.


A year ago I would have freaked, but now I just laugh and move on. Master has imparted many things upon me, including the wisdom to roll with the punches. His flexibility in sticky situations has always been a trait of his that I’d admired, and I recently had somebody compliment me on my own ability to keep on keeping on. It doesn’t seem like heroism (to me) to continue your life after it’s been shattered by tragedy, but apparently it appears heroic to others.

I am revelling in these new found skills, skills I did not realize I had developed until I had to live without my Master. His traits keep popping up in me, in dealing with everything: other people, my own feelings of inadequacy, my abject fear of the future and the unknown. This move, where we pack our lives and move far away from everyone we’ve ever known, it is simply a grand adventure to him, a spot of fun, and he’d like to do it more than just once. Growing together, I’m realizing that it doesn’t matter where we move to — if he is there, it is my home.

I am shocked at my composure, honestly, and my ability to handle this. Relatively few teary moments, continuing to function in my life. We won’t get into how I didn’t sleep hardly for the first few months, to the point where my boss dragged me into his office to ask me what the hell was wrong with me that I looked so wrung out. We also won’t get into how I lost 30 pounds because without him there, my appetite fled entirely, causing me to go several days at times without eating, without noticing that I wasn’t eating. An acquaintance recently commented that she doesn’t know how I handle him being gone. I deliberately neglected to mention the spare boyfriend in my bed, but I did mention how I was handling him being gone: insomniac anorexic that I became.

I have since figured things out a little — sleep is better, and I gained back about 10 of the pounds I lost through the magical technology of actually ingesting food. I am no longer worrying about my inadequacy as a girlfriend and simply dreaming of the days we can spend together finally, imagining his hands on my body as they were the last time we were together, the look on his face, mouth slightly open, pupils dilated as wide as dinner plates, as we made love.

It’s the love that’s pulling me through, to be honest.

Every text message (as douchebaggy as it seems to communicate entirely via SMS, in a paramilitary slash high-stress medical shiftwork situation, it’s the only tool we have to communicate at times) where he stresses how he misses our bed, with me in it, how he misses my breath on the back of his neck, how he misses his Shower Assistant, and how I, unlike the other men he is presently living with, do not annoy the everliving fuck out of him, is another thread, cast in my general direction, and my job is to catch as many of them as possible and make them into a rope to hang on to for dear life.

Oh, it is hard. It is the hardest thing I have ever done.

But if only to realize exactly how much we love each other?

Worth it.

All manner of newness

A lazy summer, missing the Master, has left me mostly uninspired. Six months minus the love I’ve known for years. It has been conspicuously quiet around here. Just me, T, and the kitty.

The last few months have had me scratching at an itch. Master has forbidden me, you see, to engage in any non-vanilla activities. My kink button is screaming to be pressed, down, hard.

Last night I opened my drawer, the one brimming with leather and bristling with buckles. I ran my hands over His tools, untangling the doe-skin flogger with my fingers. My fingers itched to shackle myself, my inner mind craving the presentation of it, limbs bound, holes lubed, the selection of toys lined up at the ready. I sighed deeply, for these things are not for T. Only my Master and I. The drawer remains closed.

So I throw myself at T, my hunger burning in my throat, and I engulf him, swallow him whole. By the end he can’t stand, can’t walk straight, sweat pouring off his face and splattering my breasts. I am sated, but not satisfied. My hunger has retreated to the pit of my belly, where it remains, itching, until I can stand it no longer. Sex is incomplete; I must have his hands around my throat, must feel my resistance slipping from me like an exhaled breath. I crave the headspace. The rush.

Three weeks until I see my Master again. I have been instructed to bring my assortment of toys, enough toys to make airport security do a double take. Toys, and lube, lotions and cuffs. I feel like it’s Christmas, and I can’t wait to unwrap my present. I have been spending hours dreaming up scenarios, his hand twisted in my leash, yanking my collar at his will.

Master hasn’t been helping my desires. He and I have been exchanging naughty text messages, discussing my upcoming training. A new province, a new home, a new life, just me, and my Master. His kitten, his pet, his wife-to-be.

New sex partners have a way of showing me a new perspective, putting a spin on something familiar so it seems unfamiliar and exciting. Occasionally, completely foreign concepts come up. Mostly, it’s different. That’s something I seem to gravitate towards — different-ness. It’s therefore impossible to talk about sex with T without at once comparing it to what I experience with my Master.

T had a handicap the Master never had. With my Master, I was crawling up his leg. T, however, was forced to take it slow. Master insisted on it, and I agreed — things should progress at a pace that Master was okay with. T seemed to deal with this quite well — he was obviously quite experienced in holding back.

Our late-night conversations involve quite frequently our past relationships. T talks about his girlie before me, and I find myself talking about Master, and the asshole I dated prior to Master. T has the deepest of respect for the Master, and is in no way like him. I like this different-ness, since what attracted me to the Master is not present in T, and yet I find myself enjoying him as well. I’m feeling reacquainted with my body in a way I haven’t in a long time, with T eliciting responses I’d long given up on, after a number of dissatsifying encounters with those prior to Master.

One night, late, T and I lay awake, limbs tangled, discussing how things tend to play out for us in bed. T spends a lot of time attending to my wants and needs, servicing me in his own ways, more often giving love to me than asking for any kind of tit-for-tat exchange. “Why do I deserve this?” I asked, panting, after T had spent the better part of two hours slowly teasing me to climax with hands and lips and tongue. My old programming was rattling around inside my head — a man who gave hours of petting and oral without a natural expectation to jump to the next step?

His happiness, as he tried to explain to me, is not dependent on him being able to stick his dick in me. It turns out that watching my enjoyment is satisfying enough.

It is no insult to my Master that this concept did not come clearer earlier. It’s not been until now that I’ve had a sexual relationship with limits, limits aside from those I made myself for my own personal comfort. I’d never had that period with Master where I disallowed certain contact; with T, there were days where all he could do was look and wish. I had difficulty grasping that the looking would be at all satisfying.

The conversation spun off into a discussion of worthiness — to have a worshiper, someone who existed (even for a moment) for nothing more than to bring my body pleasure, someone who would follow my curves and kiss their sensitive parts, whose idea of a treat was to be able to taste my orgasm, especially if he’d caused it. I was unfamiliar with this concept, of worthiness. Why am I worthy of this sort of treatment, this worship?

He looked at me, confused, flabbergasted. I am worthy because I am worthy. My worthiness is inherent. Crazy woman, what a question. You are worthy because I’ve decided you are. And he worshiped my body.

I’m still used to thinking of sex as some kind of exchange. A transactional thing. If I want oral, I’d better be prepared to suck some dick. That kind of thing. However, more and more, the lovely people who’ve been doing the majority of my sexual educating have been teaching me that it’s about asking for what I want, telling them what works well, to be daring and adventurous, playful, but certainly not convinced that there’s expectations or that my desires for certain activities will only be met if I’m “deserving” enough. I don’t need to earn love. I am already worthy.

I’m hoping that this realization will mean I’m more comfortable with saying when I want something and what I want. Prior to this I’d sort of been letting the situation declare itself and going along with whatever appeared to be appropriate at the time. There was no real thought put into what I wanted, or how to go about obtaining that. This is not to say that I am or ever was dissatisfied with the intimacy I shared in these situations, just that my future encounters are very much limited by this glitch in my thinking.

I am worthy, I am telling myself. I do deserve what I want, and I should not feel ashamed asking for it. I’ve been enjoying this new freedom I’ve allowed myself in sexual expression. I’ve enjoyed feeling comfortable in my own skin and powerful enough to be able to initiate what I want, when I want it. I am loving how the ability to initiate things myself doesn’t mean T stops chasing, either; I still find myself receiving a string of kisses planted down my neck and shoulders, receiving invitations to more should I so desire. I’m enjoying the open-endedness of it.

I’m enjoying being in control.


That’s the word for me. To develop exceptionally early or exhibit mature qualities at an exceptionally early age.

I taught myself to read before kindergarten. I grasped cosmic concepts (the immutability of time, the certainty of death) before age 5. I was a generally strange kid who didn’t socialize well, from what I remember. And sex. Well, sex came entirely too early for me.

It wasn’t even my cousin telling me the plumbing of how it worked. (We were like eight and six, respectively.) It wasn’t even when my mom caught me playing with the Barbie dolls. I think it was when she found out I’d been playing “house” with the neighbor kid, and the not-minor freakout she had over this knowledge. Before third grade, I not only understood how sex worked, I understood that it was important to hide this kind of activity from my parents, lest they have a gigantic meltdown. No talk. Ever.

I’m never going to forget the way she asked me, stooping down to get in my face, in a confrontational manner. “Did you suck his dick?” she asked, browbeating me. “Did he jack off in your mouth?” I felt like a horrible, filthy, sick, perverted, twisted, disgusting person. I was eleven years old, eyeing older men, wondering at what an act of rape would be like, wondering at the experience of sex.

Because I couldn’t trust my parents, everything I ever learned about sex was something I learned from somewhere else. Pornographic magazines, the internet, the radio. I’ve talked before about how Sue Johanson is one of my personal heroes; I’m lucky to have had her while growing up. I’m lucky to have grown up riding public transit, where the government publicized links to places like I feasted on reliable and correct information, and used all the birth control correctly.

I was armed with a false sense of security, knowing what facts I needed to know to keep my body from being physically damaged. I was completely unaware of what place sex served in a healthy relationship, however, and so when my boyfriend-at-the-time started correcting me every time I said “If we have sex” to say “when we have sex,” I didn’t take it as the pressuring I should have. I didn’t see how he was trying to control my boundaries, by setting them for me verbally. I didn’t feel the profound sense of violation I’d feel now, knowing my boundaries. Boundaries had never been explained to me. I was a slut. Sluts don’t get told about putting up boundaries. I was wrecked anyway. I was sixteen. I was fucking a man nearly four years older than I was. My mother was convinced his relationship was based entirely around his ability to use me for sex. I believed otherwise.

The day she figured it out, or rather, the day she screamed about me fucking him, throwing it in my face, and I gave her an answer that wasn’t “fuck off,” … that’s a day I will never forget. There was tons of histrionic crying and hysterical screaming, shouting, threats, shows of violence, and emotional abuse. For the next six months, my mother froze me out of her life. I fantasized about suicide.

“I just don’t know how I’m going to tell my family that my daughter is a slut,” I remember her whispering, between sniffles and tears. I fantasized how my skull would fly apart from a self-inflicted shot to the head. I imagined dying slowly of a wasting disease, leaving home, becoming pale and cachectic and thin. I wondered what it would be like to die of a drug overdose. I was too scared to jump off a building. Guilt, guilt, guilt. My boyfriend was no help. He lived alone, and complained about my mother constantly. I ground my teeth down to painful stumps. He threatened suicide. At first I was scared, concerned for him, missed him, loved him. Later, the attention-seeking behaviour became exasperating. Then, came the Master.

My Master met my boyfriend and lived with him for a short time. I was pressured often to spend time with him, in compromising situations, often asking me to use my Master or my best friend as a pretext to borrow a vehicle and be afforded additional freedoms. At first I exploited this, and Master was given many opportunities to observe me with this strange man. I was depressed and sullen. Then came a night when I deliberately didn’t invite him along somewhere, because I knew he would try and make me have sex with him, and I had no interest in being effectively date-raped. It was at this time that I realized he didn’t respect my body, or what I wanted, or my boundaries. I began avoiding him in earnest, and the histrionic behaviour erupted in full. I didn’t break up with him, because I was terrified if I did, that he’d kill himself.

My Master, who by then had moved out of my boyfriend’s apartment, felt that this was an opportunity to act. I remember listening, horrified, as he detailed to me the list of things he observed while living with the man who would come to be known by many names besides his own. The behaviour obsessing around sex (and calendar marking to match.) The misogynistic comments. The sense of entitlement. The arrogance. The ignorance. I sobbed on the phone, after my boyfriend had yelled at me for lying to him to keep him from being able to have sex with me. He knew I was avoiding him, but I had no idea how to tell him I was terrified of him, that he made me feel unsafe. The Master stood up for me, tearing a strip off of this man on my behalf. The act was sealed when Master returned with the report of how guiltless, entitled, and arrogant the boyfriend had been when Master insisted he treat me as I deserved to be treated. “Are you going to talk to her, too?” he asked, as if my Master was my parent to mete out punishment on the boyfriend’s behalf. Instead, he told me the truth. Master saved me from a pitiful little man, rescuing me from a situation where I, and my precociousness, were being taken advantage of. I smiled for the first time in years.

The ideas about sex stuck, though. I was shocked when I was discovered to be having sex with Master, and my mother was amused rather than infuriated. I was convinced, down to my bones, she was going to kill me and gouge Master’s eyes out with her fingernails. With no explanation, she laughed instead. I learned nothing.

I still believed, as I had when growing up, that I was broken or tainted or unworthy in some way, because I was a slut. From being made fun of by my little brother for being a closet lesbian, getting caught using porn, slurs based on my more boyish appearance, my strangeness was polarized for some people. I hated myself. I wasn’t a virgin, I wasn’t thin, I wasn’t pretty, I wasn’t stereotypically ‘hot’ (big-titted-narrow-waisted), I wasn’t popular… I didn’t even think I was particularly smart. I’m almost ashamed to say that my relationship with Master was not one of romance — I leapt out of a sick and sorrowed relationship, out of a fountain of emotional abuse, into him. I crawled up his leg, into his bed, and unloaded, piece by piece, my months and months of pent-up need for, and lack of, love.

Fortunately for me, Master was smarter than that. He insisted that that not be the direction things take, and caught me, carefully, and put me down. I tried to take advantage of him, sexually. He held me at arm’s length, until I stopped with the force, and he held me close, until he wanted to do more. He picked me up, bandaged my wounds, and didn’t let anything complicated develop until he felt comfortable with everything. He was gentle and careful, calculated and slow. For months and months, our sexual activity consisted of me crawling into his bed, naked, so we could nap together. I had no idea how to expand things, how to get what I want. I had no idea what I really wanted. We built a sexual relationship out of teenaged fumblings, and it’s taken a great deal of time to get comfortable talking about sex and about what feels good. I still feel guilty for asking for things (such as oral) despite many reassurances to the contrary. I still feel like an asshole when I tell him to stop because it hurts.

My precociousness and my armament of knowledge didn’t lead me into good choices, and I was unable to distinguish between sexual attraction and an actual relationship. I wasn’t protected by being shut out. I was unable to seek advice. What should have been a strength became a weakness. I grew into this idea that I should be this totally willing and submissive little thing, a real slut, with no desires of my own, since I was value-less after having lost my de facto virginity to the man before Master. My precociousness, my early development, should have been an opportunity to teach me how to wield the weapons at my disposal, how to protect myself. I was taught to ignore that part of me, and later, taught that it diminished my worth. “Who wants to marry a person who’s not a virgin?” asked my schoolmates, at Catholic school, and later at college. “Not me!” they’d chime. I’d remain silent, trying to shrink myself smaller.

The first person I had a healthy sexual relationship with was my Master… and it seemed the strangest thing, at the time. He insisted on the above — that I tell him to stop when it hurts, that I not have sex I don’t want to have, that I not do anything I don’t want to do. This seemed foreign to me at the time. I remember being stricken with a dermatitis or vestibulitis of some sort from having reacted to a particular brand of lube, and every act of sex was excruciating. Halfway through, Master noticed my pain, and I was sorely chastised for letting him hurt me like that for his own benefit. I have value? I was bewildered. This man I had known before Master, this man who was three-plus years older than Master, who was so much more experienced … he’d never made me feel as if I could ask for what I wanted, or refuse. He’d never made me feel valuable, sexy, beautiful. I had missed out on the best part of sex entirely.

I thought back to my sexual experiences prior … on the ex’s inflatable couch, being groped, knowing that within a time frame of hours he was going to take me to his room and try to have sex with me. Instead of acknowledging the feelings I had on the subject, how distasteful I found the idea, instead of refusing, I simply talked myself into it, trying to relax, detached, for when the inevitable moment came. I ignored my revulsion at the completion of the act, and tried to ignore him as much as possible while he was performing it. I was emotionally detached.

I think my mother’s idea was that she was protecting me, by making sure I knew nothing. Her idea backfired in the sense that I learned everything there was to know — factually — but nothing about what there was to know — functionally. I could tell you brand names of birth control pills, but nothing about intimacy. The solution my mother came up with was to pretend that intimacy wasn’t possible because of my age, my sluttiness. Or maybe she just forgot to mention it, what with all the talk of what a whore I was and asking me if I did it ‘so I could feel loved.’ I was never asked a single question about sex that didn’t sound like a personal attack before I’d even answered. I was terrified of her, but knew sex was as normal as breathing. I had to figure it out on my own, somehow.

I hear this type of thing is genetic — my grandmother developed early and so did many of my aunts. My child might end up being much like me, in this way, and I think about it all the time. How will I handle it? Will I have to explain to an eight year old or a six year old, one day, what sex is, without lying to her or making her feel as I did, as if she were a filthy valueless little thing? And if I don’t, if I indeed tell her (or him) the truth, how many people are going to come crashing down on me, thinking I’m setting my child up to be assaulted sexually? Truth be told, I had no concept of what sexual assault was until I was over the age of 18. Several of my friends had experienced it without realizing, this non-consensual-but-not-totally-forceful sex, myself included, without seeing that we were being taken advantage of, with no advice on how to protect ourselves from things besides pregnancy and disease.

I had no power to say ‘no’ and no idea of when I should say ‘no’ or why. It’s this that I feel it most necessary to correct. I had a significant decrease in my self-worth with the knowledge that I was a slut, and so have vowed to never make my child feel ashamed about their sexuality. It’s a huge part of me, and of my life, and trying to shut off that part of my personality, or not being allowed to experience it because I’ve been taught it’s ‘wrong,’ is one of the bigger travesties of my teenagedhood. It’s part of why I have felt it so important to write about sex, and my sex life, and my sexuality. I need to come to grips with this somehow, to jackhammer the idea out of my head that this is somehow wrong, or bad. Fortunately, I have Master, T, and my good friends around me. My children will grow up happier than I did. That’s a promise.


That was the year I first remember hurting myself deliberately. I concentrated very hard, considering what I was about to do. I remember assuring myself, steeling myself, saying to myself, the next step, this next step, I’m going to do it, no matter how much it hurts. View full article »


I was burned out yesterday. Too many nights, no sleep, all work — whether work-work or school-work. I arrive home at a strange hour, crawl into (a cold) bed, and attempt to sleep. I sleep until evening time, where I have an hour or two (perhaps) to recuperate and eat and pack for my work shift before it’s off to work for another graveyard.

It’s snowed 40-some centimeters total in the last 5 days, and over a weekend, too, so no plowing the roads and sanding was heavily delayed (especially on Sunday morning and the middle of Saturday night, when I still had to safely make the 35km trek to work.)

My first evening to myself after this had finished, I was wiped, with all of my favourite resources (sense of humor, patience, understanding) worn down to a thin membrane. I cried. I needed to connect, to be human. I texted the Man, the husband, the one who’s far away. “I can’t fix your problem from here,” he soothes on the phone, and I know it’s true. He comforts me anyway,  and I grow the confidence and shed my embarassment at my emotional state. I have a unique reason for feeling so disconnected and discomfited.

I crawled out of my hiding place, asking the Second to follow me back. I begged him to connect with me, talking about how I’d been hesitant to ask for this earlier in the evening, feeling as if I always am the one demanding me-time and trumping him-time, feeling as if I’m surely an inconvenience. I articulate this, telling him how I feel. “I think I shouldn’t ask for things, even when I need them,” I confess, remembering my formative years, “I feel as if I should just float along, and not disturb anyone.” Ironically, it is doing exactly that — moving in and out of my place as a ghost, connecting with no-one — that has led me to start feeling so worn down, causing the erosion in self-confidence. The paradox is not lost on me.

My husband comforts me on the phone, and the Second comforts me with touch, connecting and reassuring me that it is never wrong to ask for what I need. He admits that sometimes he is unable, but it is never, ever wrong to ask, he insists. He calms me, insisting that though I feel as if I’m an inconvenience, this is not a feeling based in rationality, that I’m trying to be considerate, but that it’s ultimately his decision to make — gently, gently chastising me for making the decision for him, for not-asking because I had already decided he wasn’t wanting to give it to me.

“Sometimes, I say not now, but it’s more a matter of ‘it’s not what I had in mind’ — maybe I was thinking tomorrow, instead of today? So ask, I didn’t realize you wanted. I am willing to give these things to you.”

My boys take such good care of me. It is my responsibility to make sure that I let them know what I need… instead of immediately assuming that they aren’t interested in giving it to me.

How the Pope made me an Agnostic

For those of us paying attention, Pope Benedict XVI, or as they’d call him at my high school, le pape Benoît XVI, is visiting the United States.

I’ve seen very little of this in the American media — you think they’d be apeshit over it — nor have I heard much from the Canadian newswires (though to be fair I haven’t been paying much attention.) A quick read through the top Popely headlines in a French newspaper has things pretty much summed up though.

I’ve often said I enjoy reading about American news in French newspapers and Canadian news in American newspapers and all sorts of combinations of the above. International bias is a beautiful thing sometimes, and in this case, it jumps out all over the page.

Les francophones autour de moi won’t need a translation but I’ll summarize one or two articles for the rest of you.

In Washington Thursday, the Pope expressed his ‘profound shame’ regarding the pedophiliac-priest scandal that has rocked the entire Catholic church. That same Thursday, he met with a small group of people who were sexually assaulted by clergy members. The majority of meetings and speeches he’s given, however, have been varied as to the content: to the American people, he states that clergy-related rapes should be viewed “in the bigger context of sexual morals” of the American people, as if these rapes are somehow the fault of a lack of morality on the part of the general American population. His speeches to the Bishops, however, contain a totally different tone: “Your efforts to care for and protect are bearing their fruits; not only as part of your pastoral responsibility; but for all of society as well.” Having these facts all on the same page makes it quite clear that Benedict believes the problem of rapist clergy is in fact the result of American sexual immorality, specifically pornography, and goes so far as to tell the Bishops that they are doing a good job in handling the scandal.

Let’s digress for a moment, to see how the glossing over of this important issue is a very deliberate political move on the part of a politically conservative figurehead who is empowered by the people of the Catholic church to be an idol on par with God. Let’s not forget the commandment that stated one shall not have idols before God — however and unfortunately, many Catholics (and Christians) take the word of the pope as the word of God directly, without considering personal agendas.

The official priestly pedophile scandal did not erupt in a major and public way until 2002, when a Boston-area bishop admitted to having kept silent about sexual abuses committed by clergy members. It was the pope at that time, John Paul II, who entrusted Benedict with handling it. He wasn’t Benedict at this time, of course — he was a simple cardinal, Josef Ratzinger, responsible for the all-powerful Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith. In total, more than 10,000 children were sexually abused since 1950 by more than 4,000 priests. After a long period of abject denial, the American church was finally forced to take responsibility: 700 priests had their priesthood revoked, and 2.3 billion Euros (3.65 billion Canadian dollars) was dispersed by the church to buy clemency from the families, avoiding several embarsassing lawsuits, and finally, an official zero-tolerance policy for pedophilia within the clergy was instituted. (This is, of course, over and above the actual law within the actual criminal code that forbids sexual contact with minors when in a position of authority.)

Many victims are dissatisfied with this result, saying that it is one thing for the pope to express shame, but that he has revealed no mechanisms by way this tragedy can be avoided in the future. Elsewhere, the pope gives the impression that he’d rather gloss over the issue of sexual abuse by clergy members, stating that every sector of society is touched by sexual abuse, and that this should be considered alongside the abovementioned sexual immorality that he says pervades the United States. He never gives specifics for how the issue will be handled, nevermind having been personally at the helm for the last six years. He simply uses it as a springboard to slam his favourite scapegoats: mainstream media, pornography, and general moral bankruptcy:

(translated from French quotes): “What significance is there in talking about protecting our children from abuse when pornography and violence can be seen in so many living rooms, across the many media outlets easily accessible today?” He stated that reaffirming the ‘fundamental values of society, in order to give young people and adults a solid moral foundation’ was something he hoped for.

Within what was supposed to be a intervention about rapist pedophiliac clergymen, the pope managed to broaden his scope to include “the media and the industry of entertainment,” and the danger of secularization in a country with 65 million Catholics — the third highest concentration in the world, after Brazil and Mexico.

It’s a devious jump, the jump from rapist pedophiles to pornography to mainstream media to secularization. It’s interesting to note that when Benedict mentions pedophilia, a rapist clergyman, sexual assaults, or his shame, the next subject out of his mouth is about America’s moral decay. As if America’s moral decay suddenly makes a man who attended seminary school and took a vow of celibacy unable to prevent himself from sexually assaulting a small child.

It’s important to pay attention to his word associations, as they’re tricks pulled by religious pundits quite frequently in print media. The reason he always mentions these subjects side by side is to cause people to think that there must be a correlation between the two (or three, or four) — and that correlation perhaps equals causation. Nothing could be further from the truth, but it is how major political and religious leaders use the media to manipulate our opinions.

During his stern talk to the 400-some bishops, the pope highlighted some points to take note of. He preached that by moralizing the United States, by banning pornography and violence in the media, he hopes that ‘the children’ will therefore avoid degrading situations and vulgar manipulations of sexuality, which, according to him, are omnipresent in the present day.

I personally fail to see how less violence on TV makes fewer priests rape children, but I do see how controlling our media by calling for the desexualization and desensationalization of the same would make the Catholic church a more powerful political identity. He also preached against secularization, and against the once-a-week Catholics, stating that it is unacceptable to attend Sunday mass and then spend the rest of the week promoting practices that are against the doctrine of your faith, which, as far as catholicism goes, means no sex except for procreation and under no circumstances may you use birth control.

I find it personally quite interesting that the pope wants to control the sex lives and the media consumption of 65 million target Americans, but will pay out somewhere in the neighborhood of 3.5 billion dollars American to prevent rape victims from filing lawsuits and will secretly relocate them to make pressing charges extremely difficult.

God loves you. Jesus will forgive you. But the Catholic church as a political construct will stop at nothing to gain total control over what information goes into your head (as little as possible and as dogmatic as possible) and over how you live your life and affect those around you, and they want you to live your life with only the tiny slivers of information they’ve given to you. Dogmatically they go so far as to pressure that they should reserve their skepticism for science, not faith — that instead of having faith in science, and the thousands of years of experimentation and eureka!s that went into it, we should devalue it at every opportunity.

Don’t buy the smokescreen about pornography — pornography is not making priests rape little boys. Pornography is a word that Benedict uses to distract the easily-distracted from the topic at hand — that their young sons are being sexually assaulted by men in a position of authority, ordained by the one of the oldest Christian traditions in existence, by men who’ve taken a vow of celibacy, by men who you trust to confess your darkest secrets to so that your sins may be forgiven.

This is a church that will remove a priest from the priesthood entirely, shaming him for a lifetime, for having consensual sex with a woman once — but will relocate a priest to a new parish for having raped perhaps dozens of young children.

I thought hard about it. I really did. And there are some parts of the Catholic church that I will keep with me for the rest of my life — but I cannot, in good conscience, associate myself with an institution that would protect rapists from legal recourse and silence victims with injections of cash, all the while trying to control my access to legal and consensual sexual activity, stating that it’s what contributes to the moral decay of society.

I call bullshit, Benedict. No man who protects rapists from the full punishment they’re entitled to will be looked upon kindly by God, and I refuse to accept such a man as my religious leader.

Consider me excommunicated.


My Master and I are learning to do a thing we never did learn… a thing the construction of our sex life seemed to skip.

This is through no fault of anyone’s, and is actually a product of the times, and of my society’s brainwashing young adults about sex. I had finally broken out of a long-dead relationship, and my awakening had mostly been to do with the experience of my Master’s love. He moved close, lived with the long-dead boyfriend, learned more about me, about the relationship I existed in. He watched as we spent time together, my long-dead coupledom, himself, and my best friend.

He watched my eyes as they traced the ground and my flat voice as no touch of the long-dead could awaken me. He knew (from conversations) that it’d been more than a yearish since I had had sex. He knew (from living with the long-dead, hearing him talk) the number of days it had been, as an exact number.

He knew (as I had told him, between sobs) how I craved to feel closeness and loved, and how I felt nothing from this man. I was living in difficult and strange times, short on close friends, limping through my last year of high school, trying to fade away from my tortuous family. I had no sympathy or empathy from the long-dead, and there was no end in sight.

Master threw himself down as a hero. He controlled the situation. This is Master’s calling … to control the situation, to make a difference, to improve lives. He did it without expectation. He did it simply because he loved me.

He swooped in on the long-dead, itemizing selfishness. She lives with a mother who views her daily with scorn, he scolded, and here you live, alone, bankrolled by your parents — sobbing to yourself about how your life is so difficult because you can’t fuck her?

My Master’s love for me shone through.

I gravitated towards this love, searching for warmth. I wrapped myself around him. Once severed from the dead, I slept with Master, enjoying his warmth. It was our first real shared experience. The snuggling. And napping. I had never done anything so intimate and so lovely.

I threw myself at him.

There is no other way to describe it. We have described it between ourselves as exactly this, multiple times.

He protested. He thought too highly of me. He wanted to make sure it was right. I think he was afraid of taking advantage of both of us. Of me.

The first time we were together was memorable for all sorts of bad reasons. What I remember most clearly, however, is the feeling that things were different now, that I could exhale, as if all of my sins were suddenly washed away.

We did not learn to tease this out of one another. There was no dancing around the subject. There was abject need, deep-seated want, and submission.

Now that Master is gone, I am learning to tease and be teased. He is so far away, he is learning a patience that was never required of him when he lived here… he is learning to tease and be teased.

At this moment, we have words. Occasionally voices, but sometimes, only words. So we tease each other with words — no senses, except those generated by the mind.

It helps we’re both heavy-duty readers and good writers. It helps that we’re both communicative, have been from the start. It helps that we both love technology and will communicate with whatever technology is at hand. IM, SMS, lots of abbreviations in technology. It means we’re good at it. So we revel in it. Teasing each other, with only words.

It’s been an education in what we want. Newly uninhibited, secrets formally abolished, we’re talking about things we’ve never talked about — with no judgmental attitude and no hurt feelings. Just openness — hands, palms up, on the table, a meditation on openness and sharing.

I have booked a trip down in May (shh don’t tell) and anticipate some particularly needy sex. I plan to draw out the need … on both our parts. I want to experience that deep-seated want, that quivering, near-painful need, and I want to watch him unleash in want.

I’m learning to tease, to draw it out, to make him be patient, whether it be by resisting (ah!) or controlling the situation. He’s had his admonishments but I have my own ways of being drawn out — and they involve the silent fingers of a flogger on the curve of my back.