It’s another curry night that should have been followed by a night of kinky fuckery. Alas, having passed out for 90 minutes from sheer exhaustion, it hardly ended up that way.
Sheer exhaustion before the exhausting stuff had happened, that is.
When I woke up this morning, I had a plan of action – walk the dog, write three blog posts, start a book, clean the kitchen and lounge then get ready to play. It didn’t go that way.
At about 11am, I was on my way out with my dog when I bumped into my neighbour. My neighbour proceeded to point out the lump on his 9-month-old daughter’s head which he suspected was caused by a neglectful mother. Not being the kind of person to turn someone in need away, I let him rant on to me for 10 whole minutes.
He doubled it, at least.
Just say no.
That was my head. I knew it, I knew I knew it, and I’d been told it enough times that I should know it, but here I was, listening to him waffle on anyway. I tried to look interested, but really, I was vacant and disengaged. Nonplussed. I felt sorry for the kid, but not sorry for him. After all, she didn’t get to choose her parents.
Dog walk cancelled, I headed back inside. The dog had bounced about so much in his desperation to greet the neighbour that he had tired himself out. Within minutes of sitting down, Tesco and Argos had been and delivered to me.
Groceries away and #EveryLittleHelps goody bag opened, I sat down to review the contents. Within moments, my phone rang again.
Just say no.
I answered anyway.
It was my neighbour, again.
“She’s diabolical” he insisted. He sent me photos of lumps that I had little interest in and clips from phonecalls that I didn’t need to hear. He wanted my input, my involvement, my thoughts.
This was my first post, passing me by. I tried to write, but every third word was something completely different to what I meant to say. I was confused, not focusing, distracted by the ranting twenty-something-year-old in my ear. I wanted to write, needed to write. I had so much I wanted to get down for my blog, so much I wanted to say.
With him finally advised and off of the phone, I sat down to write. To my credit, I managed to hammer out my review in about an hour, star ratings, edits and all. Review done, I made a plan to write my planned piece on the hopeful end of cervical screenings next. Alas, that’s had to wait until another day.
The home phone rang.
“Hey love, do you fancy a dog walk?”, it was my Mum.
“I can’t, I’m snowed under today.”
Why could I say no to her, but not to any one else? After the loss of my father, saying no to my mother was something I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do anymore, but I did it anyway.
“I don’t know if the boys fancied a dog walk..”
“Wait, I’ll come.”
It was a chance to size up the new lodger, a chance to see what he was about. Mum has had two stay with her now, and neither of them ended well. The first, an early-forties man who took to waffle stomping in their adapted bathroom, The second, a “Trendy Wendy” from Goa who admitted to intentionally picking fights with my mother, simply for something to do.
Enough, the next one would have to be sized up by me.
What can I say? I’m a little protective of my family.
My hackles were raised when my mother airily informed me that he was an ex-convict. He was in prison for possession with the intent to supply cannabis and was about to be released on tag. His tag would be registered to my Mum’s address, and he’d be living with her, so he was in for some serious scrutiny.
He seems okay, quiet and unintimidating.
“Hi! I’m the crazy one the sane ones warned you about!”
That was my introduction to him. Come in hard and strong now, and you won’t surprise them later.
As we walked, there was an odd sense about us. He seemed wary of me, and I was wary of him. He didn’t dress well and he carried a small mobile phone, the kind of size that would be easy to hide from police during a raid. His skin looked dry and his face seemed vacant. We had little in common and little to talk about. Of the four of us, I was the talkative one, especially today.
“Did we want to walk down to the lakes?”
I panicked, I had things to do, posts to write, rooms to clean and then I needed to get ready to play. In my head (and with Google), I’d planned out my next few days, and now it was all going horribly awry.
Just say no.
We went anyway.
The walk was muddy and slippery in large places. I was mindfully aware of the added effort I made to maintain balanced. I’d played my A-game, so the last thing I wanted to do was slip on my ass in front of the newbie. That would not end well for my credibility.
On the way back up, my brother decided to dub me as the slowcoach, simply because I’d decided to hang back and enjoy the scenery. I may be many things, but slow is one thing I’m not, both mentally and physically.
Do it for Daddy.
I power-walked up that hill like a beast. I even stopped a few times to let them play catch up.
Slowcoach, you say? I’ll show you a fucking slowcoach.
I was first across the ‘finish line’, a darkened line where some cabling had been laid. Breathless but triumphant, I stood on the side and waited, making firm eye contact with my brother.
Needless to say, he denied that the proverbial ‘finishing line’ even existed. He saw plenty of other lines of a similar description, but apparently, not that one.
Ah, ever pity the sore loser.
Back at home, I sat down and relaxed for five minutes. Success like that has its limits, and I knew it. Succeed now, suffer for it later. A small price to pay when you have a competitive spirit.
Are you home from dog walk?
It was a text from my neighbour.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Just say no.
Two minutes later, I’d text him back and said I was home, anyway.
What is wrong with me?!
I sat down on my sofa across from him and listened to him talk for at least anothertwenty minutes. I sat with my finger on my temple, figuring him out and listening intently as he talked about his work for the Ministry of Defence and how they let him play with multi-million pound technology on his days off. When he mentioned an enormous polygraph room loaded with ‘millions of sensors’, I gathered it was most likely another of his elaborate fantasies.
Poor kid. It must suck to not be particularly exciting.
As soon as I heard the key in the front door, a smile spread across my lips. I knew the plot would soon change and ‘Berty Bullshit’ (as I’d come to think of this side of him) would go, and he’d be a man who’s wildly exaggerated claims had been tamed, just as Ten Shades walked in.
Yeah, time to go home, kiddo.
Within ten minutes, our dear friend Berty had decided to pack it in. Realising that he was now the third wheel, he made haste to leave. There is plenty of speculation that the poor kid fancies me, and part of me even believes it. If the three girls he’s bought home are anything to go by, then it must be difficult to resist someone who says what she thinks.
With Wolfie leaving me while he spent time on the porcelain throne, I decided on a twenty minute nap. A small refresher before we play.
I woke up a whole 90 minutes later with him leaning over me and telling me food was ready.
By this point, we’d made the decision to cancel tonight. It was frustrating because I’d so looked forward to it earlier in the day, but 11pm was no time to start playing.
“Do you feel a sort of pressure, too?” Wolfie asked me.
Ahh, the billion dollar question.
“I feel a pressure to get the place ready-“
“Yeah, well that’s understandable.”
“But I also feel like I might not enjoy it in some way.” I said, resigned.
That’s been my biggest fear lately. A fear that struck me to my core shortly after my nap.
Are these days over for me?
I want to play, and there is the desire to play, but how, and what? I feel like I try and control too much.
Ten Shades and I are both fully committed to each other, but we are also wracked by our own insecurities. He worries about disappointing me, and I fear not being ready for him. I fear failing him, or not being ready, physically and mentally. We’ve now decided to try shifting our Kinky Fuckery Friday to the Friday where we don’t see his Dad (who detests even a waft of curry) the next day and where my mother isn’t likely to call up and see if I want to go dog walking. Hopefully, maybe, that’ll fix things. If all goes well, it gives me a week to get on top of the housework and you know.. organise all of the things.
As a blogger, an assertive woman and a submissive, I feel I can speak openly and clearly upon this- Sometimes it is monumentally hard to change gears. You need to go from making decisions to surrendering them, with little or nothing in between. If you only have 5-10 minutes to change gears, that’s difficult, if not impossible, to achieve. If I’ve been under pressure all day, I go from wanting to surrender to Ten Shades, to trying to resist him. I’ve felt out of control, and now I actually want a taste of it.
Which sort of goes against the whole Dominance & submission thing.
Submission for me is what submission is for many other submissive-identifying people- a chance to surrender control. In is a chance to trust, a chance to calm and a chance to allow the decision making to be made by another, a person that you choose to take control. I don’t consent to others taking up and deciding my day, and yet seemingly, I enable it anyway.
To be honest, sometimes I wish I had more rules. Sometimes, I wish not saying no to my neighbour carried consequence because then maybe, just maybe, I could get more shit done. I exist on a continuum of wanting rules because I’m too good at not establishing boundaries for myself, and not wanting them because women like me won’t be told what to do.
Ahh, what a wonderful, confusing, fucked-up world we live in.