Tag Archives: truth

Same Dance, Different Steps

 

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The rhythm of routine is a comforting one in a world that no longer makes sense to me.

I see hate in so many places and cruelty where there once was kindess. I admit that I hade in the welcoming arms of my community. I mark, I protest, I growl with the rest of them, and then I run back to my land of misfits to dance another day.

My routines are simple, and exhausting. And I suppose, simply exhausting. I go to BaGG every week, managing to show up hours early to sit across from the stubborn asshole I love while he works and I work.. and then we dance.

We have yet to physically play, James and I. Not since he took my collar, slave ring, and pendant. I often wonder about the box they’re placed in. Is it plain, decorated. Does he take it out, along with photos and momentos, love letters and notes, and godde knows how many gifts, or does it stay locked away in some corner of his closet, another mistake he doesn’t want to look at? I don’t know. It’s eight months today, and I still don’t know.

What we do end up doing is dueling. Trading cards. An old game called Yu-Gi-Oh that he’s been into for eons, and that I enjoyed as a kid. I never played before him. I ‘built’ decks in the loosest of terms, with the childlike mindset of “Oh, this is pretty! Let’s put this with this!” and never had anyone to actually play with. Eons ago, a world ago, he tasked me with learning the game again. I did…and then the world exploded. And exploded. And exploded, and playing cards was the furthest thing from my mind.

After I was released, there was a time when playing cards was…all we ended up having. He shoved the fact that I hadn’t build a deck in my face during our breakup, and my rebuttle was to show up at the Citadel two days later with my skeleton of a deck, ready to duel. Since then, it’s been the only thing guaranteed safe to talk about. When he’s in a foul mood during a ride I bring up Yu-Gi-Oh. When he’s overly stressed and obviously needs a break from work, like he did today. When the dungeon is slow on a work night and I can seek him getting stressed. We duel.

It’s become such a lovely ritual as time has gone on. The banter has increased, to the point where there is quite a bit of sexual tension with our duels. There’s more joking, more teasing, more… comfort, and slowly, bit by bit, we have begun to feel like our old selves. He’s more approachable and less intimidating, and things like sitting in silence together have stopped feeling so uncomfortable. They are, in many ways, oddly comfortable. I know why he’s quiet some nights; I can still read his body like a book and can tell when he’s stressed, or sore, or in a mood.

That being said… the duels are all I get. I can’t touch him. I can’t snuggle him, or kneel at his feet, or go in for the big, long hugs that other can. I still am only permitted a hug goodbye most days, and I am touch starved. We spend so much damn time together that in certain ways it can be cruel smelling him, hearing him, being surrounded by him and yet being unable to reach him. There are times when he looks so damn fucking good… and I curse that he still pushes all of my fucking buttons. All of them. He always has, and I have no clue anymore what I push of him, if anything good.

Today, we dueled as always. He brought out his Blue Eyes deck, I my Lightsworn, and he destroyed me like he always does. He topped me through cards, because he could. Any progress I make he lets me do. I’m well aware of this. It’s always been that way with James. Any progress I’ve made, it’s because he’s let me. The banter, the dance, lasted until a friend mentioned that she played.

This friend is not a threat in any way. She doesn’t make me jealous, at all. She is safe, a beautiful soul who still calls James my person and is well aware at just how complicated she is. And the truth is, I love watching James duel. It’s fun sometimes when it’s not me. It wasn’t that they dueled… it’s that they interrupted the ritual that triggered some brain squirrels in my mind.

He doesn’t top me right now, in any way but the cards. That’s all I get. I don’t get swatts at BaGG. He won’t pull my hair, or bring me to my knees. I’ve forgotten, for the most part, what his lips feel like. I don’t get casual kisses or bites. He still won’t even just… poke me in the arm in a friendly way. Touch was so much a part of our love language that it was one of the main things taken away when we ended, and so I cling to the cards. I cling to the ritual of every Wednesday I get my dance with him. He will give me time, top me, and then go off to the others.

Today, that wasn’t the case. He played a few rounds with me, and then moved on to someone else. It was bound to happen. The nature of games is that you play other people. It’s a silly game; it’s fun. But… it’s our fun. It’s our thing, and for an hour I sat and watched while they played. I watched the bit of time I normally get with him tick away, and as it did I felt more and more invisible to him.

Emotions rarely have logic, and unfortunately for me my emotions are almost always written on my face. If anything, I’m sitting and writing this all out to get the kicked puppy expression I know I’m wearing to disappear. I am posessive of the few points of connection that I consider mine with him, logical or not, and I don’t think I realized how posessive until tonight. I felt.. inferior. Our friend is a better duelist than I am, with more experience. She was more of a challenge for him, and he and others commented that despite having months of practice now, she played better than I have. She lasted better.

There was a moment, hearing all of this, that I realized how easily replacable I could be. I wonder what value I still hold to him, this man that never seems to want to know his own heart. Over a silly game of cards that have been our safe-zone.

Maybe it’s the time of year; that Valentine’s Day is fast approaching, and I remain without a primary. Maybe it’s looking around and seeing other people valued by partners, and finding myself at war with my self-imposed loneliness. Maybe it’s that fear that… I’m just another background piece for him now.

None of this is logical. Time is gold to James, and more than anyone else I get his time.

Except, for when I don’t.

When the dance gets interrupted, the partners changed out, and you find yourself doubting if it was a dance at all.

It’s time for BaGG. Perhaps I will be brave and approach him for a different type of dance.

Yours, in routine

-Rene

 

Shadows of 2016


Hello world

I have started and stopped so many posts over the last few months… and apparently accidentally published a couple when I shoved my phone in my bra or some such nonsense. 

Life happens. I am a flawed human. 

I am also currently wide awake at 1:29 in the morning thanks to some coffee I had at 9:00. Sitting in my parents living room in New Jersey. Letting the weight of 2016 hit me. 

It has been one hell of a fucking year. Every time I think to write something new appears. And so I get stuck. 

When I was being mentored, I was tasked to write 200 words a day. These days I’m not tasked with much. It’s easy to get overwhelmed with life. To let myself get away with the little white lies I process through when I write. Bad habit. Old habit. 

I remain unowned and uncollared.. and no clearer in what I want to do than I was six months ago. I still reach up to touch my neck from time to time and feel the emptiness there. It’s an emptyness I struggle with… because it truly is self-imposed.  James and I are still not together. We’re still working on.. what I suppose is a friendship. I see him twice a week or so. I drive him home when asked.  We talk. We laugh. Inside jokes are slowly returning. But play hasn’t yet. 

I don’t have control over that. Over the play. But he still has my collar, and he knows it. I still haven’t asked for it back. And I know it. Neither of us are there. Neither of us.. can fully close that book. We’re in limbo. Can’t close the book. Can’t start a new one. Can’t move to the next chapter yet. We’re still settling, in a lot of ways. It’s hard. I love him to the moon and back, and he knows that. But I want to strangle him about half the time. I crave touch and connection. I want love (who doesn’t really) but… books. Chapters. Pages. 

I don’t have a primary. But my damn heart does. 

I own and acknowledge that. What I want and what I need right now are two radically different things. I’m not spinstering or anything. I have partners. Chris still exists as my Dominant, though we no longer have a sexual relationship. There’s Grey still, and two regular play partners. Just. Nothing is mind blowing. Nothing is razzle dazzle, za za zoo, dreams of marriage and babies. Every partner I play with or date right now has a primary. And I want to be one (not with any of them!) and I don’t. 

So many around me are happily owned. Happily coupled. And there’s this reality that I could easily move on. I could ask for my collar, close that book, and move forward. And if something mind blowing came along, I think I could. If someone swept me off my feet and wanted to claim me, I could walk away from James romantically. I don’t ignore the za za zoo. It’s how I got myself into this mess to begin with. 

But. No one has. And I haven’t. And I don’t want to. And so here I sit, watching sex and the city, contemplating the difficult creature that is James. 

I never choose the easy ones. Here I go, falling for a man with shattered emotions. Whose feelings settle at a snails pace. Whose brain works so differently than everyone else’s. Who I have to constantly explain. May he never know how much I do, how many fires I put out. He’s an amazing asshole, there’s just so much beneath the surface that other don’t see. He’s my favorite asshole, my butthead, my 5 a.m. Phone call, safe space, and friend. The asshole pushes all of my damn fucking buttons. And I lack the on/off switch he has. 

My Mr. Big.

Can I wait years for him to figure out how he feels? Can I hold out? 

It’s hard. Balancing between the patience needed to navigate James and the desire to.. be desired. To be wanted. And loved. 

To be owned. 

I’ve learned throughout this year that my most satisfying play is tied to emotions. I can go deeper, push myself further, when I love someone. I suck at pick up play. I’m a lightweight when I’m not attached. When I love someone, truly love them, I let them break me. Shatter me. Knowing that they will help me pick up all the pieces. 

Can I go years without being fully owned again? Without being truly pushed? Truly broken? 

I don’t know. Honestly. I won’t let myself get lost in him. He’s not my Master right now. He’s.. complicated. Hurting. Lost in his own world and trying to come up for air. And I love him.  But I’m not masochist enough to dive back into that until his life settles some. And mine. My life being more stable would be nice. 

My play isn’t completely unfulfilling. I love Chris. I give the most to him when we play. I love Grey as well, in my own way. But. I don’t drown in the scenes. I can get lost in Chris’s scenes and get to bliss… but. It’s just. It’s not quite the same. As I’m sure it’s not the same playing with me as it is with his primary. As far as James… he’s not dating. He’s rarely playing. He’s.. not datable right now. And he knows that. I know that. I think everyone knows that. We.. are complicated. And I know that can mean so many things in the kink community. But saying we’re friends. Fuck. There are so many more complicated components than that. We are not together. I am unowned. And I still feel an invisible tag on me somewhere. I’m sure he does as well, and gets frustrated by it in different ways as I do. 

2016 has taught me some hard lessons. It’s taught me that everything ends.  And that’s sad. But everything begins again as well. And that’s happy. 

Life’s too short not to be happy. And it’s too short to date just to date. 

I will wait. I will see what I can learn from this, rather than throw myself into empty rebounds chasing that ownership again. But I will also selfcare. I will remain open to new without discarding the old, and will not let myself be taken for granted. I will make sure what I give I give freely and without regret or bitterness. I will look for what I get in return. I will accept good things. Maybe I will find an Aiden while Big pulls his head out of his ass. Maybe he’s not Big. 

So many maybes. 

One thing I’m sure of. I’m ready for 2017. I’m ready to feel more, to write more, and to embrace what come next. 

I’m still here, lovelies. Still submissive. Still exploring, and learning, and loving. 

And I’m not going anywhere 

Humbly yours,

Rene 

Bittersweet

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My life is radically changing in the next few days… Hence why I’m awake at 2:33 in the morning on a night when I did NOT have a kink event for once.

I was up packing..because this is when I have time to pack.

On Saturday I am moving to the most wonderful new home. My roommates are kinky; a stable, owned and collared couple that have been together for years and are the most welcoming people I’ve ever met in my life. They’ve worked with my budget in every possible way (even letting me pay some of my first months rent on the 12th when I move in and the rest on the 16th), cut the price of rent almost in half to give me a home, and even have a little black cat of their own to keep Poe company when I’m at work. There is a kitchen to cook in, a garage to work in, a back patio for awesome BBQs, and a sense of peace that I am feeling for the first time since August 1st when I was given notice. The place is even wheelchair accessible with enough room for two, in time.

The one con of my new home when I have all these pros? It’s a con and it’s not.. The house isn’t in San Francisco. It’s down the Peninsula a ways, in a small town called Menlo Park.

I know Menlo Park pretty well. That’s where Rocky Horror nights happen. There is a cute bookstore, and Italian restaurants, and summer festivals that happen.. The town is just quiet enough that I can park on the street but not so quiet that I have little to explore. I’m suddenly close to Palo Alto, a city I’ve only driven through once, and am closer to friends in San Jose. I’m still only a half hour away from San Francisco by car (an hour by Bart), and as someone who grew up with that same amount of a commute into New York City from her home town this is nothing for me. This is normal for me.. The city is close, but not overwhelming, and I like that.

But it means giving up my San Francisco address, and being further away from James.. It’s a doable far away. San Francisco is our meeting point, just as it’s always been. I will continue to be at all the events I go to normally. I still have my jobs in and near the city. It’s just a matter of making sleepovers work and..seeing where this goes.

Packing up my life makes me nostalgic. I was wrapping up my fifty gazillion mugs (I’m a bit of a tea whore…), thinking about how much I’ve changed since I first moved into this place. This was my first real grown-up apartment. I was never in school while living inside these walls. I worked. I worked my ass off, and I grew. I learned. Almost my entire relationship with Kane happened while I lived here. I remember texting him after my road trip with my sister, telling him that I was all-in, that I wanted to be his.

I went from almost completely isolated in my kink relationships to being in an amazing community of people. Having friends that I see outside of just kink events. Having the first healthy poly relationship..and probably the first healthy relationship in general that I’ve had in a while with a man I am crazy about. I’ve gone from kink being at the fringe of my life to kink being in almost every aspect of my life.

I’ve lost some things along the way… I didn’t work while I was here.. not the way I wanted. My hands rarely touched clay. It’s something that I’ve sworn to change once Saturday comes to pass. I found a studio in San Francisco with drop in hours that I can afford..and dammit I need to work again. James has honestly taught me that without really trying to. The more I see him work, the more I hear him talking about what he loves about what he does and I see the dedication and time he puts into it.. the more I remember what it feels like to be lost in the studio. To be running around at 3 a.m. with headphones on, covered in clay and lost in my own world. There is a physical ache to find that part of myself again.. I need it like I need air.. Honestly, like I need to submit..

I met some friends that showed me an even broader part of my world. The Dark Odyssey events and the people involved in them are amazing, and I am honestly grateful to Smith for getting me more involved. For being my initial reason for going to Fusion, which led to connecting with Chris and several other awesome people.

I discovered today that that particular relationship has come full circle. I was poking around on Fetlife, as per usual, and ended up liking a blog that Smith’s primary had also liked. It was seeing that that made me realize I hadn’t seen updates from her in about a month. Smith was never much of a presence on Fetlife as it was, so I wasn’t exactly missing his updates. I clicked, and saw that she had blocked me, and so had he.. and honestly, I laughed. It was a sad laugh. It’s always sad when a friendship dies..but I had been so busy enjoying my life that I hadn’t noticed they had finally fully exited it. Part of me is still curious to see how they will navigate this when I plan on frequenting events they are involved with, and share play with someone that they play with as well.. We shall see. Still… It’s nice to have that negativity out of my feed, and out of my life. Cowardice is not a way to keep my friendship.

With all these changes I want to make one small change to this blog. I’m sure many of you have figured out from a couple posts ago that my name isn’t Rena. It’s Rene. One letter off, but still different. I don’t know why I changed that letter. Why I was so afraid to openly be Rene on here. I have this blog linked to my Fetlife profile, so many people know that it’s me.. Whatever the motivation, I would like to drop that small twerk and just..be myself. So, the writer is still the same It’s just the name signing the posts that’s changing slightly

So many beginnings, and so many endings. It seems appropriate that all these things seem to be happening at once, less than a month after my birthday. Will I miss some of the things that are gone from my life? Of course… but I have a feeling the best is yet to come. Good things are coming. I am excited to see what this next chapter in my life with bring me.

Yours overwhelmed with the amount of packing still needing to be done… GAH

-Rene

Day 10

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Day 10
Does any element of BDSM occur as a part of your submissive relationships? How do you feel about BDSM? Is it core to your submission, peripheral or non-existent (other than the submission part)?

For me, BDSM and my submission go hand in hand. I’ve stated several times that how far I am willing to go with it varies from partner to partner, but regardless BDSM is a definite part of my submission.

There is a part of me that is very much a masochist, especially with James. I was at a new club he works at once a month, watching Sir do his thing when he rolled over to me and, as per usual, dug his nails into my chest.  This normally makes me scream. Literally. This time he was nicer.  It hurt, but I barely squeaked.

It threw me off balance. That is not my norm. My norm is whimpering, pushing into his hand but squirming away all at once.  I wanted it harder.

The bondage… That can be questionable. I am far from a rope bunny. I am slightly claustrophobic. I enjoy the exchange of power of being bound down. I relish someone else taking control. But don’t tie me so that my leg is tied to my neck. Don’t render me a rope mummy. Don’t mummify me in general, actually.

We talked about discipline already.. And how much of a top/sadist I am (or rather am not)…

This answer is horribly short. But I suppose that the question was simple.

As always, I am yours

-Rena

Safe

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Today on the way to the way to the dungeon I got stopped on the street. I’m used to it, in certain ways. The Tenderloin is a rough neighborhood. Cat calls abound, there are some sketch characters on the street, and I’m not exactly the most intimidating creature in the world. It’s getting to be that time of the year where it’s no longer daylight when I get to the dungeon to play.. It’s getting dark again. And I, being foolish, walk through the Tenderloin alone.

The person who stopped me wasn’t part of the usual suspects.. It was a tourist, a woman who was obviously uncomfortable with the neighborhood she was in and took a wrong turn somewhere around Union Square, by the fancy hotels. I gave her directions to where she needed to go. She was polite, thanked me..and then paused, giving me a once over.

“Aren’t you scared of walking this neighborhood at night?”

I laughed. I’ve worked in some rough areas of cities in the past, especially back when I was in college. Internships were part of our requirement to graduate, and more often than not the internships that needed psych majors the most were internships in the not so pretty parts of the state… I got mugged twice while working at my second year internship and took several self-defense classes as a result so that it would never happen again. I’m tougher than I look… But that’s not why I laughed. It was the reason I gave, but it’s not why I laughed at all.

The woman was satisfied with that explanation and went on her way. The honest answer to why I laughed?

Because anyone stupid enough to harm me will suffer a much worse fate than anything they dish out.

I am a bit of a Tumblr addict these days. I was on the other day and saw that someone I follow, a Dom called lovemysub, got accused of not being a real Dom by an anonymous asker because he cared for his sub too much. Because he was too affectionate. Because he loved her. This is part of his response..and I think it’s brilliant.

“A dom does not demand respect. He conducts himself in such a way as to be worthy of respect.

A dom does not bark commands. His presence is such that he can seduce and command with nothing more than a glance.

A dom does not raise his voice. He is the kind of man who gets what he wants without needing to.

A dom is not a braggart. He is possessed of a calm, quiet confidence that is evident in his demeanor, the way he walks, the tone of his voice, and all other aspects of him.

A dom understands balance. He knows that while a firm hand and discipline are critical in this type of relationship, knowing when to be gentle and understanding is every bit as important.

A dom is a gentleman first and foremost. That doesn’t necessarily mean that he is a fancy man who values the finer things in life, but he does understand manners and protocol. He opens the car door for her. He orders for her if she is having trouble deciding. He treats strangers with courtesy and respect.

A dom is a protector. He makes sure that his submissive feels safe and protected at all times. This means so much more than just telling her you will protect her. A dom shows her. He keeps a hand on her shoulder or on her waist in crowds so she doesn’t get nervous. He sleeps on the side of the bed closest to the door so that he is always between his submissive and an intruder. He walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street so that an errant vehicle will hit him before his submissive. If anything or anyone should threaten his submissive, he must be prepared to fight for her with the ferocity of an alpha wolf.

A dom earns her submission. It is not a thing to be demanded, expected, or assumed. And he continues to earn it, each and every day.

A dom values her submission. Fully submitting your will and trusting your body and well-being to someone takes a kind of strength most can’t imagine, and a dom never loses sight of that.

A dom understands that being a dominant is 10% privilege and 90% responsibility. He is literally taking her life into his hands. He is accepting the most sacred and important thing she has to give. He is taking her burdens and bearing them as his own, always, every day.

A dom is consistent. He understands that he can’t just be her protector, lover, confidant, master, etc. when he feels like it. There will be days when a dom is tired. There will be days when he is stressed. There will be days when he is broken. On those days, it is more important than ever for a dom to show his submissive that he is still everything she needs him to be. ”

Why am I confident walking to the dungeon at night?

Tonight, I was at a party. An amazing party where James wasn’t working for once. I got some much needed play time with my Sir, and some even more needed cuddles with him after. The night ended too quickly… and when I knew it was ending I groaned. I was wrapped up in his arms, decompressing from the scene and enjoying aftercare, my head on his chest. I didn’t want to move, and voiced my dissatisfaction about the idea.

“Until they say that everyone has to leave you’re staying right here.” Sir squeezed me just a little bit tighter then… and I felt completely untouchable in his embrace. Safe from the world. Cherished, in my own little kinky cocoon.

My Sir is a Dom. He expects me to have common sense, and to protect myself when I possibly can. But that does not mean he is not protective of me. He puts his hand on my knee when I feel uncomfortable in a crowd and it calms me down.. He sleeps closest to my apartment door. He will take the lead when I beg him too, and only when he’s sure it’s what he wants. And if, despite common sense and self-defense skills, someone manages to hurt me he and several others will break them in half. It’s not something I’ve ever asked him about.. It’s not something I’ve ever had to. It’s something I know from the way he talks to me, touches me, treats me around others. The safest place for any lucky submissive is with their Sir.

Okay… mushy post over.. I thought one was overdue.

Yours hoping you enjoyed it ;P

-Rena

Sure

I haven’t been to a play party in about three weeks, and have been away from San Francisco since Friday.

Coming home this time is different than it was in June. The finality and the sadness of the last visit isn’t there. I have enough time to decompress, spend time with my family and friends, and visit all of my old haunts.

There is the seashore of course, the local mall, the city, my home with its wooded backyard and crickets that ease me to sleep at night. There is also a very strange cemetery my best friend at the time and I would visit as teenagers.

It is around the block and down the street from my home, directly across from the entrance to my high school (I hated high school, so it seemed oddly fitting at the time). Aesthetically, I loved it. The stones were old, the last one laid there the year that I was born, and largely forgotten. The entire cemetery was Jewish, except for this small Dutch section in the back. My town was founded by Dutch immigrants in the 1800’s, and the only stone still visible reads from 1864. The others are too dilapidated to read anything, and too overgrown by ivy and other plant life to even resemble stones anymore. They, along with the newer Jewish stones (clustered with groups taken from Scarlet Fever epidemics in 1912 and ’14, as well as World War 2 casualties) watch generations of youth pass by the silent gates, few paying them any mind as time passes.

Well, I suppose I was one of the few. This place, as a youth, was where I did all my great thinking.

There is one tombstone I always visit. Aaron, a little 12 year old boy taken by Scarlet Fever in 1912. His stone is flat on the ground, and often was overgrown when I got there. I would clean it, sit on the crumbling wall beside his stone, and we would talk. Or, I would talk to him. I would mention the feelings of claustrophobia, trapped in a place I never felt like I belonged. I would talk about dreams of college, of great things, of leaving Hawthorne in the dust and never returning.

As I aged and entered college, giving me the freedom to actually live away from home, visiting the cemetery became a comfort of constants. The stones were always there, with names I began to recognize as time went on, still and silent but not at the same time. Even as distance separated my old friend and I, she and I would return to the graveyard on weekend when I came home, and we would traverse the stones as we had in our youth. I would talk to Aaron about what I was seeing and doing, and would wonder what he would have become if he had seen past the age of 12.

My self in high school was…haunted. I think that’s why I took comfort in the cemetery. If I was haunted, I might as well hang out somewhere where there were ghosts. My friend had even more demons to battle. She was a cutter, a rather serious one, as well as suffering from major depressive disorder and other mental problems she was aware of but never diagnosed with. I was continually struggling with my weight and my self-worth, and had developed an eating disorder by high school (because no one ever suspects the fat chicks of being bulimic). I felt the judgment of my extended family and of my small town on a daily basis, and it felt like the only things I could but could not control would be my body.

I still have a love-hate relationship with food. I love to cook, especially for someone like Kane who truly appreciates it. I love family recipes and the social aspects of food. I love when my mother bakes chocolate croissants or sticky buns. I hate stepping on the scale after, of seeing the numbers go up and feeling my pants get tighter because I looked at an M&M. I still have my demons. It would be a lie to say they were gone. But I haven’t binged and purged since I was 20.

Dragon stopped cutting when she was 21. We are both 23 now, and still in touch from time to time even though neither approves of the other’s romantic relationship. I think she’s too codependent on her boyfriend of three years, and that happiness can not revolve around this “us against the world” ideal. She thinks that I need to be with someone closer to my own age, and that I’m too sex obsessed. We agree to disagree to keep the peace, but we have both grown from the 16 year old damaged souls that used to visit the old cemetery together.

Later this week, we will go back together. We will take photos together, in the cemetery, documenting where we are now vs where we were. Pausing at this transition time between young woman and full grown to see the progress we’ve made, and the women we’ve become both separately and together.

My mother told me when I graduated high school that by the time I was done with college I would no longer recognize myself. I would be an entirely different person. I didn’t believe her at the time. I was so sure of myself and my identity. I was a good girl, who was going to be a psychologist to make money and marry her high school sweetheart who didn’t care she was fat.

Well, my mother was right. I left that little girl behind a long time ago. I believe that I shed off the last layers of her just a few months ago, when I finally allowed myself the freedom to admit my submissive nature. To let myself be a sub, and serve, and know that there was nothing wrong with wanting to serve.

It is a fool’s errand to fall for a married man. To devote yourself to him is emotional suicide. To fall for him is death of the heart, and yet here I am, hopes blazing. Coming home has made me face my past, my demons, and to look for my future. I see Kane beside me as I visit these old haunts. I want show him. I feel like he belongs there, and I’m not ashamed to say it. There is only so much selflessness in me. Eventually the selfishness wins out.

My name is Rena. I am an artist from a microscopic town in New Jersey that I outgrew a long time ago, but still draw comfort from. I am in love with Kane. Hopelessly. Completely, Totally. And I see my future with him. I see us working in the studio together, pushing each other creatively. I see coming home and him meeting my family, being a part of my life here. And knowing that he sees it too… I don’t have words.

My parents know all the details about him, and the wife, and that life..and they like him still. They trust him with me, which is not something they could say about my previous boyfriends. They trust him with my heart, and watching our interactions see what I see.

If this ends in me being heartbroken it is completely worth it for the hope I feel now. Better this than dark oblivion. I have a man I adore, I worship, I serve willingly and freely, who fulfills me as much as I do him. I feel his love even from 3000 miles away, his support.

I hold my head higher as I walk through Hawthorne. Someone loves me. And I love them, and I can finally see a clear future forming, away from this place but a part of it at the same time.

I have quite a lot to catch Aaron up on. Some things never change.

Yours apologize for all the mush lately…still getting used to this whole “in love” thing…

-Rena