CUPID Stunts!

The immigration official has 15 minutes to decide if you’re a fake couple or not, at which point he will decide if he will overturn your US Husband’s right to opening his hand of invitation to an alien. So why, after being given the handshake, and supposedly passing their gruelling interview did we feel such an anticlimax. Instead feeling elated that the department of homeland security had accepted me as a rightful resident of the US, we both left feeling like there was more to come.

My Husband, a successful, respectable, hard working (nearly 24/7 I might add) Angelonian, who’s clear spoken and mannered calmness obviously didn’t ease the investigation officer into any appeasement. The officer just stumbled along fractiously in the interview, picking holes in sideways manner we just didn’t anticipate.

We had met two years ago, I was a very different person then, although according to my husband the same sweet, loving kind person, who was still rather naive and in denial over a lot of stuff. In those two years I travelled around in escape from my suffering past, and we eventually started living together as I ventured back to the UK to try and tidy up a lot of the ‘bits’ I’d left behind.

Back to the interview; Officers are trained to find fault with any of your paperwork that looks suspicious, anything to suggest your marraige is not genuine. And he got stuck straight in -

“Why are our letters to your address being returned?” we looked at each other in disbelief as the officer held up three letters to our address which had been marked ‘not at this address’ and returned to sender – this was reason enough for them to deem we were living at a false address, therefore hiding something, and worthy of deportation! Luckily we had brought a packet of paperwork with us in a fedex envelope that had been clearly signed upon reciept by myself – So that question was pushed aside and he moved onto the next in the firing line, not happy!

To my husband:

“Why do your bank statements say ‘single’ not married” – “who is the beneficiary of your life insurance, let me see the proof” – gaaahhh! talk about flumoxed! the questions kept being fired with no thought that he was flitting through paperwork trying to pull up anything that would serve the officer with his inquiry.

“I forgot!” – was the only answer my husband could give in his perplexed state of mind, we were both now pretty jittery and it just about got worse…

To Me:

“Why are you saying you have children, when you answered no on the forms?” – then it hit me, the whole past thing was coming up to bite me…

-”they don’t live with me… I haven’t seen them for years” and I couldn’t help but tear up, because I knew that anyone who puts ‘no children’ when in actual fact they do, would be seen as a liar, and worse yet – how do I even begin to explain all this within the five minutes we had left. “… I just didn’t think that’s what you meant if they don’t live with me…” Obviously a pathetic answer, but it was the truth. I haven’t had a relationship with my kids for years on account their father has made it impossibly difficult.

Suddenly the point of the interview turned to the possiblity of my petitioning for the kids to become residents of the US, and both my husband and I felt that I was being doomed to deportation, since the US don’t want more dependents in the state than is already costing them.

The immigration officer tapped into his computer, poked more about my children, their father, our relationship, whether we plan to have kids etc etc. All in all it felt pretty awful by now, instead of a conversation using all the materials we had provided to show the foundation of our two year relationship, he was peeling open a hole in that sad part of my life.

He dissappeared out of the room for a minute, which gave us a moment to comfort each other on how badly this was going. Then out of the blue, he offered a handshake;

“congratulations” he said, “your application for US residency has been approved”

- We sat there in shock! and stayed like that pretty much the rest of the day, not knowing what he made the decision on, since he had three fairly formidable opportunities to turn me out of the country. 1./ being the address hiccup – that was worthy of investigation in itself had I been faking the whole living with husband thing, I mean it was luck we had a signed envelope showing the address did indeed work for other post! 2./ the casual paperwork error, dear husband forgetting to update basic bank statements with marital status, 3./ KIDS, I mean, seriously it is one thing for a US citizen to have his rights acknowledged by opening his hand of invitation to a foreigner, but in so doing it is not a chain invitation for an ensuing family – the broke state is really not wanting that!

It took us a while to work it out… it was me shoving my ass in my husband’s face that must have worked. The interview room was tiny, and with barely the room to move when the guy asked me to revoke my temporary ID card, it struggled to get it out my pocket, and unthinkingly just asked my husband to do the honour.

“I did NOT shove my ass in your face!” I exclaimed whilst on the way home surprised that he brought it up…

“yes you did ” he said, and reminded me how it must have looked in that small room with himself continuing to answer the interrogator whilst he had was unbuttoning the pockets on my new trousers bought especially for that interview.

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I’ve been away for a few months because I’ve really been sick. OK maybe it’s one of those get it all out the system moments that left me a shivering wreck after recollections, and maybe some of this has got to do with some pent up emotions that eventually manefest themselves in the physiological sense if you don’t get the shit out your system.

So this is why I’m writing this entry. Shortly after telling you part of the traumatic experiences of my past I fell sick. I wonder if anyone else goes through this? Expelling an emotional pain is exhausting, it affects the body, and it’s good to get it out, but did it sap me of all energy to the point where I fell sick? I’ve recently been to a Primary Care Physician, who is gathering together a splayed set of screenings to cover the wide spectrum of symptoms I am showing. One by one, the results are coming back not as she anticipated, and opening up more questions. I finally decided to tell her the nature of my sexual abuse as a child, and if that would have had any affectation from damage, or mental conditioning on my current range of symptoms.

I told her for two reasons, I’m tired of holding back and I want help, anything I can give her despite it’s disparate range of causality may offer something for her to latch onto. The other reason I told her was that I needed reassurance, that for once I was going to be able to trust someone to take care of me and treat me. If her reaction was going to be blaze, then I would want to know immediately whether to move on and find a different primary care physician.

And I’m writing this now because for any victims of abuse out there, that may be reading this, or doing the same. It’s one thing to recognise that you have been a victim of abuse, whether physical, mental, sexual, psycho-sexual – yes, there is such a thing as you may have discovered from my past. But recognizing you were a victim is just but the first step of a massive heap of things you weren’t expecting to come to start opening up. As a victim surviving on the instinct of repression an prohibition to fully express oneself, I’ve come to realize that this touches on a wider portion of our lives that we would see to imagine.

A lack of trust in relationships can run so deep, that it’s unfair on the partners we may choose who are good for us and trying to take care of us. A lack of care for ourselves put unbalanced pressure on others to look out for us, we literally run the risk of being on an unknown suicide mission heading into stupid risks, unprepared for things to happen, and in the typical self-deprecating manner the only attention we seek for ourselves is ‘help’ ‘help’ ‘help’ not something that paints a glorious picture of someone special others actually want to be with.

I have been guilty of all those things above, and I took a step to stand up for myself by telling the doc, everything I could possibly think of to try and lay the path for the best possible care she could give. And maybe alleviate some of the pressure from my new husband

In an abstract sense, even though I left the mental, physical violence 17 years ago, the psycho-sexual abuse left it’s mark on me, and I spent the remaining years all pent up holding all that shit in me, manefesting it by dealing with chronic constipation all my life.

But here’s the thing, literally, if you don’t get that shit out, it will poison you. I’ve started to feel in years gone by as though my immune system was attacking me. I would get hives, joint crippling, abdominal cramps , fevers that would come and go. Various attacks were acute and I was hospitalized with nothing connecting any of my symptoms and the care I got from none of the dots being connected was sporadic at best.

Until now. The physiological set of symptoms are now so many, and so varied, that many problems indeed seem to have arisen, and may be masking the root cause. The doctor tells me this is a systemic manefestation of symptoms, and she thanked me for the courage I took to share with her my fears of damage from childhood  rape having left me with something, however, everything I am suffering with now, will not be left alone to any default diagnosis.

My fears of being treated like a hypochondriac left me, and it’s important to note, if you are a victim, quite often you will have to learn how to be a good patient, and that means learning how to get the care you need.

For those of you who wish to know, I am still undergoing tests, with an internal specialist, dermatology, rheumatology, gastroenterology, and cardiology for a range of suspect diseases like Celiac, Systemic Lupus, and others because it appears my immune system is systemically attacking my body.

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Since I was a teenager I was always interested in relationships – how it works,why it works, what is a perfect relationship between two people a

nd ho w to you achieve that?

Many years I was dating men and women, I tried to build that Perfect connection between us but it used to go all wrong. As normal the beginning was always nice and beautiful,romantic or simply wild but there was always something that I did wrong. I thought. Or it was just going wrong normally.  So was is the main point in a relationship? What makes our partners love us and want us?

The answer is scary and simple – honesty. 

First of all, let’s ask ourselves what is it that we want from our partner? Do we want someone just to have fun and spend weekends with? Someone who’s going to send you a postcard with flowers on your birthday or Valentine’s day or we want someone who we see in our future? Someone who we see each other in 20 or even 50 years being together, holding hands and watching your own beautiful family sitting in front of you.

At first I was all about fun. I always saw the person only at THAT exact moment with me and not further. I said the words ‘ I love you ‘ without even understanding what it means. With years passing by I was growing up, learning and realizing that this is not what I want. I want a person to be with me, by my side not for a short time , not for just a weekend but forever. So one  task was done in my life – I’ve realized what I want and the next step was How should I get it? All the following dates were not what I needed. Some were cute,handsome, some were smart, but not what I wanted. I began to think that maybe I’ve created a person in my mind that doesn’t even exists? Maybe I was looking for someone who wasn’t even out there? No. There is always someone out there who is waiting to find and love you exactly the same way like you. One day you think you met that person, you talked, you shared but something is not right. So where is our mistake? What do we usually do wrong with those people that we like and would like to get closer with?

And the answer is… We’re becoming The Pretenders. We let them talk, get the information that we need about them to create our New Self so they would like it. We become like a mirror to that another person, to his likes and dislikes, but what about OUR needs?Likes? We forget that there is a ME, a real PERSON who has its own personality,choices,decision and etc. But from a fear that other might not like us we hide that person in the dark and put on stage his stranger. And you can play the role for years till you finally had enough. By that time you already can be in a serious relationship,married,have children.  And when you finally decide to show that hidden person to the light,expose what and who you are it might be too late.

This is what I did last time – I put the mask away and told everything what I am. I spoke out loud about things that I like and I dislike,about who I am. I showed my fears,my nightmares,my dreams – everything. I manage to put myself together and finally be completely Honest with the person that I fell in love with because I deeply believed that he deserves to see me no matter how damaged and dirty I was. I won’t lie – I was scared that that person will get scared or disgusted and turn his back on me but I still decided to risk. Despite all the fear I also felt relief, I felt so light and pure after saying and showing all those things about me. And that was the start of my beautiful relationship. We always talk about things, we don’t hide, we might be scared but we also know that this is why we are together and have each other in life.

At the moment I live together with my man. I am engaged, I am happy and I see us both holding hands in many years from today. And I thank Honesty for that, for making my relationship full of pureness and happiness.

I hope you will find another half of you and peace sometime soon too.

Goodnight

Yes, I wet the bed. It’s funny I look back and realised I wet the bed not that frequently as an adult, but still enough to drive me mad from embarrassment. And now, I think I finally figured out WHY! mainly because I haven’t done for quite some time now, well 2 years ago with exception to an odd occurrence in recent months because I’d remembered some odd stuff from my former life.

I wet myself in practically every relationship I had, except my current marriage. And never talked about it to anyone because it was just so – embarrassing. There was this one time…

I was sleeping in the bed of the tattooist. He had a water bed. Now as you know a water bed is comprised of a giant water bag, which is seated into a bed frame that is sturdy enough to take the tonnage of water weight. The membrane of the mattress is a thick and flexible plastic, over which you normally put an interface insulation before the bed-sheeting.

Now the tattooist was a big guy, I mean really big. A good 18 stone which meant that in our water bed, he would sink right in, and I being no more than 7 1/2 stone would feel like I was relegated to sleeping on a dome, the other side of the bed. If he stirred in the bed, I would curse in my head feeling like a pea on a drum being baffled by the constant rocking motion that reverberated from his wake.

I fell asleep as usual trying to avoid the sea sickness feeling, and morning came together with my dreams. I really needed to go to the toilet – badly. And so I found myself running into the bathroom, sitting on the toilet, then taking a relaxing long pee. Oops I forgot to lift the lid, I’d peed on myself I could feel it running all over my thighs. I got up, put the lid back up, and continued to pee… a really long, nice relaxing one. I felt like I was peeing forever, it was such a good feeling.. wait a minute…

I felt the place rock. I suddenly realised I was dreaming…OH NO! So in real life I’d just pissed myself?! My eyes popped open… I was in bed, but wait, my hands went down the bed and I knew I’d been peeing for ages, how come there wasn’t… OH!

I was gaining compos mentis when I realised my whole bladder full, had slipped away from me, trickled down the waterproof membrane, and puddled entirely around him.

I got out the bed softly, and it rocked as I did, watching him sinking further into the bed as I stepped back away, wondering what to do. I raced to the toilet to have a pee, nothing came out. I was clear of everything! And as I returned to the bed, tattoo guy was lifting the duvet off him, awoken by the seepage now spread around him.

He threw back the duvet and lurched into full wakeness, and as he did I caught the sloshing noise of watermatrress, now puddling a large area of urine all around his heavy body. A few seconds later he queried “Have you wet yourself?” kind of flumoxed! Bleary and annoyed. “AHHH NO! Your piss is all around me!” he sort of raised his arms and feet which caused my piss puddle to follow him more deeply into the bed. I giggled back at embarrassment and at the sheer delight of this silly fat man’s plight in my piss.

So why did I stop peeing myself in my sleep?

A clue happened when I realised just feeling the of the past brought this symptomatic safe bathroom pee-place back. In reality, in my past, the bathroom represented a boundary of privacy in which other people had their privacy respected, but not me. I subconsciously knew my boundaries were violated, in a place where everyone had their privacy respected. So my subconscious created a place where I could relax, and take a piss for as long as I wanted – my own bathroom.

While I lived with my parents, the bathroom in my mind was a safe place. When I had run away, I was still as oppressed and violated as ever before, in my following abusive relationships. And so I peed myself at night.

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Even as an Adult I’ve woken up pissing the bed…

This last year I haven’t!, with exception to one peculiar night surrounding the events of writing in this journal. It made me think, that as I do, I cannot now stop, for memories are flooding back and I have to pen them all to dispose of them or learn from them in order to never suffer again.

I was taking a shower this morning, feeling the warmth against my closed eyes. My Husband taking a shave next to the shower screen, and I was thinking how nice it would be to just make him a hot water poultice for the sore eye he’s been suffering with. Children were shouting and screaming outside this Sunday morning, and my mind regurgitated something funny, buried for 24 years, but forgotten until this day…

“Xiao Mei! Xiao Meiiii—–!” I heard my mother crowing at me instead of the children screaming outside – “Xiao Mei mek me milky coffee!” She demanded. How I used to loth this routine, every morning!

I would get up every morning, and she’d know that I’d left my room for it subdued the Chinese madam’s crowing. Only She used my Chinese name. I’d creep downstairs in a daze and refresh from the morning’s cold. Take the milk pan and the clapper, load it onto the stove with a mug of milk, and perch on a kitchen stool. Fiddling with the warp-weft weaves of the stool seat while I waited for the milk to boil.

Incidentally the orange and white plastic woven stools, fascinated me for I had known my mother had made them. As my fingers wormed and tweaked the taught plastic chords, I was reminded the flashbacks of my father’s words…

‘Y’know she made those stools while she was in the mental hospital ‘ he would say looking rather bemused ‘- you were too young too remember, I didn’t know how I was going to look after you and your brother’ … I never understood, I hardly had memories of my brother, it was like he never existed until he was five. I suppose that was pretty normal, I never thought about it much and it didn’t interest me, except where was my mum when I was a tot then?

The flashbacks of my dad’s words repeated in my mind every time it fell blank on those woven seat stools ‘…After your brother was born, your mum went into post-natal depression , she was banged up in a mental home and drugged up to her eyeballs, I didn’t know when she would come out, she didn’t even know me…’ his eyes would tear up…

I remember looking in disbelief at my father at first when he said things like that, but then something made sense, even though I was only ten when I heard this and pondered over it every day while I made my mother milky coffee for the next three years… ‘I couldn’t look after both of you – ‘ Did that explain why I couldn’t remember my brother? Where had they taken him?

‘but at least something good came out of it’ he grinned ‘She made some furniture!’ and he would chuckle and twiggle his ear. That funny tweak or wiggle he used to do, like a dog shaking off a bad flea. It was like a bad memory he would try to paw off…

‘Ask her!’ he used to smile and maybe the chuckle was out of nervousness ‘She wove those stool tops while she was in mental hospital, I know ‘cos I had to pay for them!’ … and so I would stare at my mother’s handiwork. The tight weavings uncompromising to my picking fingers years later. But I never had the courage to ask her about the mental hospital, she would never admit that, but she did reaffirm that she’d made the stool seats.

The clapper would dance in the milkpan, end my daydream. Pour the milk in her mug, add the instant coffee. Stir. The spoon would catch the skin into a gunky ball caught on it’s stem, I was only 10, didn’t know I’d over cooked it. I’d take her morning coffee up, and she’d be sat up now still bolstered by the huge pet mutt nearly her size. It would dutifully stay cuddling with her even if she literally chewed it’s ear.

And then the tirade would start. Mother was usually drunk the night before, and generally acted depressed so that her waking routine involved my ‘listening’ to her to coax her out of it. “I thought about my muder last night” Or something else in a similar tone. It didn’t matter for I knew the trajectory she would take. She had plenty of bad, sad stories to tell me about her life. Her mother had been murdered by her sister. Her brother had murdered other people. Etc, Etc, I was used to hearing all this bad stuff, and it would be a matter of minutes before my mother’s sorry life would deluge me, then turn into blame on others, and then it would be my father’s fault.

I was tired of the venom in my mother’s voice. There was this witch infront of me showering me with hate about father, and I would stare numb at her lips spattering this wake of evil. It was an ugly sight and quite comical. I would be deafened by the tirade of bitching, and in my numbness focus on the fat sleep ridden lips jumping in haste to vomit out all this pain she was feeling. I would feel nauseous as she supped her coffee and was unaware she continued her vomit while her lips were gunked in the skin from her coffee. Nice…  but if she caught for a second that I begrudged being with her, or bringing her coffee in the mornings, her deluge would rapidly switch onto me.

“- What you looking at me like dat for? You bloody useless cow! How dare you fed up doing one thing for me! I am not your bloody servan’ I dint not have to give birth to you – you bloody ungrateful cow! I WISH I NEVER GIVE BIRTH TO YOU BLOODY BITCH, you are mine – you come out my body…” Euch brrr, I would wish I never had at this point. I was the daughter of an insane unloving woman, who was quite comically an absolute vomit inducing witch in the mornings – her lips literally slimed with the skin of her milk, and spitting at me.

“-I WISH YOU NEVER COME OUT YOU BLOODY BITCH, I SHOULD EAT YOU UP TAKE YOU BACK, I could eat you all up because you weak me since you come out you bloody bitch! I can put you back in my tumming you bloody cow” And so she would scream and cry and the tears of anger wet that face of vomit as she screamed “GET OUT – GET OUT MY SIGHT YOU BLOODY COW I hate you YOU GET OUT MY SIGHT NOW”

I would breathe relief at the end of this routine, which happened more frequently than I care to remember and had, for some reason forgotten for 24 years! I remember each time mother had an outburst against me thinking what laughable words she used… ‘EAT ME?’ I nervously laughed but didn’t want to know she wanted, and meant, to be spiteful. ‘Eat me – ‘ chuckling out loud ‘right she’d have to kill me first!’ – but I wouldn’t put it past her to try, that was the sad part, always looking over my shoulder.

I used to get my own back quietly inside. I wrote in my childhood diary how I thought she was a witch, ugly, inside and out, rotten to the core, and I had no agony aunt to use to let it all out. It was unfair how she battered me with hate, and I could take it, I believed I could take it for her sake to relieve her pain. It did feel unfair, but my silent words were my agony aunt and It felt good being honest in one small way in my life, but I closed the book and buried the memories until now.

I looked at my husband now, some 24 years later, and thought ‘wow, I haven’t pissed the bed with you’ and laughing in my thoughts realised taking a looooong piss in my dreams was far safer than the realm of reality. In those days I lived cautious of her at all times, not willing to spend more than a few minutes in the bathroom incase it should trigger one of her routine intimate inspections of me. So that’s why I wet the bed?!

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To all my Friends who wish to know me better… I am troubled by the world we live in. I feel like I can’t breathe sometimes. I feel like even if people could see what’s going on, they wouldn’t understand it. And no this isn’t a suicide note, it’s me struggling to survive…

I went to a Roman Catholic school, where one girl who cheated to get grades told me “It’s ok God will forgive me” – but she had lost my respect and added to my quandary about religion at the tender age of 12.

Confession is a good thing, a wonderful thing to be honest to yourself and the world, and get whatever emotion you’re bottling up and poisoning your wellbeing out. But although I was too young to articulate my difficulty, I didn’t  feel comfortable with using ‘forgiveness’ as pre-emptive to cheating. It felt arrogant, and totally demeaning to my own efforts to survive.

There was my Mother too, in all her strife growing up, innocently told me she switched religions, from bhuddist, to muslim, then roman catholic. Part of her upbringing was in defence and survival to civil unrest, oppression, murder and general discomfort. Changing religion, was simply a means to blend in – comfortably, and a smart thing to do given the circumstances of her country.

And she did adopt each religion openly, practicing them as though they would save her, and maybe for blending in she did feel accepted and survived. But as a child I saw the fractured practice and philosophies of many ‘presences’ and started to wonder if I could choose because it wasn’t predetermined by my parents, then which and why, or even should I?

Mother gave me a wonderful gift because of that, I couldn’t articulate my uncomfortable life, and there was nothing, no-one to save me – which ‘God’ should I choose. I sympathised with the likes of the 14 yr old pregnant virgin Mary, who avoided being stoned to death by having a man that would own her.

Now that was not taught to us. Our RC school kept up the indoctrination of a miracle birth. But to me, I saw that a girl was valued by her virginity to protect her new ‘owner’ from disease. A girl therefore now pregnant, the obvious proof of having sex, was a shame and devalued to her whole family. Lucky then I felt she had a man to take her away from all of that and protect her from a village stoning.

By 14 I had my own interpretation of understanding the bible, which – when I questioned in class as young as 11, was taken out of Religious Education, and ‘interviewed’ during lunchtimes. They were not to find the cause of my ‘blasphemous’ theories, they were more high intensity re-education that failed because they set my mind – that obviously instead of accepting my thoughts, I was being told I was wrong, and criticized for having philosophical thought about the contextual representation of ‘Virgin Mary’.

But in my gut even at the age of 11, I felt that religion and it’s guises were devised to bring us together to ‘survive’. They were a law at one time, that could be spoon fed, and allow every culture their distinctive method for keeping peace. Religion and Law were the same to me. You did not question them if they worked for the greater good.

But, I did, because society we live in is not defined by keeping our virginity for the sake of preserving men’s health. And I was also a virgin that was violated, and in conflict with my self value because religion placed above my wellbeing, the laws of men, and yet in them the only hope to be ‘saved’ by one.

And why I find it difficult to survive now? Because I fear no-one sees this, or questions this. I am a woman, and completely dumbfounded that our global society is governed by law, yet people interpret unquestioningly the bible as a separate code of equal rank to law, or most religion and it’s unsavory preference to men. They even seek to apply the law ‘within’ the context of religion – which is the primitive, indefensible, artistically licensed, ill-defined, unarguably contradictory and too primitive for the ways our society works now.

This is insane, religion is not a tool to be used for devining right or wrong over and above cause and effect – the means we use to justify our law! And yet I see arguments about abortion, good ‘christian’ law, law working within the context of ‘christianity’. The people of power that arrogantly use those words, abuse those people they serve – and in particular women – I beg you to open your eyes to it.

I was in a family law court. I lost my children after a lengthy battle, not on the defining ground of being a good parent, but on the closing words of the Court Officer, who said:

“Here is a good Christian family, a father and his supporting family all good Christians, and here is a mother on her own….” followed by something along the lines of ” … God willing ” This is COURT! – In the UK!

And with that argument I was dis-acknowledged from my daughters having a good and loving mother, I lost my two girls to a devoutly christian family that now had justified their own righteous cause to sabotage access between us for the last 6 years. I know what is wrong, and this is wrong above religion. But somehow, religion squeezes by and is now a resource for the most arrogant people I know to justify their unforgivable behaviour, and keep many women subdued and of weak mind.

Primative is not abridged. Primative is not concise, and well put together. Primative is merely the source of unevolved thinking. People argue over religion, and interpretations, that I find it all rather ill-defined in the first place. Primative stories that worked in a primative civilisation to propagandise, keep the peace and inspire us then, not now. Instead I see people that devoutly serve religion as a cowardly way of facing the world we live in now, and some use to license their cover up of pre-emptive harm, and others to disguise their self-denial in honest-to-god proclaimed ignorance. Which they would rather be, and by definition argue that they can never be great as the good philosopher/Martyr, but imply they are oppressed and yet better than the rest of us lost sheep. Thus illustrating the conflicting circle I described, of being ill defined. And I find I am struggling to survive in just navigating this quandary, avoiding the likes of religion…

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Today I’m going to talk about dicks and in particular the practices certain men entertain that end up giving them a really ugly willy.
I had just spoken to a medical lawyer friend about his experience of seeing wonkey willies from medical malpractice. In his experience he thought he’d seen it all, but these are guys that wanted something put right after bad surgery, they didn’t want to live with a knarly knob for life. I told him what I’d seen as a dominatrix:

I’d seen many penises that were just kind of wrong – misshapen, damaged, but in particular the one willy that got to me most of all was that of my landlord Mr Clarke. I wasn’t interested in sex, that wasn’t what made it appear on my regular pallete of visuals, it was the fact that we lived a fetish lifestyle 24/7.

Mr Clarke had many ‘toys’ to enhance his fetish-sex life. One of the first things he introduced me to was called a ‘bollock – parachute’. That’s because when clipped a man’s balls it would resemble a funny hat with chains dangling either side of his nut sack. Only this thing isn’t for looks – it plainly looks rather stupid anyway – it’s another little device for torture.

You know the poor dogs that have come treated from the vet – with the funny cone’s wrapped around their collars? So that they can’t lick their arses or do anything silly to interfere with their course of treatment. Well a nut-sack parachute would clip tightly in a cone just so around a man’s balls, carefully trying not to pinch his delicate skin, and tight enough so that an individual bollock could not retract out of harms way when yanked. Sometimes these devices are called nut-stretchers, and the chains have weights attached to make a man’s nuts hang low, stretching out his privvy ligaments.

In Clarke’s case though – his nut sack parachute was made of leather, with studs on the top side, that were unfolded on the inside, so as any tension was applied the stud spikes would eat into his nuts. He used to like the discomfort, it used to turn him on, it was one of the few ways he would get erect. He would fantasize that if a woman should have sex with him, she could yank him by his nut-sack to gain a deeper penetration. (Altogether load of rubbish because it yanks the wrong way!) He could be coaxed, and pulled by a lead from his nuts attached to the parachute, and he used to like the biting sensation, signaled by his limply erect penis.

Now on occasion, he got the tightness of the parachute collar wrong, and a bollock would escape it’s parachute confines with a sharp bobble. Like a boiled egg being popped though the neck of a milk bottle. It was far more entertaining to see him double and catch himself from the pain beyond his excitement boundary, but once again pathetically irritating that he would readjust his nut enclosure, just to start over.

His nuts were covered with red lesions, that looked like blood blister like capillaries. I assumed this was from the torture he applied himself over the years. To me, they looked more like carcinomas, but he would say to me “Oh they’re just capillaries”

“really? I’d never seen that before” – A man who was taking care of himself would surely have had these lesions checked out. I never wanted to care enough for him to take on that responsibility, why should I tell him what to do – a grown man? If a wife had worried about her husband’s nut sack, surely a husband would want to get it checked out to reassure himself at the very least that he was going to be around! But I had already pointed out to Mr Clarke that I saw his knob and bits as a deformity, as the like of many men – enough to turn off any woman, yet clearly he seemed to like this upside-down attention.

The dark/capilliary blisters on his nuts, the flacid reaction to excitement only when things were accompanied by pain, humiliation, or cross dressing, or some bizarre accompanyment of something clearly unloving and non-intimate. When he was semi-erect there was an apparent scaring of the penis internally, such that it would unravel in many different directions and even twist. A grotesque sight. He was rarely ever fully erect, for it was a sight I really did not want to see, and as a mistress I was given full encouragement to beat his cock with a shoe, if I saw it hard. I did this until his bell-end bled. He would be strapped down on the bed, and if he got too erect to draw attention it became a standing target for me to swipe at it with my shoe. It would bruise and the skin on his sensitive part would seep blood through no visible cut directly, it would just weep blood, occasionally even beating his cock made him harder! He would prefer to lie in middle-erection mixture of pleasure and discomfort, where he could sustain his fantasies for hours and keep my 12 hr disgusted vigil.

I wondered how much of his penile deformities were as a result of real scaring, even broken dick? I researched and laughed with a Mistress friend that a dick could be snapped – as was Clarke’s. Apparently dick-snapping is very painful, and I became aware that Mr Clarke’s was obviously a snapped dick, in a couple of places that re-healed but also had other scarring that made it ‘twist’.

A dick healed from snapping would only show signs of this malformation upon erection, where could clearly be seen the direction it pointed, or juxtaposition of angles in the willy. The other scarring – I don’t know. Clearly it was an ugly dick before I got to it, but as the years went by, it did appear more twisted. Apparently, just as a person’s arteries can clog up over time, and certain growths harden, mineralise etc, Mr Clarkes condition was also enhanced by his unhealthy lifestyle. A good dose of vitamin E and regular use (i.e. normal use) , I read somewhere can do a lot to smooth out the scarring inside the willy – possibly. But then that is surely for a Penis Doctor to tell, I just had my suspicions and realized he led such a perverse life there was no way he would explain to a doctor how his dick was so malformed in the first place. Let alone get treatment for it to succumb back to his self-harming behaviour.

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My thoughts sprang into mind about my first long term – live in relationship. I had a terrible relationship with my mother through childhood, and some part of me wanted a guy that had what I did not have, a good relationship with his mother. As it transpired I went through life never getting this quite right, and adjusting my ‘calibration’ of how I perceived the man in my life’s ability to get on with his mother.

Anyway, the first relationship I ended up with became abusive, yet he got on with his mother. I thought if a guy was respectful of his mum, how could I be treated badly? It would be a good thing surely?

Actually, he used to call his mum every night, before going to bed. He was 34!! but if he failed to call by a certain time, she would ring him instead, every night.

It left me feeling pretty shitty actually, like I was the no good child in his life. I obviously couldn’t look after her son well enough so she had to interfere and stick her nose in. (Wow she didn’t stop him from being a pedo-rapist!) But maybe some part of me was desperate for parenting since I had none while I grew up, maybe my own adulthood in learning about relationships was delayed in it’s development. I felt left out, I felt the mother was in the way to me being fully cherished as an equal. It actually felt pretty gross, like she was really part of some sick threesome, or looking over his shoulder at me… ugh, the thought of his mother there in bed.

But she was, every night before bed, saying goodnight to her son, even though she saw him every day. He was a burly guy, I thought no harm could come from such a big little boy. Yet he used to rape me, and I accepted it.

But this was a big little boy who could do no wrong by his mother, but she obviously disliked the company that he kept.

It damaged my self confidence so much. To be looked down upon by the ‘mother in-law’. to be unaccepted as anything but a child. To crave to be looked after, but treated like crap in the process. I totally caved in, and didn’t grow out of my childhood for a long time, my deep unhappiness stayed covered up, by my slowly changing body that now represented an adult, and how I was so unfamiliar with the ways of being an adult…

I wanted a man to be independant yet caring for his mother. Not the little boy, who was needy of his mother and treated me like crap.

I stayed for 5 years in this relationship. Refusing to see it for what it was. Believing I could not leave, and that I’d made my bed and must sleep in it. I had no money of my own, and no parents, and no where to go. I had run away from childhood into this relationship, and knew no better than the oppression I gave into.

Funny how I reflected on that relationship.

“Behind every so-called dominatrix…” said one filmmaker to me “…there is always a Master [mind] behind her”

I took him to be a friend. He had come to know of me through my easily found images I’d punted out there, well now knowing it was bait to the curiosity of some paying men. But I fully admitted to the guy that I was no dominatrix, I merely did it for money if it per chanced, occasionally fun (if you can believe there was any kick out of it – no pun intended). He never did pay me to service his needs, but he did openly tell me his fetishes, fantasies and perversions in the hope that one day he would find his real and true mistress. His filming was a way of learning more about these fetishes to understand his own, and he had seen a lot of depravity.

Now, if I was willing to share that, he would also document my exploits – some of which he did, but to this day he kept completely confidential. However, he never knew the extent of depravity I had endured to administer to Mr Clarke, and I was no way inclined to admit it, or my shame of it.

After each one of my ‘sessions’ with clients which I had carefully prepared in roleplay and little more than mild torture, Mr Clarke would be hot and ready for his turn to ‘teach me’ what he wanted. The depravity disgusted me and I had no inclination to do any of these things to the extent Clarke liked to any of my submissive clients. It wasn’t that I had a care for them enough to do this – it was rather like – how much of someone’s dirty nappies do you really want to see? Inflicting a bit of pain on someone and humiliating them was far different than ‘pretending to care’ whilst administering rectal bungs, siphoning gallons of water into someone in restraints with breathing difficulties. Myself also wishing that my sense of smell would stop giving me the urge to puke.

I never ‘cared’ for Mr Clarke, but I felt put upon, and worried that something might happen, could happen, so that my ‘care’ was really a twisted way of saying – I was now responsible for his life. I didn’t want that responsibility, yet I had lost the confidence to look after myself by asserting my boundaries. I was used to having them run over since childhood. He would usually impose on of his 48 hour rituals either after one of my sessions, or late, late at night. It would go on through most of the following day, then he would be in such exhaustion he would sleep for 16 hours afterwards – all the while I would be keeping an eye in case he choked to death in his sleep.

I had never seen this depravity before, I had never heard of it. Indeed my clients would talk of pain and punishment, but thankfully none asked for this kind of treatment. Clarke invented ways that I should deal with him, insinuating the ‘known practice’ for ‘milking a man’ of his semen so that he would not ejaculate during the procedures, thereby exonerating the prostitution of my acts. Guess what? I was still ‘milking’ the dirty fucker he just lied and said I wasn’t – it’s still the same though he still received great pleasure from me in his perversity.

‘Milking’ apparently, is the ‘known’ process of shoving your hand up a man’s butt, and massaging the prostate until his penis leaks his spunk so that the dirty bastard can’t ‘come’ when he wants to later on because he is ‘dry’ of all juices. If he spunked off anyway later on, then it would be because I hadn’t ‘milked’ the cunting bastard properly – my fault as usual. Only with a fetishist, the incidence of ‘cumming’ or having an orgasm would suddenly propel him into a state of severe discomfort once the endorphins of pleasure had left him and his body realized just how suffocated and bruised he was from his restraints.

There would be incidents with the shit monster of course as part of his procedures if I did anything in the wrong order. He liked his ass opened up properly before having my hand shoved up it by means of graduating and wearing for a while different sized plugs. The shit clinkers would come out either with the buttplugs popping or the usual handful upon one of his ‘milking sessions’ supposedly to prolong his ability to stay ‘rubberised without coming.

“To stop that happening-” he would preach “-you’re supposed to pause and let the plug ease out slowly, holding it in place if you have to…” to prevent the bedknob bungs from shooting out, obviously, and I’d get an even bigger handful of shit with my ‘milking’ job thereafter anyway…

There were a number of these teaching episodes between his self imposed gagged up/masked sessions, because it was another way for him to extend the real session as long as possible, by just insinuating another bunch of procedures. And of course I’d get it wrong and usually end up with an armful of shit, or worse, do the enema in the wrong order, and instead of shit clinkers, there’d be shit pasted everywhere from a right explosion. Enemas in Clarke’s case didn’t clear his bowels out, as he kept the fluid sealed into himself for long periods, whereby his shit turned into sludge, so I learned to ‘milk’ him prior to that after a faceful of shit once.

When he finally relieved himself with cumming, I now had a man literally struggling to get back to equilibrium both in breath and tension, I have a potential ‘situation’ to deal with involving helping this 6 n 1/2 foot tall heavy flacid suffocating monster out of his rotten umbilical anticipating if nothing was done, I’d have  manslaughter on my hands should he pass out. Not to mention that his journey from the bondage bed to the bathroom to unseal his anal balloon was often a hasty journey as the copious sweat, and slight bum leakage from his now overfilled gut would spatter a messy trail to the bathroom, whilst he trailed his still attached enema umbilicals.

Yes, they were not Cat-shit stains on the carpet – they were his own…

He would want to be restrained to stay in this twisted pleasure for many hours, and often complained if he ‘came’ because that would end the session (lasting over a day in many cases). I was grossed out by the whole thing, and to this day find it very hard to explain why I stayed and stuck it through.  My best explanation so far is that I had some kind of emotional ‘stuckness’ ingrained into me from my hatred of men, and the way I was treated both in childhood and throughout my adult life. Somehow, sexually, I had stayed a child, and had not learned there was more to grasp than the abuse of a relationship.

Clarke would enjoy wasting the time away umbilicalled to the enema siphon sealed into his butt. A piss bag strapped to his thigh draining from his latex ensheathment. The piss bag was drained and re-used many times and made of a disposable plastic and paper, which unfortunately would smell pissy of course, adding to the strange aroma of the rubber maid he concieved himself to be. I grew so offended at the sight of the closed off hose ends and nipples bouncing between his legs from under his hem as he squeeked by that I suggested he invested in a longer uniform for himself. Pretty sad I did not even have the guts to say the sight, sound and smell of him offended me.

And while he was restrained, hooded, gagged and masked, I’d stay within earshot because his breathing was tortured and worrysome. He would often tap away and give me warning that something was wrong with his ‘comfort’, I would release some of his restraints so that he could with one hand scrawl a note or point to indicate what was up.

“CRAMPING TOES” he would hastily bother me with and point trying to wiggle his foot. Basically what this meant was that the tight latex layers he had skinned himself with, applied so much compression added with the high heels and ankle restraints  his toes would cramp, and not wanting to be released from bondage I was now a 24/7 babysitting idiot that was now giving his rubber stockinged foot a massage.

You know, all part of the ‘caring duties’ of a real mistress apparently. So you can see, there is nothing in it at all for a mistress, he was the longest most labour intensive ‘client’ to deal with – for absolutely nothing in return. He was demanding, manipulative, knew exactly what he wanted me to do, and then after sustaining a 24hr stint or until he ‘came’ he would hurriedly wash himself then crash. Leaving piles of bondage, tits, wigs, rotten rubber, talc, bungs, and condoms and shit stains strewn all over the place. He would crash out of sheer exhaustion, and not eating or drinking for days. During this crash period I would be anxious that instead of cleaning everything up he would want to start all over again. I didn’t consider the ‘session’ over until he had put everything away, and the bathroom became an uncomfortable no-go area, because he found it more suitable for his pleasure to leave the hoses, enema bags, nozzle, bungs, and butt plugs out – draining and drying, or simply ready for another go.

Usually he would be in this phase of recovering hypo energy crash for 3 days, waking only to eat, watch a film, and sleep again. It was during these times that I found much relief to know he would not be present for days, and I would be alone for a long while, afraid to go to bed, sleep deprived because of the assistance to his personal satisfaction – which had I had not been around I was surely certain he could kill himself.

“Fetish is no fun doing this on your own…” He would say, “…all I want to do is serve you, have someone to interact and give me punishments when required”

I was dumbfounded, as this felt like no ‘maid’ to me. He disgusted me, and yet, I stayed – for many years…

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I’ve been struggling to understand why I did things that revile me in thought, reason, and general disgust.

So here was Clarke, my landlord, an un-confessed secretive cross-dressing centuries past misogynistic male who liked to smother his identity in claustrophobic female abomination masks. He was a living confusion and contradiction of moralities, so twisted was his game that no one would believe it, had it been spoken to anyone, I was in no chance of being ‘rescued’ from a situation no one could see. Indeed his sordid likes became also my shame, so that now I felt locked into hiding his secrets.

How wrong it was of me to assume that responsibility. How utterly disgusting it was for him to devise ways to prevent me from being whole, human, and truthful now to the world – because now I was part of this disillusioned shameful world.

He was not a man mature of years, but he was so self oppressed, consumed with depression, and played victim that his whole demeanor outwardly to any stranger became that of an old man. He lacked the virility of a real man, and was so subdued and consumed in his emotions self-victimization that it did seem his body responded and made him age.

Leaving off from my post on a real domina, Clarke carefully had groomed me into wanting to learn more about the ways of the fetish world, and what it meant to be a good dominatrix. But my first lessons were not in the manner I had asked, the lessons were not pleasant, or informative, or even something I could consider to enjoy. And over time, they were no longer ‘lessons’ but his own sessions he was conspiring to serve himself with at my disposal.

He would start by disappearing for a few hours while I realized he was up to his own rituals of ‘preparation’. The noises I would hear apart from him skinning himself in layers of some rather old and overused rotting latex, would be that of a strange combination of his sexual pleasure and pain. I later discovered the hot water bottles were ‘enema bags’ and he devised inflatable bladders the size of at least a tennis ball to insert into himself and seal up the siphon to take up gallons of water up his rectal passages and inflate the whole of his gut. The bubbling distention that occurred after wards were a pleasure and pain he enjoyed and simply wanted to give it meaning under the words of ‘punishment’ by having me administer all the bloating, pushing, pumping and sealing for him.

His shame of his enjoyment of these bizarre rituals was concealed by wearing abominable masks of the most distasteful female form, so that not even I could see his ugly face. They were a joke, a total abhorrence in their depiction of the female identity with the most crude and ugly make-up.

He explained to me “Submissive men really don’t want the pain and torture of a whip, we want someone to care for us, and just give us what we need” I pondered long about it, it never really made sense… “I just want to be absolved of all my responsibilities and to enjoy what I want, nothing else…”

These words, just words were really his belief, put another way whatever his sexual high was he wanted it without responsibility to converse with the real world and a real relationship. He wanted to indulge in the compulsive behaviour, and was so wrapped up in shame and unloving, the compulsive behaviour could be rhetorically justified and twisted into either the means or the way of this ‘punishment’.

I was also a confused person, and somehow I related to his need to alleviate responsibility, and took in his ill qualified words as a possible meaning to my own tangled past. But the grounding and core to my entanglement was about to become much much worse. I had barely survived rape some few months prior, as well as escape, and yet this feeling I had of inescape and complicit behaviour that chained me to my continuous discomfort, stayed with me – because somewhere in me, I felt I deserved no better – therein was the tie to Mr Clarke.

So here I was on my first lesson to being a real domina, or his caretaker in some mental asylum would have been more correct. He had already administered himself a rectal cleansing, filled the atmosphere of the house with a latex porn video in the background as his pathetic attempt to get me ‘interested’. And my wandering through the house to try and find some excuse to get away at 2 oclock in the morning had brought me to the bedroom, tired, yet faced with this horde of latex clothing on the bed. There was no where for me to go, not even a bed of my own that was safe, and here in the room I begrudged the presence of this freakish character of the lurch maid. Pen and paper in hand trying to scrawl me leading questions to get me into this routine that would last the whole night through.

I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE TO TRY SOMETHING ON… it would scrawl and hand to me. I gave up and thought,’maybe this would be quicker if I just went along with this ridiculous charade’…It’s 2 o’fucking-clock-in the morning!

And Brenda the maid jumped to get me into layers of outfits that Clarke had horded in the fantasy of owning his own mistress one day. Lastly, lay the rubber strap on moulded into some latex briefs. Brenda held them up without my choosing for me to step into. Clarke really believed I was interested and into all this shit didn’t he? I was angry inside. My boundaries felt overrun and disrespected by this rotten smelling pathetic excuse of a man, pretending to be some harmless ‘just cross dresser’.

He presented his hairy arse to me, exposed under his costume by a worn, overstretched and stained jock strap, that had to be pulled aside from his sweaty crack. The thick strap was chewed by the rubbing of the buttplugs he wore extensively trapped inside his layers of costume. His arse wasn’t exactly forgiving as he indicated for me to pull the plug out, his head buried in the bed while he flailed his arms and pointed around his backside.

First it didn’t want to come because it was the size of a fucking bedknob, then it shot out once I pulled with both hands against the anus that stretched outwards rather than radially because the bum-bedknob was some considerable width.

I corrected my stagger backwards as his arsehole suddenly let go of the buttplug and appeared to sigh while it pebbled a couple of shit clinkers onto the carpet. What a sight!

“Oh my GOD! you’ve SHIT on the carpet, that’s so disgusting !”

‘Disgusting!’ I’m exclaiming and here’s the sight;

A landlord presenting his gaping arsehole to his lodger, who is stood flumoxed in a dominatrix outfit wearing a moulded penis, yelling at her landlord who is now crawling and knee grinding his shit clinkers into the carpet in an effort to try and find his shit and clean up, because he can’t see, because he’s wearing a freakshow mask with pinhole eyes, and his movements are self constrained in the most bizarre way due to his layers of rubber dress and high heels.

The smell from his rotten attire, and shit trodden carpet is a sordid impression of this man’s long time hidden life.

I was angry, I remembered my sordid treatment of my violent rape, being urinated on, and hated men, hated their revolting crushing of my boundaries of cause of my continual discomfort. Hated their disgusting fantasies that made me feel like a piece of shit, and held on to all of those thoughts when I gave in to his cajolement and buttfucked him. My strikeout had not made me feel better though, it had only given me the shame of my actions that would now prevent me from telling anyone the truth, and in one foul smelling swoop I was now feeling badly about the depravity that I had gone to, and yet gave still gave some filthy man pleasure once again.

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