… solipsubmissive …

“Sometimes … i fight back,” i whispered, then waited.

He chuckled a little.  “You almost always fight it.”

“Yeah,” i said softly.  Then, “i’m not very submissive, am i?”

i could hear the smile in his voice, his amazing, resonant voice.  “You are in your own way, elise.”

***

Getting to me is not easy.  i’m distant, poised, controlled.  Nearly always polite … quite chillingly so, in some cases.  Often, when i sense someone working their way in, i make it even more difficult for them.

The weak give up, and that’s fine with me.  But the others?  Ahh … the others.  They piss me off with their ability to touch me, to make me feel.  And i do feel things, very strongly, despite how it may sometimes appear.  Those who have read me know this.  But it’s one thing to write about my feelings.  Quite another to interact with it.  Or, more correctly, to try not to.

And the ones who know this … well.  They like to let me go, allow me time to build my walls, erect my defenses.  And then they come back, shatter the neatly constructed barriers until it is just me left, staring him down, belligerence flashing in my eyes. 

Yeah, it pisses me off.

Because i know, you see, that i cannot fight it long.  No.  Not them.  Not him.  And when i finally break, i am vulnerable, needy.  Exposed.  And, in the end, reduced to a puddle of pain or pleasure, at his whim.  At his mercy.

***

“I’m not going to become more attentive.  I’m not going to ask you to call just to make small talk.  I’m not going to wave hi every time I log into IM.  But I will treat you like the intelligent, witty, prey that you are.”

i sighed, then said the only thing possible.  “Thank you.”

And i meant it.

One of the things about myself i find irksome is my utter inability to remain either angry or depressed.  i would, just once in my life, like to wallow.  i’d like to curl up somewhere away from the world and cry and stare the wall and sniffle pitifully when no more tears will come.  i’d like to mope around and have people ask me, “Oh, elise … what wrong darling?” and to be able to respond, in a small, helpless voice, “Oh, i’ll be all right.  i’m just so sad right now.”

Never happens.  My bouncbackishness knows no ~wry look~ bounds.  Even the current difficulty i’m having with my writing cannot stay with me for any length of time.  i try to write, i get frustrated, i pace a little, and then i either get busy working on something else, or laugh at my own frustration.  One of my children will wander into my room looking for money, or a ride, or a new rationalization for “needing” the XBox 360, and my somewhat snide sense of humor will rear its head and i’ll begin a fondly sarcastic debate with him or her that ends up in laughter or an argument.

i’m the same way about my relationships, my feelings.  The depth is there.  When i am hurt, i am deeply hurt, when in love, gloriously in love.  But when things are not going well … as is the case this week … i find it provokingly difficult to wallow.

And dammit … i really think i’d like to wallow.

i have a FetLife profile.  Occasionally, someone will leave a message.  Thus far, i have only had one conversation that lasted longer than a single exchange, a conversation which still continues now.  Mostly though, i get stuff like this:

ANSWER ALL THESE QUESTIONS:

what size bra and panties? favorite toy? submissive? slut? slave? cunt? exhibitionist? gangbang? eat pussy? do you have a g/f? suck cock? prick tease? pervert? very kinky? k-9? big nipples? like lactating nipples? can you cum just having them sucked and played with? ever wear an open nipple bra? big clit? phone sex? hairy pussy? thigh-high stockings? sheer nylon bikini panties? garter belt? stiletto? massage? favorite sexual fantasy?

you MUST send pics of your tits, nipples, clit and pussy!

How can one not just laugh?

i continue to struggle with words, a fight i cannot, of course, win.  Always they come to me, tug at me, entice me with their qualities, sing through my veins no differently than a drug, an addiction, a weakness … and a strength.

i smiled today, a winsome smile, at words i’d kissed goodbye.  They never really leave you, even when you make a gift of them, you know.  They remain attached, a gossamer thread to the soul.  Seeing them, hearing them whispered, even from one’s own lips, sends a ripple through the air, and it tickles.  i can close my eyes and see them, melding with yours, my delicate threads twisting and wrapping around your stronger ones until they become hopelessly, helplessly entangled.

Your words are your fingers, twisted in my hair, mine my arms, holding you close.  You whisper mine … i whisper yours.  Our stories merge in our mingled breath, in your lips on mine, in my eyes, lost, eternal, in the depths of yours.

Thank you … for forever.

i question it all now.  My writing, my submission.  Something is so wrong, and i can’t put my finger on it.  How could it all be in the palm of my hand one day, controlled, in its place, managed and efficient, and then … just gone?

i can’t write anything.  i can write about not being able to write, but fiction?  my refuge?  my solace?  i can’t … write.

i visit my favorite blogs, my usual haunts, the creative spaces of those with whom i felt a kinship, a bond, and i’m overwhelmed with the talent and the astonishing capacity they have for stringing words into entrancing passages of such beauty it makes my throat ache.

i’m all over the place.  Jealous.  i’m falling in love and out of love with all of you, over your words.  i hate you for them and i love you for them, and i can’t stay away even when what you’ve written moves me to tears.

What is wrong with me?

And that’s just the writing.  i can’t even begin to express my confusion over my submission.  Not about whether or not i am submissive.  i’m terrified, suddenly, of how much.  How deep.  Nobody is good enough, bad enough, cruel enough.  Can nobody empty me, reduce me?  Nobody?

i hate this.

Fuck optimism.  Fuck silver linings.  Fuck my everlasting patience and poise and fuck the hell out of my passion.  i’m just elise.  That’s all.  Nothing more.