This is over, isn't it.
I don't like jumping around so much - emotionally or otherwise. I thought about what to write here.
I have nothing.
I could tell you everything, but there is no point.
Not anymore.
I don't want to come in to work tomorrow.
I don't want to open the door and go outside ever again.
I thought we could somehow work this out in a nice, peaceful way.
Turns out that 'nice, peaceful' way was a tsunami of bad decisions that was mounting up on the horizon that eventually had to hit us, and it did. Now all that's left is, like always, shit ton of debree and we, standing on different ends of a tiny desert island from all those bad cartoons with dogs in them.
Now you know there was a reason why I didn't tell you everything. I knew that the age thing would hurt you. Do I actually care about it? No. I don't give a flying fuck. Well, a little bit. Even if it would become a problem eventually, well... I don't know. What I can't risk, however, is this being good. Really good. And then you dying and leaving me with the loss and knowledge that this was it. And now it's gone. Forever. And I'm left to exist as a ghost.
Do you think you'd stop being a carer? Darling, I'm as incompetent as they can get. I know nothing. God, I have no idea how everything runs, how the world exists. I lived alone, completely alone, only for a year. A year in the span of almost 33. I know nothing.
And then you say... That I cheapen myself.
You want to know how it started?
I'll tell you.
Ropes have always fascinated me, much like pole. So when I moved here I started going to these workshops. Alone. He wasn't, and still isn't interested in the slightest, and I had no friends. So I went alone. That was about 3 years ago.
At first I was sure I was a 'bunny' - the one people tie up. But either because I was alone or some other reason, because I started practicing on myself, on people there, I got good at it. And once the knots became second nature, I realised I enjoyed the power, the control it gave me. To restrain people. To be as gentle or as constricting as they'd allow me. To be the one making decisions, not just following whatever was told.
And then I got invited to a dungeon.
I know you'll frown. You probably read this with clenched teeth.
I received a message from some guy on Instagram, a total stranger, asking me if I would like to take part in a play party together with 5 other girls and him. After long deliberations with myself and a short chat with my partner I said yes. Firstly because I wanted to meet my shibari idol at the time who ran the whole thing, secondly, because it was mostly girls, and thirdly, because I could leave at any time if I decided to do so.
I cannot describe the rush that evening gave me.
I did terrible things to that man, under the supervision of the leading person. Flogged him on st. Andrew's cross until he was red. Wrapped him in cling film and poured hot wax on his exposed privates. Used a leather paddle on body parts it's not intended to be used on. And in return he just said 'thank you' and kissed my feet.
And I enjoyed it.
Immensely.
Not because I liked hurting him. Oh no. But because of how strong I felt.
Maybe thats the reason why I like theatre and acting so much. I'm allowed to feel there.
I'm sick, am I not?
Let me stop your worries. I do this very very rarely. In a controlled environment. Never alone. I barely even touch them.
I rarely allow people to tie me. I now know not to trust.
You now probably think that I get around. That I'm an open and inviting book with textured inlays to touch and grope - perfect for kids up to age of 4.
I can count the number of men I've been with on the fingers of my hand. One is plenty.
And most of them - almost all of them - were undeserving cunts.
I guess you're right. I cheapen myself. If having almost no value would be a price.
I think I started to pose for the same reason. To look at myself through the eyes of others. I thought if someone would see me in this beautiful light, maybe the I'd be able to see what they see.
Turns out that photographers are perverts and predators.
However, that part of my life lead me to some good friendships. You wouldn't call them good, though. Would you like to know that during one of the last projects I was trying to recite poetry in Spanish while being choked, naked?
I can feel you recoil at this.
I'm finally, finally not as glamorous as you saw me.
Not the girl made out of sunshine and cinammon.
The veil has fallen. Much like with the picture of Dorian Gray - no one should have to stomach the real image of me. No one at all.
I will not reach out to you anymore.
This will be the last letter I've written to you.
I'm angry at myself. At how much this hurts.
At how much this hurts you.
I don't know how to stop. Where to end. By saying that I love you? That staying in the crook of your neck today for those 5 minutes felt like I was drowning in softness?
Or that I imagine you hurting me and that turns me on.
Or that I spit on men's faces and they thank me for it.
Just... Walk away. Run. Please.
I'm already embracing being the nod in the corridor.
It's OK. It truly is.
Do not worry. Live on. Please, please live on.
I'm just a pebble in your shoe. Shoo me away and move forward.
Goodbye, my beautiful, beautiful creature.
Goodbye.