I’ve published almost 500 posts. More than 200 are unpublished.
Of course, some of the unpublished drafts are a couple of sentences with some idea I was toying with or some event I found noteworthy at the time. But at least half of them are honest-to-goodness drafts of things I intended to finish and post, but never did.
Sometimes when I returned to a draft, I didn’t feel the same way about it – my thinking had changed. Other times, I hated what I said, how I said it, or what it meant about the sort of person I am.
After J found out about the blog, I stopped looking back at drafts entirely. I was afraid posting something out of our real-time chronology might screw things up — bringing up old issues or past feelings past might hurt him.
That isn’t so much a fear anymore — J and I are good. Inasmuch as we’re looking forward to the future, with limited time, I’m already growing a bit nostalgic. In service of my sentimentalism, I’ve returned to writings past.
(last edited December 13, 2011 @ 8:22pm)
J called last night to say hello. In his casual, no-big-deal-way, he suggested “we should meet up soon.” He didn’t say he wanted to see me, nor did he ask if I wanted to see him. He just said it’s something we should do.
“We should! We should meet up… Friday!” Not only did I agree, but I suggested an actual date. It wasn’t something I planned, or decided, or even wanted. It just fell out of my mouth.
All the same, I was pleased at my own false airs of confidence as I waited for him to falter. I figured he would back-pedal, but I barely had time to revel in the victory of catching him off guard before he responded.
I had no goal for the conversation, I didn’t even know it would happen, so I have no idea why I was pissed off about the way it ended. I stomped around the kitchen for a bit, conducting one-sided conversations, do-overs about what I should have said in response to his dumbfuckery and mind games.
Not a half an hour later, I retreated to my bedroom, sadly masturbating and thinking of him.
Wait. Scratch that. I didn’t masturbate sadly. I masturbated angrily. There’s more dignity in angry masturbation than there is in sad masturbation, right?
It doesn’t matter. He’s in my head. I wouldn’t mind that he was there if I had any fucking clue what he was about… but I don’t. I don’t know what he is. I don’t know what I want.
I do know what I don’t want. I don’t want J and I don’t want a submissive. What I want is slightly more complicated than that (only slightly, I think). I want J to be submissive. I want him to be my submissive. That’s different, right.
Not that I have any right to decide, but I’ve decided that J is sub-lite — he’s not unsubbish in his mannerisms or carriage, but he’s wildly selfish. He’s sub-lite in the same way I’m Domme-lite. I’m not unDomme-like in my mannerisms or carriage, but I’m often selfless. The more time that passes, the more I’m sure I have no fucking clue what a “domme” or a “sub” is.
I do know that I want him. I fucking want him — every bit of him in every way I can have him. I want to possess him. I also know I care for him deeply, but in a very specific way that feels unfamiliar and uncertain to me. How do I act on that? What does it look like?
I have no idea how to proceed. I think I want to proceed, but to this point, it’s been easiest to forgo moving forward in favor of stasis. I’m not sure I can trust what I want, and I certainly don’t know what I’m doing. So, I’ve done nothing… except masturbate. Sadly, and angrily.
But I can’t seem to exorcise him from my brain. He doesn’t go away.
I might love him. Might.
Or, I might love the idea of love, or love the idea of a sub, or the idea of J as sub. Or maybe I just enjoy a challenge. Maybe I love the idea of domming what might be un-domme-able. Of course, that doesn’t make much sense because J was the one who brought all of this up in the first place.
Maybe he’s just too fucking beautiful and I’ve been hoodwinked by his blue-green-aqua-indescribable eyes.