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I'm sitting in the floor in front of the couch. His hand is kneading and grinding on my cunt. His voice whispering the truth of me. Something is wrong though. I'm not happy. Usually this makes me happy squishy squirmy. This time, not so much. What's going on? I take my focus away from him, away from his hand. I poke and prod my consciousness to find the source of the discord. Ah. There it is. I'm just not in the mood. I don't really want his hand on my cunt but it's okay. Really.

As he continues, my vision starts going dark with a hint of slimy olive around the edges and little sprinkles of burnt umber through out. My cunt starts to feel numb. There's a vague echo in my ears. I really don't want this but. it's just sex stuff. That's okay. It's not like he's hurting me. I slip further into that place where all is cold, numb, and distant. I can't even hear what he's saying.

Just sex. No pain. It's okay. I'll just lay here and take it. He'll never know. That way he won't get mad that I said no. Just pretend it's not really happening. I don't want to make him mad.

That phrase triggers some rational, grown up voice in my head. Now that I know what's going on, I wait one mere second to consider my options. Continue quietly, just to see what will happen or let him know.

I jerk myself back into the present and grab his hand. I make some sort of connection with reality and gasp out, "We're getting ready to hit a trigger."

He stops.

He asks what happened. I blather out some vague explanation that it was not really wanting to be touched and doing it anyway. I explain that I somehow managed to slip down into that fucked up headspace I use to fall in a long, long time ago. I'm fine. He asks if my dad used to do that. I nod. I'm fine. (Leave it alone.)

I sit on the couch for a half minute.

Fuck. It's going to happen whether I want it or not.

I bolt toward the bathroom, not breathing, hoping I can make it to the toilet in time. I slam and lock the door, just in case. A wee bit of hurling. Nothing major. I shut the voice in my head down. I shut the smell sensors down. If I don't think about it, it'll go away. And it's true. If you don't think about puking, you can stop once the nasty stuff is gone. If you don't think about ickiness, you can stop once the nasty part is done. Mostly. Usually.

He walks to the bathroom, rattles the doorknob and waits until I unlock it. He's asking me something or other, takes one look at my face and asks in an incredulous tone, "Did you just puke?"

I give him my most ferocious glare and don't answer.

He asks again, "Did you just puke?"

"Yes. A little. Not a huge deal. Now shut up and go away."

I so don't want to talk about it. The throwing up is. a bizarre completion of an old ritual. Apparently my body is incapable of stopping pre-meltdown/post slide without hurling. It's not something I plan on working on.

See, in the old days when I was first learning to let someone touch me intimately, I'd take it and take it until I couldn't take it anymore. Then I'd quietly and unobtrusively go puke. The guys I dated wouldn't dare consider walking into the bathroom when the door was shut. It's just not done. Okay?

Anyway, I walk out of the bathroom and talk about other stuff. Don't know, don't care what. Just other.

That was pretty much it. A fairly minor prod of the triggers. A fairly minor reaction. I didn't even dwell on it later for the most part. There are some things that absolutely interest me far more than the actual actions themselves: the ease of the slide into that victim mentality of old and that the triggering happened with him.again.

The slide really did surprise me. It happened as naturally as breathing and it caught me totally unaware. You have to understand that these days, I'm so not unaware. Someone rubs my tits the wrong way and I'm quick to say "nu uh, like this". I'm quick to say, "quit it" and "no". Suffice to say, I've got my triggers wrapped in a titanium shell, guarded with barbed wire, and there's a great big mean ass butch dyke standing guard armed with a machete and a machine gun.

I don't like going batshit anymore than they like me going batshit.

These days, I don't dream about it. I don't relive it. I don't even worry over it much these days. I acknowledge the past, I accept it as part of me. And I know there's nothing I can do to change it and nothing I could have done to prevent it. My past is an old dog that just won't die so. I live with it. *shrug* Peacefully for the most part.

But twice now, I've allowed myself to get poked in the icky place. With him. Why? Why him?

All blather of competence aside, all babble about acceptance aside, all that nonsense about safety aside. I think it's because I have been systematically shedding all pretensions with him. I think as I've been letting him into my more unguarded moments, there's been a relaxing of my protective space. He sees it when it hurts in all it's wussiness, he sees when it's hawt in all its squishiness, and most of all.. he gets to see when I'm scared. No mask, no pretense. Just yep, "This is me. Yep, I'm scared shitless. See me panic?"

I think maybe I'm coming to a place where I just trust him with all that is me. Good, bad, and indifferent.

The first time a trigger got pushed, for all intents and purposes, I did it. He was just the arm rubbing my back the wrong way. I twisted and turned it and allowed it. I went there. I controlled every aspect of it up until I came out the saner side and then deliberately allowed myself to go batshit. I didn't even say anything to him about it until much later.

This time, it was different. This time I just. accepted and slid. This time I handed the information over to him to let him choose what he wanted to do rather than exploring it on my own out of curiosity or just shutting it down myself.

I was content with either way. Slide or stop. Up to him.

What's even more odd to me is that I know he's a transitory part of my life. There's no white barbed wire fence in our future. There's no delusion of true 24/7 "ownership" in the bdsm context. Yes, I am emotionally attached to him but it's in a very pragmatic, adult manner. I love my husband, I'm happy with my husband, and I'm never leaving my husband. My husband makes me feel safe and loved and secure almost all the time. I co-exist peacefully and happily with my husband on a day to day basis. He is as essential to me as the air I breathe. He's that "one thing" I couldn't live without. On the flip side, as much as I adore him, I probably would never live with Fucker even if that was a possibility. I'd kill him within a couple of weeks.

But. It interesting, isn't it, that I don't go to the scary places with anyone else? I don't relinquish control to anyone else. I don't pretend with others, per se, but I certainly don't allow them into the carefully guarded parts of me. It is kinda nice to fearlessly let someone in. And to feel all comfy cozy with it. Yeah, it's pretty nifty.

--
I speak to myself and god. Only way I can find a peer. -- UberSadisticBastard2point0
You know it's a good scene when you floss your teeth with their hair. -- WhipMasterBob
Did you leave a salt ring around his cock? -- marg_it

Edited by - sazmira on 2006-11-21 09:32:46

Master Andy's emotion...

From Each According To His Abilities, To Each According To His Needs.

it can take a long time but you both need to deal with it you need to hand it over to him and let him love/guide you through.

i think because of the depth of your relationship you may be prone to it.as opposed to a casual encounter

Sounds like you hit the nail on the head, here. And it sounds like sub_title may have a good point...

I have never in the past had a flashback from an event that was very traumatic to me, until very recently. I found myself asking myself the same questions... why was I suddenly caving to a trigger? maybe cause I am not afraid to let him have *that* piece of me either...
--
"Dominance is such an odd state of affairs. Done well, it balances on a knife's edge between narcissism and selflessness" ~Moncreiffe

second: you seem to be in control of yourself, but I just want to be that annoying person that reminds you to take care of yourself, because forcing yourself into bad mental places is usually not a good thing. I'm not saying this because I think you are not talking care of yourself, but there may be only so much your brain can handle. Take care of yourself!

_softskin

there came a time once, when letting the triggers happen...going to the place with no name...was less terrifying than living behind the walls.

Someone once said that our fears are the dragons that defend our most valuable treasures.

Perhaps.

And perhaps at some point in time it comes about that we come to love our dragons for being the defenders without embracing the fear.

And at that precise moment the first cracks in my wall appeared.

Maybe, I don't know.

For me....I'm torn between my incesant desire to understand why and my commitment to living the truth. For I know that at times I have avoided the living and the feeling by hiding in the analysis.

So which is more important...who you let in? or the fact that you have let someone in?

--
You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do. ~Eleanor Roosevelt

To dare is to lose one's footing momentarily. To not dare is to lose oneself. ~Soren Kierkegaard

Of course not. Probably will never really finish with it. I've noticed that about lots of old people - they hang on to their issues until death. And maybe beyond, if you believe in that sort of thing. When it comes up again, I'll deal with it again. It does get a bit easier every time so... Coolness. [:d]