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sorcyressI am pretty fucking good at giving myself aftercare.
I have to be. I belong to a mistress who is utterly uninterested in anything except the torture part, most days. She is cruel and relentless and the only way for me to make it stop is to run away from her, get a door between me and her fury. And when we play? Oh, she doesn't bother with hitting, like any decent top would, oh no, she likes discomfort a lot more, and goes straight into trying to make me so fucking unsteady and uncomfortable my brain stops thinking of anything besides "no."
I'm talking, of course, about Mama Nature, who has been my mistress and my patron goddess since before I knew what either of those terms meant. Some days, she's all smiles and sunshine, but when I least expect it...drowning rains, torrential snow, winds that cut through every seam of my clothing and turn my hands so numb I can't think. When I have the misfortune to be her plaything, it becomes the darkest sort of scene, one where it's not about enjoying myself, or even some sort of punishment/redemption arc. When she plays, the only goal I am permitted to have is survival, the stubborn urge that this will not defeat me.
(and just as I think that, she has a tendency to gust my skirt into being caught in my brakes, or changes the direction of the snow so it's straight into my eyes, or anything else that will beat down my soul and force me to call upon some hidden well of Cope, lest I break down, sobbing, out in the middle of a snowstorm.)
So I have to be pretty fucking good about picking up the pieces afterwards myself. Get into my room. Sob out the initial shock of being so stiff I almost can't open the door; so cold my lizard-brain slips into hibernation. Pick myself up once the worst of the sobbing is done, and take a warm shower, change my clothes (comfort, ritual, all that means). Find something nice to eat.
Write.
This is what I've been doing off and on for years, when the situation warrants it. Not just Mama Nature, but anything that dares to shake me out of sanity, push me to a bitter edge. My mistress's cold clutch, the realization of one more thing I need and can't afford, an assault on my meekness by a stranger, crappy day at work...and yes, even what aftercare is traditionally reserved for, a scene with someone who knows me less well than they should, or who plays a little harder than I was expecting. My sir is good and kind and takes the steps I need after, my intimate partners similarly inclined to hold me until the shock passes, but some others I play with... less so. That's okay. I don't need aftercare from anyone else, when it comes right down to it.
Cry. Ritual. Food. Write.
And then I have made myself whole again.
~R.
MOOP!
I have to be. I belong to a mistress who is utterly uninterested in anything except the torture part, most days. She is cruel and relentless and the only way for me to make it stop is to run away from her, get a door between me and her fury. And when we play? Oh, she doesn't bother with hitting, like any decent top would, oh no, she likes discomfort a lot more, and goes straight into trying to make me so fucking unsteady and uncomfortable my brain stops thinking of anything besides "no."
I'm talking, of course, about Mama Nature, who has been my mistress and my patron goddess since before I knew what either of those terms meant. Some days, she's all smiles and sunshine, but when I least expect it...drowning rains, torrential snow, winds that cut through every seam of my clothing and turn my hands so numb I can't think. When I have the misfortune to be her plaything, it becomes the darkest sort of scene, one where it's not about enjoying myself, or even some sort of punishment/redemption arc. When she plays, the only goal I am permitted to have is survival, the stubborn urge that this will not defeat me.
(and just as I think that, she has a tendency to gust my skirt into being caught in my brakes, or changes the direction of the snow so it's straight into my eyes, or anything else that will beat down my soul and force me to call upon some hidden well of Cope, lest I break down, sobbing, out in the middle of a snowstorm.)
So I have to be pretty fucking good about picking up the pieces afterwards myself. Get into my room. Sob out the initial shock of being so stiff I almost can't open the door; so cold my lizard-brain slips into hibernation. Pick myself up once the worst of the sobbing is done, and take a warm shower, change my clothes (comfort, ritual, all that means). Find something nice to eat.
Write.
This is what I've been doing off and on for years, when the situation warrants it. Not just Mama Nature, but anything that dares to shake me out of sanity, push me to a bitter edge. My mistress's cold clutch, the realization of one more thing I need and can't afford, an assault on my meekness by a stranger, crappy day at work...and yes, even what aftercare is traditionally reserved for, a scene with someone who knows me less well than they should, or who plays a little harder than I was expecting. My sir is good and kind and takes the steps I need after, my intimate partners similarly inclined to hold me until the shock passes, but some others I play with... less so. That's okay. I don't need aftercare from anyone else, when it comes right down to it.
Cry. Ritual. Food. Write.
And then I have made myself whole again.
~R.
MOOP!
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on 2012-11-08 11:29 am (UTC). o O (and thank you for giving a wee ferret attention in either case)
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on 2012-11-08 03:55 am (UTC)I hate being cold. Finally, I decided I don't care how silly I look, I'm arming for war. The army boots, facemask, hat, and other tools designed for surviving in the arctic get me from door to door. In full gear, it actually looks kinda bad-ass...i once got turned away from a bus because the driver thought I looked suspicious. For the lightweight Jewish kid from the suburbs of NJ, that was kind of cool. And I'm warm, dammit.
For my spirit, there's wood-smoke incense, hot baths, the hiss of the radiator, and making pounds and pounds of chocolates.
Every year, I buy a 10 kilo bag of Callebaut 70-30 dark, open the windows, and make candy. I can't make them when it's warm, so now I have a reason to look forward to the cold.
Still, I'd trade it for a lemon tree.