Excitate Vos E Somno, Liberi Fatali

I am a giant nerd. Not because I’m a vast compendium of knowledge about a STEM subject, or a particular brand of geeky pop culture (both of those things are more descriptive of KillBoy), but because of the nerdy things I love. I don’t pretend that I like them for any high minded reasons and I don’t feel the need to excuse them as guilty pleasures. I am very much not at all a fan of the idea of enjoying things “ironically”… what kind of sneering asshole or insecure jackass does that?

Media that is both well put together and makes me think is appreciated, but I’m not about to pretend that everything I enjoy is somehow intellectually oriented. Though as a side note, none of it is beyond criticism. Sometimes I have to wince my way through bits of media that are more full of prejudiced content than a Hot Topic has Nightmare Before Christmas branded merchandise before I can get back to enjoying it. On the other hand, I thoroughly enjoyed all the things about Rogue One and Fury Road that make brodudes on Twitter mad.

Sometimes I just want to shoot radscorpions, read romance novels in which the heroine is skilled in elemental based magic, watch Hellraiser for the nth time, or drive my darling property up the wall by demanding he stat out a housecat sized dragon character for me to play in our tabletop game merely because the whim took me. My favorite JRPG is Breath of Fire III. While the game is better than, say, Paper Mario, on thematic content that’s deeper than just saving the world/princess/MacGuffin, it’s mostly just fun. There’s fishing! You can turn into a dragon! There’s a bunny girl scientist and an animate onion! It’s weird as shit, brightly colored, and the soundtrack is jazzy and fun.

While I’d be happy to go to an opera and hit up a stage musical not too long ago, I’m the kind of broad who would be more impressed by an invite to a symphonic performance of the work of Nobuo Uematsu.

I don’t think that nerdery makes me particularly unusual: geekiness has become a mainstream thing as a wide swath of the population now plays some form of video games (candy crush doesn’t exactly use a deck of cards), a ridiculous amount of money and star power gets poured into blockbuster comic book movies (MCU 4 lyfe!) and an astrophysicist (Neil DeGrasse Tyson) has 6.5 million twitter followers

Right now I’m going through a serious bout of PS1 nostalgia and listening to various game OSTs on YouTube. It’s actually led me to remember a few games I haven’t thought of in years, like Azure Dreams and Legend of Legaia. The former ended up being so damaged by a bad removal of dating sim aspects that it literally had no ending, but I’ve put as many hours into playing with the monster tower as any game. The latter was incredibly hideous visually, even by the standards of the day, but had one of the most fun, interesting combat systems of the day in its genre. These are good memories for me, even if they haven’t always aged well.

Screw the the roses and the thorns. Just give me a footrub and be able to debate me on which Final Fantasy game was the best and don’t touch my dice or GTFO.



There Are No Incurable Ills, There Are No Unkillable Thrills

I recently picked up a copy of Neuromancer, which has what is regarded to be a particularly fine, if dated, opening sentence. “The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.”

I read it aloud to KillBoy, who immediately agreed that he could see why people love that particular opener, and mused that it reminds me of another opening sentence I favor. “The great grey beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive”

While it’s perhaps not the fault of that traditionally dreary month that I have had more than a few weeks that tip the scales at more bad than good, I can agree I feel eaten alive. Work has been a clusterfuck, my anxiety has pretty much got me locked down and is affecting my relationship with KB, and I’m just now getting over a nasty cold I’ve had for over a week. So I’m going to blame February. It’s Feb 38th, right?

At least my darling husband is here to deliver me a little warmth.Upon hearing that I had a particularly bad day at work, he sprang into action to grab a bottle of wine and suggested that he take me out for sushi for dinner. It was exactly what I needed. The fish was so good tonight that I shushed him while I closed my eyes and chewed a particularly fantastic piece of salmon.

Back at home, evil pants shucked, I’m drinking the wine while listening to the Final Fantasy 8 OST, farting around on the internet and trying to decide on a fashion upper-body harness for when we make an amazon order later tonight. I’ve got a more utilitarian one picked out for him, but from an etsy seller. With any luck I’ll be able to order it before the summer kink con we’ll be attending.

Sometimes February and my state of mind are both grey, but his service and love are there to keep me running.


Where the Love Light Gleams

I’ve been drifting away from my family, particularly extended family, for some time. It’s not acrimonious. I simply find that more and more, I can’t smile and nod my way through another story about some fine mess they’ve gotten themselves into, or listen to the more conservative branch of the family tell horrifying dehumanizing “jokes”, at least not more than once or twice a year. Christmas with the family was particularly strained and trying this year, as they were in top form in regards to that in many ways.

Unfortunately, I have always loved the christmas spirit, adored the food and merriment and gift giving. Gift getting ain’t bad, but given the string of years in which my family saw fit to give me those dancing and singing gag gift toys, it’s not about expecting great presents.

I tried getting a little of the old magic in place, but everything felt hurried, family christmas was awful, KillBoy has feelings about the season that make him a little… flat about the whole thing, and I ended up feeling miserable.

Sometimes I forget that I’m terrible at being my own little island. While not an extrovert, I can be particularly susceptible to loneliness and feeling unwanted. I don’t really want to spend tons of time with my family of origin, but it’d be nice if they actually missed me.

What I really need is chosen family, and I do have a friend group that feels like I have a gaggle of close cousins. I ended up volunteering my home for my friend group so that we can bid adieu to this horrifying fucking year together, and I already feel much better for the planning of it. We’ve already started discussing who is bringing what of food and drink, and the fact that others are excited about the gathering is a soothing balm to my soul

With me less out of sorts, I’m very much hoping that this week will see me using the sap gloves he gave me as my gift. Sneaky boy remembered me saying that I wanted some longer than I remembered having said it!

Midweek Media: Whistle While You Work

If you’ve seen Kill Bill, you’re probably familiar with the whistling tune that gets repeated throughout. The internet tells me that it also got played on American Horror Story, and that it was written by Bernard Hermann for a British horror movie named Twisted Nerve.

It’s quite an earworm for me, including today when I heard this while driving to work:

As it turns out, this is not the only time it’s been sampled in rap, Cayman Cline used it in “Crowns” a couple of years ago.

I’m really enjoying this Glen Chaos instrumental version with added beats

And finally, of the samples/covers I’ve found and enjoyed, here are a pair of danced up versions


We’re Pulling in on Every Rope We’ve Thrown.

It is sometimes incredibly awful to be an adult with responsibilities. Like a few days ago when KillBoy came home from a half day at work just as I was leaving for work. Knowing I’m leaving my sweetheart behind for the treadmill timesuck that is my job is never an easy thing, but this particular time was especially difficult.

After greeting me with a kiss and letting me know there were tater tots in the lunch he’d brought home, he flopped down in the recliner. I went to the kitchen and ate half the tots while we talked about dinner that night. When I came back to the living room, he was all sprawled out over the chair with his shirt mostly unbuttoned. I know he had to have felt me giving him the once over and the look that said I’d strip and take him… if only I had time.

However, since neither of us is rich and there are bills to pay, I had to put my shoes on and head out the door. The image of him indolently enjoying his surprise shortened day kept me somewhat warmer of disposition throughout my workday, though with a touch of annoyance over how I was there resisting strangling my least favorite coworker instead of putting my hands on KillBoy’s body.

And of course, by the time I got home I was annoyed and dog tired, so that sex or play were off the table. A lot of days are like that. We plan to break out the toys and dress him up in fishnet and cuffs, but by the time our responsibilities are done with, we’re out of time or energy.

Still, I know myself to be incredibly lucky, to have the partner who is interested in building the domestic life that brings us comfort, who gets into my brain and swims around, who makes me feel loved and comfortable when I am weary.

Lucky too to have him when I’m feeling more energetic. Next time I’ll remember to put the toys away before opening the door to the maintenance guy. Chain makes way too much noise when you try to discreetly kick it under furniture.

A Blindness that Touches Perfection

I haven’t written anything non-fluff about my life in a while because sometimes the honesty seems like too much to bear. But the omission of certain things makes stories untrue at their heart and makes for finished writings that taste of synthetic flavoring.

This shit is hard.

It seems like it should be easy. I tell him what to do, he does it. Hell, I’m even easygoing about it: I don’t want a TPE because that sounds like work, I don’t want someone who wants to be micromanaged. I don’t have stories that mark me out as dominant since I was young, I don’t have weird playground stories, nor had particularly unusual teenage fantasies.

What I do have is years of power struggles within relationships. It’s not kinky. Some of those relationships were abusive, and I struggled against being subsumed. Against fear; of my partner, of being lost. Some of them were growing pains; struggles against partners who were just ill-fitting pants.

I finally made my first forays into bringing myself into the kink scene a little less than a decade ago. I’d had kinky sex, as a bottom, I’d even “sold” myself at a “slave auction” for charity at a “stand and model” fetish party, and been flogged by a terribly awkward dude, who’d have been a better top if he’d concentrated on the flogging and not whispering porny nonsense into my ear. I had no idea what” the scene” actually looked like, but instinctively I knew it didn’t look quite like the flashy parties I’d been to.

Where I went from there is hardly important in this context, only that I was in a time of learning about not only kink, but myself. I was thinking about how much I enjoyed a new top skill I was learning. I was thinking about not thinking of myself as just one thing to one person vis a vis kink. I was feeling like someone had walked up to me and said “hey, you’re holding that map upside down, oriented to where you’re trying to go.” It was a time where I was thinking about how to lay down those struggles.

I’ve talked about this before. How I was unprepared to meet KillBoy. How him at my feet felt good and right and also terrifying. I would go into this with no expectations because how could I have any? This was a situation we were inventing whole cloth. There were hiccups. There are always hiccups. That’s not exclusive to kink, that’s inclusive of all relationships.

But now I have a different angle on tearing myself up. I’m supposed to be in control. If things fail, how is it not my fault?

Life makes us all its servants, no existence so orderly that surprises do not derail occasionally, unexpected demands we must attend to. Ever since he moved to be with me, we’ve had transition, worries about the basic necessities of life. Kink has been a non-starter.

And then there’s the mental illness. Depression, anxiety, the well-worn paths of self-loathing that ex partners tried to pave into permanence. It’s been ugly lately, with his coping mechanisms leaking as they overflow, and my dammed up reserves bursting as I tearfully insist that I will never ever be better never and he should divorce me and save himself.

I’m grateful that my bold talk about no one being perfect is bolstered by Berkson addressing head on Eiren’s mental/physical needs in his blog, by Miss Pearl’s recent post about Wildcard’s being chronically ill. Because even if we work through the difficulties we have, treatments for our troubles aren’t cures. I suspect it’s a common experience, to believe  that no one can love one’s troubled brain, one’s flawed body forever. Caregiver fatigue is a real thing, and how many years can he take, where cleaning me up after I’ve cried until I’m red and hiccuping, is a slightly less than monthly occurrence in the good times, weekly in the bad? Will he ever believe me that his ailments are something I know will keep happening to at least some extent, and that I balance it against the good, finding him always worthy?

Stack all this together, and in my dark moments my brain tells me absolutely and without a doubt that I am a terrible wife. That the idea that I could even be a real top, nevermind a dominant is the dumbest thing I’ve ever been mistaken about, who did I think I was even kidding? There’s a certain grandiosity to the lowest of the lows; it seems reasonable to think that I’ll find myself divorced, again, and that my friends will all look at me and know I was a fraud, and I’ll never be able to show my face in the scene again because somehow everyone will know that I’m a fake. I’ll think: It’s just as well that the toys are gathering dust, because I have no idea what I’m doing, I’m boring at best and inept at worst, and KillBoy just doesn’t know the difference through lack of experience with people who actually do know what they’re doing. I’ll think: he wants me because I showed up and offered him what he thinks he wants but what he actually got was a hot mess.

We talked recently, about how to structure things to make them better and more workable for us, because things were badly defined, and things going unsaid sat under our skins like splinters. It was good. Hopeful. But when you spend this much time with a brain that generates its own poison, it’s hard to trust that things will work out just because you want them to. Regardless of whether things go well or badly, I have to work at knowing what’s me being realistic, and what is years of mental illness causing me to carve myself up again.

All I know for sure is that recently I read something written by another woman about how knocked off her feet she was by a submissive, just kneeling and giving her that look. I know the one, I know how much I miss that feeling of being on the receiving end, and I cried to read it.

We both want it back in working order, but that’s not going to magically happen without effort from us both. I can’t tidy all of that up or hide from it, not without embroidering our story until it’s an utter fairy tale. I’ve never lied here, but I have tried to tuck things away as if I were cleaning for a party and stuffing a closet with clutter.

So let’s start again.

I’m Ms Killjoy. I have anxiety, depression, not a lot of accomplishment to my name or a lot of faith in myself, but I do have KillBoy. He’s the one that gives me that look, especially when I wrap him in satin and chain. This is our life, where we care for each other as owner and pet. This is my love letter to him and to the dynamic that feeds us, though it may have spots of coffee and blood and tears in places.

Wonderful Electric

The difference, sometimes is in a decision that I could make.

He’s not one for mornings. Occasionally, some of the mornings are better and we stay in bed, talk, cuddle. I’ll let my hands wander and find him hard.

Rarely in those occasions, apologetic sounding, he’ll tell me that my normally appreciated touch is doing nothing for him, as he’s mostly numb.

I can withdraw. Cuddle. Talk about breakfast.

Or I can throw a leg over. Ride him hard until I see stars, dismount and go shower. No looking back.