STUD

Funny how no one ever called me a Stud.

When I was intent to conquer as many men

as had conquered me, and make them cry.

No one called me stud.

Bitch for breaking hearts and promises,
For all the fractures the little girl in me suffered
and all the broken promised 'it won't hurts', she remembered.

Whore for mastering the dance between
silk sheets and how to make a man scream my name like a girl.
Lessons they taught: how, what and where to please them.
I can still remember the school of Hard Knocking Boots.

Tease for the no repeat performance.
Rules laid down to remind myself who controlled.
My no meant no, now. And I don't have to tremble between
this time and next time. No longer a child. He can't force me.

I've conquered the alphabet, nations and races.
Learned how easily men cross lines of what they will or will
not do or "have done to them."

And if I felt a little guilty, and maybe a little dirty,
I made myself remember what they are truly like,
dredged up the faces that smiled while I screamed.

Cruel and Heartless were names I bore as well.

My favorite name was Mistress, while my Hard Boots
were licked.


But stud was never my crown.

LOSING COLOR

I feel moments of dislike for myself. Or not so much dislike
as discomfort within my own skin. Restricted by the limits
of physicality. In such moments of discomfiture I am
uncertain and wary of the person I am. And feel boxed within.
Like useless energy, electrical pulses trapped within a box.

I see strangers in the mirrors whose faces are not mine. But
I remember being each person. The eyes are unfamiliar. I look
down at the prison holding my spirit and I ask, "Whose arms
are these?"

I wonder If I am truly who I am or an extension created by
the perceptions and needs of others. Am I real? Please, am I real?
I am unsure what drives my existence. What encourages the next
breath. Is it the pursuit of of life or merely a baser instinctive drive
to continue? Do I go on because it is what others wish and desire?
Why do I do the things I do? What motivates me?
What I wonder would make me feel whole?

Or maybe I am a gossamer dream and I will slowly fade into nothing.

My life has been a reoccurring cycle in which I have been forced to
exist in situations outside my control. Constantly weighing or
choosing between less than desirable situations. Having to live
in places I abhor versus having no place to live at all. Dissatisfying
and unpleasant jobs versus no job at all. Give in and have it hurt less,
versus fighting and having it taken by force and hurt more.

I know the experiences are not unique to me.

But I look back on my life and see a series of choices based on what
others wanted, needed. or forced. Decision I felt I had no choice but
to make. I could have chosen to be penniless. I could have chosen to
be homeless. Would that have been the right choice?

I chose it for awhile. And felt safe. Lived, homeless on the streets
for ten days, ten days of freedom, ignoring the cold, the hunger
until responsibility drug me back kicking and screaming into a
life of others choosing. Tears and pleads saw my resolve
for freedom crumble and I returned to chains.

Perhaps for those ten days, I'd simply gone mad. Perhaps
I'd been in no frame of mind to make my own choices.
Young, fractured in mind and disillusioned. I was
constantly coming apart, under the thumb of well
meaning adults, who believed control was a form of
affection. I lost sanity in cycles, like an illness in
remission which would return.

I learned to act well. To perform. Kept self-destructive
thoughts to myself, and the whisper of dark dreams
from shining through my eyes.

But there was color then.


Stories dark with turbulence,
hungry fiends, and bright with blood in my mind.
Stories woven in my mind to shield me from the true
darkness and monsters in my reality. I've been
different people for everyone, family and abusers,
hiding the frightened me until I could no longer find
her. And when she rose, from her hiding place she broke
a little more leaving the others of my creation to hide
the mess, and mend the pieces. Some days I long for
total madness. I dreamed of slipping completely into
those worlds my imagination created.

Sometimes I wanted to be the monster.



But there was color. Vibrant and dark, like the slash
marks of paint across canvas, sharp steel across the
tender give of flesh. She was too frail to end it?

She tried. God, she tried. But only totaled,
Daddy's car when driving through the garage door.

Another time, the blade was too dull and hurt too much
to keep sawing away.

And now, my mind has lost color. Older.
Supposedly wiser, the flavor of the world is no longer
bitter, but bland and the discordant song of life is muted.
I'm trapped in this broken body just as I'd been trapped
in that earlier life.

Helpless.

A victim again.

All my vivid stories have dried and not even
the darkness of dreams give me moments of
escape. Pain keeps me rooted in the moment and
in memories of other moments of helplessness
and pain. And I still don't know if I'm real.
Maybe I'm the character in someone else's
never-ending tale.

The drugs, the doctor prescribed make feel invisible.
And I'm left with choosing between less than desirables
again. Pain and memories versus the fear that I just
might fade away before ever having lived a life of
my own want. Before ever truly knowing if joy exists or not.

Before ever finding out which stranger in the mirror is me.

GETTING STARTED ALL OVER AGAIN

So First I'll say welcome to every one and second I'll say

NC-17 ... for content you know what this means. No one under 18.
Choosing to read these pages leads me to assume that you are
of legal age and of legal responsible to make your own decisions.

Thirdly I'll warn NC-17 for content
Alternative Relationships of an intimate nature.
Alternative lifestyles.
Alternative worlds.

Dark Fiction with disturbing violent and or sexual imagery
Action/Adventure/Danger/SciFi/Horror/Fantasy/Supernatural/and Smut.
And very often--all in the same story.