Disclaimer: This post mentions topics involving consensual sexual violence. Not suitable for individuals under eighteen years of age. Reader discretion is advised.
Admittedly, yesterday seemed so uneventful that I almost didn’t know what I was going to write about today. There were no heated discussions, no need for problem-solving skills, no outstandingly sexy bits, just us, hanging out, eating food and taking it chill. Even if certain topics were still in the air, there was no inherent need for them to be acted upon.
During cooking, I do remember seeing a particular spike with my anxiety. A long time in front of the computer wasn’t helping, I concluded, and nor as being in a hot kitchen with a man talking about me cutting my finger and blood spurting everywhere. I was doing everything in my power to ignore my intrusive and violent thoughts and to focus on the task at hand, and it seemed as though he was doing everything in his power to provoke them.
“Yes, thank you, Matt” I sighed, somewhat exasperated at his present level of maturity.
“Sorry,” he said, “I’ll go and sit down.”
“That would be wise!” I replied.
After dinner, we settled down for an episode of Gogglebox. I have no idea why so many British families watch the show, except that they do, and what’s more, many people even enjoy it. Essentially, Gogglebox is just the British people watching other British people watch TV, an almost voyeuristic approach to revisiting some of the highlights of TV from the week before. Usually there’s something funny, usually there are some highlights from the news and usually, there’s something gross or spooky, too. I look away for the gross and the spooky parts, being a HSP, I can only handle so much.
In one part of the show, celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay visited his own London-based Savoy Grill restaurant, and the Gogglebox programme panned to the popular Bristolian friends, Mary and Marina.
“I likes domineering men like that, mind” noted Marina.
“Oh, do you?” asked Mary, her nose wrinkled in disgust, “reckons you could butter him up, that Gordon Ramsay, do you?”
“Oh aye” replied Marina.
“Well you’re welcome to him. If he’s like that here, imagine what he’s like in bed?” Mary said. I almost laughed, for two such endearing, elderly women, these two perhaps weren’t as innocent as I first thought.
“Ooh, lovely” answers Marina, Mary now looked as though she was ready to disown her best friend.
“That’s me when I’m older!” I laughed, pointing at the TV, “that’s so me. I love her!”
“He’s probably nothing like that in reality, mind you” I said to Matt, “us leader types aren’t. Leaders know leaders, leaders get along with leaders. Honestly, I reckon I could get along well with Gordon Ramsay, Simon Cowell, Ant Middleton… There’s a thing with leaders, you’ve got to keep it real, and to be real. Know your strengths, your weaknesses and your capabilities, and be honest. Zero bullshit. No namby-pambying about. There’s no time for that shit, and leaders won’t let you waste their time.”
“Don’t I know?” Matt joked.
“And still, you stay” I shot back playfully.
After Gogglebox, I busied myself elsewhere. I’d slept in even later than I’d planned and I’d spent most of the day writing. I wanted to get in at least half an hour of housework before I went to bed, a little something to start it all off after the busy week last week. I was admittedly exhausted after several days of decorating, but now it’s time to pick up the reins again.
“You just don’t do that relaxing thing, do you?” Matt said.
I considered him for a moment, “nope” I replied. He walked off, shaking his head.
“I’ll relax when I’m dead and buried” I called after him.
I considered the bedroom for a moment; I could change the bedsheets, I could put the clothes hangers away, I could generally tidy the floor a bit. There were a lot of could’s, but what did I actually want to do?
Fuck it, I decided, falling back onto the bed, relaxing doesn’t seem like an entirely bad idea this time of night.
“Oh noes! Kitten, come see”. So much for relaxing…
I stared half-assedly at the TV. I really don’t care much for the drivel that is evening TV, though I will cast an eye over it if I’m allowed to do other things at the same time.
On the screen was a rather crude S&M scene, not something that I would ever expect to see in the Big Bang Theory, but here we are. I covered my eyes with both hands, a now habitual practice that Matt has got me into.
“Oh noes” I agreed.
Back in the bedroom, I decided to see if I couldn’t fit in a quick, fully-conscious viewing of an ASMR video by one of my favourite creators. It was 22 minutes, surely if he’s double screening, I could steal twenty minutes unimpeded, maybe?
Go for it.
“Alright, since you don’t know your name, we’re going to call you Patient X. Is that okay? Good” the creator says, like I have a choice here.
Patient? Go on…
‘Patient’ was a thing for me, and it had long been a thing. Stripped of my identity and reduced to a mere existence, it was a wonderful place that allows me to switch off from the world, it allows me to forget and to let go. Even if I’m not personally into some of the more extreme components of medical play, ‘patient’ worked perfectly fine in all other regards.
Pulling me out of my trance-like state, Matt appeared at the door, snapping his fingers for my attention. Aware of his feelings towards certain kinks, I did my best to hide my phone.
“What are you watching, porn?” he teased.
Under the circumstances, you’re not entirely wrong.
“Alright, this is sharp” the creator says, holding up a pinwheel “but don’t worry, my friend, it’s not going to pierce your flesh”. I blush and look away from the screen,
A pinwheel? I mean a… no… I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen one of those before. What’s that? I can pretend not to know.
My body betrays me. I know, and I know I know. I bury my head in my hands, resigned.
Now I wanted, now I needed, I needed the ‘cheesy pinwheel’. Even if I’d hated on them sometimes, pinwheels were oddly delicious.
Is 00:30 too late for a session? No? Maybe? Probably? Yes? Probably. Fuck it, no harm in trying.
What’s the code? We hadn’t even agreed that far. What do you say? What do you do? There was only one thing for it…
Picking up my phone, I sent Matt the only thing I knew to do:
I wanted patiently for five minutes, anticipating, hoping, my heart thumping away in my throat.
Maybe, just maybe…
I looked at Matt’s wireless charger – maybe his phone was on charge and the error was on my part?
I picked up my phone again, he hadn’t even seen my message.
Wow, really?, I text him, this communication thing is going well!