The ‘identity’ prompt was well timed. My BibulousOne kinky masochist persona and that other one, the one with whom BibulousOne shares a skin, are about to return to the everyday vanilla life from which they have both been taking a small break. The notion of identity is important to me because these are not, in truth, separate personas. They are both parts of the one whole, complete ‘me’. The challenge comes from the constant need to hide part of my identity, an important part of my identity, from those who mean the most to me.
I write this from a solo holiday that, alongside a great deal of poker, has included two rather wonderful sessions with Mistress Kikko a very skilled, if vicious, Chinese/American Mistress based in Las Vegas. The second session left me with vivid purple bruises. One of these bruises protrudes, carbuncle like, from the visual protection of my Calvin Klein trunks, Calvin Klein trunks being my preferred form of underwear. (Too much information? I thought so also but it’s there now). I am going home tonight so the aforementioned bruise has to be iced and Arnica’d into oblivion lest it show up in my vanilla world where it would be as welcome as a porcupine in a nudist colony.
But part of me doesn’t want to do that.
Part of me doesn’t want to sneak into bed ahead of my wife, so ensuring she doesn’t see the evidence of my temporary but intense, paid-for relationship with another woman.
Part of me wants to lie face down on the bed naked so that when she returns from the bathroom she’s confronted with the blue-brown smudges from the paddle, the tell-tale train tracks from the cane and the thin red scars from the whip.
And I want to tell her.
In fact I want to blurt it out with all the force of years and years of hiding it, of lying about it, of burying the emotional and physical bruises where she can’t see them.
This is what I want to say to her:
“My love, I’m sorry but this is me. This has always been me. I pay people to tie me up and hit me. I was doing so before we met and I have been doing so since.
I need the pain, the intensity and the emotional catharsis that comes from it. I’ve needed it since I was eight years old. I need it now. Without it I am grumpy, bad tempered, and unfulfilled.
Please don’t think this is about you… I know there have been things in your life that make the very idea of eroticising pain unimaginable. That’s why I haven’t pushed this on you. That’s why I’ve sneaked off and dealt with this and returned without you knowing. But I can’t hide it any more. This is who I am and for me to pretend otherwise now feels more dishonest than the sneaking off.
For me to live a totally vanilla life would be like someone born gay to live as a heterosexual.
I know that to ask you to understand is too much. But please, please, I beg you, accept that this is part of who I am. Please, most of all, allow me to be this person so that, after all this time, I can finally stop lying to you.”
Of course this isn’t going to happen. There is too much at stake.
There have been too many lies over too many years to expect that they could all simply be erased with one plea, however genuine and heartfelt. With each new lie, each added “I’ll be back late after the meeting,” each “I’m wearing these to bed because I’m cold,” the mountain of lies gets a little higher and it becomes a little less likely that I wall ever scale that mountain to see the welcome plains of truth and honesty that lie beyond.
I think there’s just time to rub some more Arnica cream into the bruises before I head to the airport.
More wickedness here: