The blog has become alien to me. My slave self is being held in void space, unable to move in any direction. unable to feel, suffer, rejoice, grow, develop. Perhaps it's sleeping the winter months somewhere else and will come back to visit at some point in the future.
Everything in my daily life at the moment seems to lack any intensity or depth. my soul is starved of nutrition. My boyfriend is here for a few months, my Master is somewhat absent, my therapist thinks i need to see her 3 times a week, my gym programme is not challenging, my job is as invigorating as narcotics and the weather is dull.
i saw online that C is seeking a live-in slave and i suddenly missed being under 25. i felt sad. somewhere within me seems to be engraved the notion that a slave has to be under a certain age, whatever that age is, to be appealing to an owner and i resent the passing of time and the human body's innate longing for decay.
i listen to music and let these winter days and winter moods pass me by with their lazy, unremarkable ways.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
pre-school
at the age of 4 or 5, i used to play "slaves" with a friend. The friend in question was a girl my age. The game would normally take place in my room where she would sit on the bed and i would kneel on the floor. i don't remember too much of what was going on, only that i had a toy keyboard that she would keep on the bed next to her. Every now and then she would press on the keys and i would mimic being in a state of pain, like i was being tortured.
Some time we would switch roles because she wanted to be the slave too, but i did so unwillingly.
Some time we would switch roles because she wanted to be the slave too, but i did so unwillingly.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
in the playground
at the age of 8, me and a classmate, we used to sit during recess and talk about slavery.
i have to smile thinking of these 2 kids talking slaves instead of playing. So meant to be, isn't it? I wonder if this kind of stuff happens all the time, i wonder if out there in London, today, how many schools had children sitting around on the side of a courtyard discussing what masters could do to their slaves.
And i wonder what happened to my classmate, where he is now and whether he's grown to be into BDSM. I've googled him, but with no success.
He used to tell an open-mouthed smaller and marginally more innocent version of me how, in "the past", if a master had something wrong, like a disease, he could could get his slave to lie on his back on the floor in front of him and with his feet press down onto the slave's stomach so that the disease would be transferred from the master to the slave and the master would have nothing to worry about. i remember seeing in my head those tiny little spots slowly disappear from the master's legs and start to appear on the slave's stomach.
What powerful gift is a child's imagination.
i have to smile thinking of these 2 kids talking slaves instead of playing. So meant to be, isn't it? I wonder if this kind of stuff happens all the time, i wonder if out there in London, today, how many schools had children sitting around on the side of a courtyard discussing what masters could do to their slaves.
And i wonder what happened to my classmate, where he is now and whether he's grown to be into BDSM. I've googled him, but with no success.
He used to tell an open-mouthed smaller and marginally more innocent version of me how, in "the past", if a master had something wrong, like a disease, he could could get his slave to lie on his back on the floor in front of him and with his feet press down onto the slave's stomach so that the disease would be transferred from the master to the slave and the master would have nothing to worry about. i remember seeing in my head those tiny little spots slowly disappear from the master's legs and start to appear on the slave's stomach.
What powerful gift is a child's imagination.
Monday, January 2, 2006
childhood trauma
At the age of 3 or 4, while on holiday with my family, my mother had put me down for a nap in the afternoon. But i didn't sleep because a frightening monster was in the room with me. I remember it flying around the bedroom in crazy spins and the noise, the buzz, growing louder and quieter as the thing flew back and forth, closer and farther from me. i remember the noise it made when it hit the window, like an electric discharge. i was crying and shouting trying to get somebody to rescue me but nobody came. i remember trying to find the strength to get out of bed, reaching out to grab the door handle and get out of the room. The next thing i remember is peeping out of the kitchen window at my mother sunbathing on the terrace.
For a long time, these memories were in my head but i thought they were a dream. I have had a fair share of nightmares about insects throughout my childhood and i guess i always figured this was one of them. It is only around the age of 12 that i found out this had actually happened.
i am generally a rather controlled person but all my life there's only been one thing that has made me completely lose control. That is that buzz: i'm terribly frightened of insects, the ones that fly, that buzz, that move fast and seem out of control. Especially if in a confined space, i get panic attacks, i shout, i run, i try to get away, i can't control myself.
When my memories were confirmed as being true, i was also told that when my mother found me, my face was flushed with a multitude of tiny red dots as blood vessels had burst under the strain and effort of shouting.
For a long time, these memories were in my head but i thought they were a dream. I have had a fair share of nightmares about insects throughout my childhood and i guess i always figured this was one of them. It is only around the age of 12 that i found out this had actually happened.
i am generally a rather controlled person but all my life there's only been one thing that has made me completely lose control. That is that buzz: i'm terribly frightened of insects, the ones that fly, that buzz, that move fast and seem out of control. Especially if in a confined space, i get panic attacks, i shout, i run, i try to get away, i can't control myself.
When my memories were confirmed as being true, i was also told that when my mother found me, my face was flushed with a multitude of tiny red dots as blood vessels had burst under the strain and effort of shouting.
eurochristmas
how much of who you are is made up of where you are from? the place where you were born, what people you've had around you, all those elements of course have a profound impact on the person that you are.
Spending some time "home" for Christmas i have enjoyed coming back to what has made me the person that i am. Being used to living in the uk, it's fun to rediscover the little differences that make up the big picture and point out to the fact that you're in a different country.
My home country is Italy. i like my country: i think it's quite cool at times, and quite annoying at others. all in all you could say i love it from afar. living there would drive me insane but going there from time to time is great and i keep on good terms with the nation as a whole.
The main thing that annoys me about being from italy, though, is that everybody i meet has such a clear opinion of it, even if they've never set foot there. They've all heard and internalised certain facts about the country and they all regurgitate them and spurt them all over my shirt when i talk to them.
Americans, i'm sorry to say, are the worst. Because they transpose this idea of italian-americans onto italian-italians. Italian-americans themselves seem to have an idea of italy that's romanticised at best, and delusional at worst.
For this reason i generally dislike telling people that i'm italian, because i know that any comment about italy, whether positive or negative, is going to piss me off in one way or another. It's the way that a rather complex, multifaceted and quite troubled country can be reduced to a couple of statements generally involving mums and pasta that annoys me.
It's also the fact that i don't fit comfortably in the idea that people have of italians, that puts me up against this mythical land of loud, extroverted and sociable people that i'm obviously a bad example of. At one point or another, i inevitably end up causing some surprise by pointing out one of the following facts:
_i am not a "passionate" lover (ok, i don't point this out to a lot of people)
_i don't care about football (soccer)
_i don't come from a large family
_i am not religious
_i am out to my family
The italy that i know has nothing to do with all the above. When i think of italy, some of the things that come to my mind are:
Food-fascism: there's normal food (italian) and the "rest". The "rest" went, in recent years, from weird to interesting but you still probably wouldn't want to strain your system by having it twice in the same week.
Hygiene neurosis: i've grown up being told not to hold on to supports on buses, not to use toilets in public places, not to kiss people allowing my lips to come in contact with the cheek of the person i'm kissing and various priceless advice that, i assure you, will come in very handy when bacteriological warfare is waged against us. I remember, as a child, going to play at a friend's house where the first thing i had to do upon arriving was wash my hands 10 times. I remember a neighbour that children used to call "the jug" because of her habit of constantly keeping her gloved up hands on her hips to avoid touching anything. To this date i often sport an approving smile going into an italian supermarket and being asked to wear disposable plastic gloves before buying fruits and vegetables and i've even seen immigration officers in airports adapting the same principle to avoid the lethal finger-to-passport contact.
Informal shop-assistants: there's never any attempt to be systematically polite. Shop assistants can be obnoxiously rude or heartwarmingly friendly. Or anything in between. There's no absent-minded, mechanical politeness to be expected. Shortly before Christmas, while on a shopping spree, i found it refreshing being offered a biscuit by a shop assistant who was casually snacking while giving people information. I, of course, declined because at the time I wasn't wearing my bioresistant bodysuit.
Spending some time "home" for Christmas i have enjoyed coming back to what has made me the person that i am. Being used to living in the uk, it's fun to rediscover the little differences that make up the big picture and point out to the fact that you're in a different country.
My home country is Italy. i like my country: i think it's quite cool at times, and quite annoying at others. all in all you could say i love it from afar. living there would drive me insane but going there from time to time is great and i keep on good terms with the nation as a whole.
The main thing that annoys me about being from italy, though, is that everybody i meet has such a clear opinion of it, even if they've never set foot there. They've all heard and internalised certain facts about the country and they all regurgitate them and spurt them all over my shirt when i talk to them.
Americans, i'm sorry to say, are the worst. Because they transpose this idea of italian-americans onto italian-italians. Italian-americans themselves seem to have an idea of italy that's romanticised at best, and delusional at worst.
For this reason i generally dislike telling people that i'm italian, because i know that any comment about italy, whether positive or negative, is going to piss me off in one way or another. It's the way that a rather complex, multifaceted and quite troubled country can be reduced to a couple of statements generally involving mums and pasta that annoys me.
It's also the fact that i don't fit comfortably in the idea that people have of italians, that puts me up against this mythical land of loud, extroverted and sociable people that i'm obviously a bad example of. At one point or another, i inevitably end up causing some surprise by pointing out one of the following facts:
_i am not a "passionate" lover (ok, i don't point this out to a lot of people)
_i don't care about football (soccer)
_i don't come from a large family
_i am not religious
_i am out to my family
The italy that i know has nothing to do with all the above. When i think of italy, some of the things that come to my mind are:
Food-fascism: there's normal food (italian) and the "rest". The "rest" went, in recent years, from weird to interesting but you still probably wouldn't want to strain your system by having it twice in the same week.
Hygiene neurosis: i've grown up being told not to hold on to supports on buses, not to use toilets in public places, not to kiss people allowing my lips to come in contact with the cheek of the person i'm kissing and various priceless advice that, i assure you, will come in very handy when bacteriological warfare is waged against us. I remember, as a child, going to play at a friend's house where the first thing i had to do upon arriving was wash my hands 10 times. I remember a neighbour that children used to call "the jug" because of her habit of constantly keeping her gloved up hands on her hips to avoid touching anything. To this date i often sport an approving smile going into an italian supermarket and being asked to wear disposable plastic gloves before buying fruits and vegetables and i've even seen immigration officers in airports adapting the same principle to avoid the lethal finger-to-passport contact.
Informal shop-assistants: there's never any attempt to be systematically polite. Shop assistants can be obnoxiously rude or heartwarmingly friendly. Or anything in between. There's no absent-minded, mechanical politeness to be expected. Shortly before Christmas, while on a shopping spree, i found it refreshing being offered a biscuit by a shop assistant who was casually snacking while giving people information. I, of course, declined because at the time I wasn't wearing my bioresistant bodysuit.
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