From the dusty-ass past.

Oh shit.

Yeah, OK, so I’m not a fucking poet. I leave that shit to the professionals and those overcome by hubris.

But a looooooooong time ago, back when I was a lil-behbeh pervert, I was involved in an online relationship.

Yeah, OK. Pick your jaw up off of the fucking floor.  It is all true.

I met this…person…on ALT.  This was over 10 years ago. Back when merely possessing a vagina could reap you a premium membership on the site. I was diligent about meeting the Master of my Dreams back then! I went on a few dates, and wound up “involved” with a “dominant” who “collared” me online and yeah there are quotations there for a reason. After several months of the online thing, we were supposed to have met. He wasn’t all that far away, in Northern California. A distance I found entirely reasonable.  But weeks stretched into months and then eventually I met some real perverts and…well…I went to this Truth Or Dare Party and the rest is living history.

But I took a stab, once, at my then “masters” (gag) “command” and wrote a poem. 

I got a wild hair up my ass just now and dug around trying to find it, and find it I did.

Resistance

 

 

 

 

 

I am bemused by my naivete…and I remember how proud I was of it, and how deeply submissive I felt to this man, some guy I’d never even met…some dude who’d managed to take advantage of a person just feeling their way into a new life

I wonder.

I wonder at how much changes, and how much stays the same.

I’m embarrassed because I really hate that purple prosy over-the-top imagery that pervades kink poetry. I wonder how I could have imagined and filled in so much without the benefit of reciprocity.

I don’t even know why this came to mind, or why I’m posting it.

Must be my attention-starved inner masochist? Perhaps. Maybe the thought of people rolling their eyes and snickering and silly poetry satisfies some desire for debasement.

But fuck.

It IS a sonnet in iambic pentameter, beotches!!