Fearless, that’s what I want to be.
To open up to him even when I’m scared out of my senses.
Sometimes I can’t. And that’s when I need him most. Like a prisoner in her own mind I wander. Like a creature of worship captured in her own temple of the doomed. Chained by shame, by expectations not even my own. It’s a maze. Many ways to get to the goal, many turns, many dead ends. But no exit.

And then he speaks. That voice again. I shutter. His words pierce my soul. It’s fucking painful. The suffering forces heavy tears out of blue eyes. Gravity pulls them down ivory features. Sobs. Faint. Almost unnoticeable. If only the earth shattering quake inside would stop.

Wrong focus. Dammit. The trembling becomes stronger. And then he notices. And he watches. With those intense eyes that breach my defenses like a laser beam. I want to die. Now.

Yes, he speaks the truth I don’t want to admit to myself. The truth that says that I lingered too much in an unacceptable behavior. I messed up and wasn’t aware of it. All of this time my own masks betrayed me, betrayed others in the process. I lied. Mainly to myself. He saw through it, knew what was going on or perhaps he didn’t, thinking I’m a compulsive liar. I destroyed trust and regret it.
And yet… isn’t this a fantastic opportunity to get up, dust off and do it again? Only the right way this time? I have to gather myself again. Realizing to have hurt him so badly makes me flinch. What if…

It doesn’t matter. Whatever comes out of this, I will make the best of it now. Because ‘now’ is all I have. ‘Now’ is my time, my moment to become who I am, who I want to be. Is it not?
I surrender into the emotion of gratitude.
It is just that I felt that I have to run. From the terror of the consequences my words might provoke. For good or bad. Guilt has a tight grip on me. “I’m sorry.” As those words seep into his ears, his mind I feel liberated from strangling myself with this truth. He looks relieved, but then again…

“You have no idea how much I have to control myself not to hurt you!”
My eyes sink to pale, entangled hands in my lap. That guilt again. But there’s something entirely different under the surface. Brewing. Churning. A yearning. For physical torment. For some kind of consequence that will stop me from doing this crazy junk. Right now I really don’t care about the verdict that might be spoken over me. And then I hear myself. “Maybe that’s what’s needed…” A shudder in the face of my exposure, the courage to state my desires. And to openly admit to the fear that comes along with it.

He nods. “Indeed!”
Faster than I can react I find myself on the bed, struggling to get away. Crap! Why did I say that? Or do I really need a good butt spanking? So absurd! I’m a grown woman! And yet…
Something inside calls it on me. ‘We do need this, as crazy as it might be. And so does he.” My persona, all four women, each shining in their own brilliance. My aspects. My quirks, my love, my genius, my perversions. Are they perversions? Or is that just a mindless definition I took on?
I don’t know. Don’t care either. All that counts is to still this hunger for pain. To feel the difference between justified rage and drunken madness. Between the consequence of love and the punishment of disconnect. To draw that line for myself to know that when something was wrong – it was painful. I label myself insane. Often times I’m wrong. Perhaps I’m right this time…

Pain. Suffering. Torture.
I love it. I fear it. In context with physical hurt when my soul’s anguish becomes too strong. So strong that I seek relieve in extreme ways of bodily torment. Blood-lust.  Even for my own life’s red juices. A diversion from the hell I feel inside. I hope it hurts badly. I hope I won’t withdraw from this. I hope he goes along with my challenging behavior.

Anxiety over being judged emerges. Over pushing him away. Awareness of the things that torture him deeply rises. The ambiguity within me in times when rationality is needed more than anything.  When my crazy fits in those moments endanger everything we have together. What if he can’t follow his path when I behave this way?

My radar spots the killer inside of him. And I love him for it. He has that look that says more than a thousand words. Demanding. Furious. Nearly out of control.
I freeze in place. How stupid it was to let myself go like this. Then I catch myself. His look changed. Good Lord. Fear strikes with devastating notion. I have to get away. Now. My limbs come back to life. Somewhat.

As I crawl away, defy him, his wrath is provoked, only to have him unleash what I feel is needed. Through all of the angst of his verdict I feel that this must be done. Maximum sentence: A severe butt whooping. The streaks on my behind scream, red and hot. My cries don’t matter. Not this time. Or maybe they do. At this point his wrath takes over. Not to seriously harm me. Yet enough to inflict a biting sentence. Maybe the stabbing pinch, the crouching tickle of emerging healing, will teach me a lesson, the tears, the sobs, the cringe, every time his hand touches my delicate skin. Right where it throbs profusely under the executed verdict.

And then.
Kisses. Murmurs into my ear. Words of pleasure. Of comfort. Of discomfort. The certainty of uncertainty takes over. I lay in his arms, fully spooned, liberated from whatever drove me into urges of disconnect from myself and him. As he wraps himself around me I feel safe. An odd thing to feel after what just happened. But he understands the craziness I went through. He gave what I required. And I got all of it. So now what? My nose is clogged, for one. And apart from that…. another shield is broken.
What might happen if I don’t care to repair it…

~ Joice Joker


Joice and her partner David Esotica work with women to create the ecstatic intimacy in a relationship they crave. They believe in laughing, crying, passion and orgasms. So you can imagine what happens when they talk about sex.

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