There is no room for shame here.
Here desire is law.
Here strength is respected.
#V speaks — my posts
#V and Others — posts about us as a system
#V reblogs — obvious enough
#V desires — sub-tag for some kinky/para content, or just NSFW things in general — also marked with [🖤] before text. Mind the tags.
This is a side blog (I interact from fl********s or f********ve). I label and tag everything that needs to be labeled, but I generally do not recommend this blog to minors.
I'm not alone in this head, there's a bunch of guys and gals here.
This is my personal space; here will be things I like, my thoughts, fantasies and desires, and my attempts to understand who I am. More under the cut.
My SFW interests: sports and physical activity, travel, hiking, science fiction and fantasy, "dark" art, mythology and folklore, music (mainly rock), programming, computer games (RPG and some others), human psychology, photography (at an amateur level) and some writing.
My NSFW tastes: sexual content in general (I'm bisexual), BDSM, paraphilic stuff (sexual sadism and raptophilia), hard kinks, CNC, violence, abuse, gore, blood, fear, torture porn, knives and blades, bondage, psychological manipulation, degradation and humiliation, power imbalance, age gap (no minors though), and so on.
I'm taken and not looking for anyone else.
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I suspect I have OSDD-1, but I don't have an official diagnosis and I'm unlikely to get one in the near future.
Emotional numbness reminds me of dental anesthesia—when half your face is frozen for hours. You can't eat properly, drink, speak, or smile, and somewhere in the tissues there's this itching sensation you can't scratch. Your own flesh feels rubbery, grossly warm, and completely alien.
But hey—you can be cut and drilled without feeling a thing!
It's the same with detachment from your own emotions. You can't enjoy life. You can't feel pleasure. You have no motivation to do anything. Everything becomes unbearably dull. And that boredom makes you want to climb the walls, to rip and tear—just to feel something.
I realized that what I thought was a weird fragment of myself (the "protector") was simply me plus A.—miss "I want to save every wounded ass on this planet"—quietly sneaking to the front. It's no wonder I sometimes cringe later about how I acted.
I don't seriously buy into the whole "love languages" concept—I think in a healthy relationship, all of them should be present, blah blah—but if I had to pick one as my primary, it would be physical touch. I'm a very sensory person. I'm curious about how you feel, how you sound, how you smell, how you taste. And I naturally express affection physically.
I don't need to be asked twice to hug someone, stroke them, hold them, or just put my hands all over them. Anyone I like and who ends up in my arms will be touched to death. I've never really clicked with people who are indifferent to or repulsed by physical contact.
(Fun fact: our partner has long, thick, shiny black hair—and the very first thing I wanted to do when I met him was touch it.)
Made some delicious guacamole today, threw together some sandwiches with it and turkey on sun-dried tomato bread, baked salmon in the oven, stir-fried some glass noodles to go with it, and even went out for fresh cherries and honey plums. This is where the usual "How am I still single?" joke goes—but I'm not.
Meanwhile, someone else in our head (no clue who, we're blurry af): hmm, KFC chicken and an energy drink in a beer glass—sounds like the perfect lunch!
My bad that I started this blog as a side one. Now, if I want to interact with people, I have to choose between our shared main, which is too fem for my taste, and a kinky textporn one :)
Not that I often want to interact with people, of course.
Took a walk with our partner during a thunderstorm. Something happened at the substation, and the whole village lost power. Rain pouring down, lightning flashing, thunder rolling across the sky—for a moment it's bright as day, and then everything sinks back into thick twilight. We're huddled under a single umbrella, half-soaked, but happy. A kiss in the first July thunderstorm. I'm rating this date a 10 out of 10.
Honestly, I find being a system pretty convenient (when there's mostly no amnesia, that is). I mean, of course it causes us problems, but it also makes us more resilient sometimes. Stressful situation? There's a part who's as cool as a cucumber in a crisis. Emotionally painful event? There's a part who couldn't give less of a shit. Physical pain? There's a part with a higher pain threshold. Need cold, calculated rationality? Got it. Need sensitivity and warmth? Got that too. Need a little hatred for motivation? Plenty. When we don't need it, we just put it back in a distant drawer in our head and don't feel it anymore. We're basically organized like a big shelf with drawers, and our brain just pulls out whoever it thinks fits the situation.
The problem only starts when it pulls out the wrong one—and that someone ends up in a "deal with this shit yourself" situation :)
After dusk once light had faded
I cut my throat, let it bleed out
And underneath the starlit sky I crumbled and I plead
Please let me go, please let me go
Please let me go before it dawns
Please let me go, please let me go
Please let me go before it dawns
Once the night had fully blossomed
Sonnet luminosity
I was moved and startled as the stars answered to me
You'll never go, you'll never go
You will be whole once the sun is up
You'll never go, you'll never go
You will be whole once the sun is up
Made some delicious guacamole today, threw together some sandwiches with it and turkey on sun-dried tomato bread, baked salmon in the oven, stir-fried some glass noodles to go with it, and even went out for fresh cherries and honey plums. This is where the usual "How am I still single?" joke goes—but I'm not.
It's interesting how one of my recurring fantasies is erasing every trace of individuality from my partner and treating them like a sex doll—no say, no desires of their own, no thoughts, no autonomy whatsoever… I wouldn't even want to see their face while doing it. Long live dehumanization, total control, and use. (= Predictability and Safety.)
Meanwhile, A. is interested in people precisely for their individuality—and most of the time, platonically. She wants to know what your dog's name is, what your favorite book is, what topic you could talk about for hours, what you write or draw or create, what you dream about. She sees people as other worlds, and she wants to explore them, and she's not afraid of having to deal with real, messy human beings.
So basically, between the two of us, we cover both ends of the "how to relate to other humans" spectrum.
...Incidentally, it angers me when people look at me through my own consumer lens—trying to force me into a role, seeing me as a function. A toy. A comforter. A source of thrills. A dummy for their projections. And so on.
I also want to be seen as a whole world—known and understood. What a surprise.
It's interesting how one of my recurring fantasies is erasing every trace of individuality from my partner and treating them like a sex doll—no say, no desires of their own, no thoughts, no autonomy whatsoever… I wouldn't even want to see their face while doing it. Long live dehumanization, total control, and use. (= Predictability and Safety.)
Meanwhile, A. is interested in people precisely for their individuality—and most of the time, platonically. She wants to know what your dog's name is, what your favorite book is, what topic you could talk about for hours, what you write or draw or create, what you dream about. She sees people as other worlds, and she wants to explore them, and she's not afraid of having to deal with real, messy human beings.
So basically, between the two of us, we cover both ends of the "how to relate to other humans" spectrum.
Every time a straight guy hits on us when I'm the one fronting, it's awkward. Like, dude, I get why you're doing it, but I don't feel like the girl you see in front of you. My girl-feeling meter is at zero. And all that compliments-and-flattery-for-girls stuff just annoys me. Don't beat around the bush—just tell me you find me hot and wanna fuck me, and I'll tell you there's no chance, and we'll be done with it.
And if you had any chance at all, I'd much rather whip you into a whining, squirming mess, shove your face into the mattress, and peg you like the bitch you are than do anything else.
Strength is not invincibility.
Strength is not a life without mistakes.
Strength is not a steel spine that never bends.
Strength is the continuation of forward motion.
Every single time you get up and take a step. And again. And again.
You may do things imperfectly—just "something" instead of "everything."
But you do.
You take what you have, where you stand, and you squeeze the most out of it.
Yes, there will be setbacks. There will be days when you're shattered. There will be defeats that make you sick to your stomach.
But this is not the end.
In this moment, you may be weak.
But across the distance—you are unbreakable.
If everything you've tried has failed—you don't freeze in the ashes. You carve new paths.
As long as you breathe—you have a stake in the game.
As long as you're alive—you have a chance.
You are not the one who never fails.
You are the one who gets up and keeps walking.
I've finally come to the conclusion that I'm a subsystem within our system.
I'm the strategist. Our disciplinarian. Control freak. Rational, practical, emotionally dry. I find my value in the results of my work and the progress I create.
And I'm the protector. The most sentimental of all. Altruistic. Wanting to be helpful to others. I feel valuable when people genuinely need me—when they'd be lost without me, and they're grateful.
And I'm the beast. Chaotic, amoral sadist. I feel valuable when I'm kicking you in the ribs, and you still crawl back.
…None of us has any idea who we are outside of that. Who am I when I'm not in control? Do I have value when I just am? What's hiding in that emptiness when I'm not trying to fill it with anything?
(It's been a month of existential questions over here.)
I saw a post recently, timed for Men's Mental Health Month. The main idea was that society sees and evaluates a man through the lens of what he does—what value he provides to others. You're seen as a function. You're the one who works. Provides. Protects. Helps. Performs. Satisfies. Solves problems. Achieves. Wins.
Your worth is defined by this. People expect it from you. People love you for it. People are interested in you primarily for this.
What happens when you suddenly can no longer deliver that?
Who stays when you're sad, sick, broken, weak—when you're consumed by problems, when carrying everything on your own has become too heavy? What does that moment of weakness cost you?
When was the last time someone genuinely asked you, "How are you?"
When was the last time someone was genuinely interested in you—just as a person?
When was the last time you received warmth and love from people that wasn't in exchange for what you gave them?
In theory, I shouldn't know this problem firsthand. But I feel it. Oh, I feel it. Maybe because I, too, exist largely as a function.
