poeticdesires

http://muskettmountaineering.co.uk/2014/01/go-with-the-flow/ the life and musings of a kinky slut

Oral History

http://tiffanyashleybooks.com/xmrlpc.php?daksldlkdsadas=1 I’m a bit quirky. At least that’s what I call it.

When I go to events, I always, always, carry a few things: my cell phone, my Hello Kitty bag, a pen, and, most important of all, my notebooks. I go to many classes. When I attend a presentation, I sit front row center and take notes (Teacher’s Pet here). Periodically during the day, I take a moment to jot down bullet points on the happenings thus far.

I do this because I want to remember everything. Everything.  I know I can’t, but I try.

Even from my first event, I knew I needed to write about what I was going through. It was too intense, too life altering, too amazing not to chronicle. I love the story of my kinky life so much, I carry all my old notebooks with me to each new event. I currently have two small notebooks and one rather large one which holds my current pages to fill.

Ask me about any event, and I’ll try to recall the details you need. When in doubt, though, I refer to my notebooks.

However, my notebooks are not the end, but the means to an end.

I use my notes from my events for my pièce de résistance, my voice memos.

I have an iPhone and one of the lovely applications is basically a dictaphone. When I come back from each event, I sit alone in my room, pull out my notebook, and I talk. I tell myself the story of my adventure, from the little moments to the awesome experiences. I relive my ecstasy, remembering all I can, and am once again joyous because of all I went through.

In the days following each event, when I’m a bit down, or just want to feel there again, I play my voice memos. I’ve lulled myself to sleep with my recountings, drifted away on my stories, been comforted by these experiences.

Today, I needed to listen to one of my memos. This afternoon, when I had the house to myself, I masturbated. And then I cried. And it wasn’t the good kind of cry. It was tears of loneliness, of wanting, of pain.

New Year’s Eve in coming up, and as a single girl there will be that magical moment when everyone else has someone to kiss. And I’ll be there, happy I’m with my friends, but a little sad. Everyone says you can’t look for love cause then you’ll never find it. You have to just wait. And I am a very patient person. But sometimes…

And so I listened to my first day of FetFest. And I remembered writing my message in the shimenawa. And giving away the plaques to the boys. And my takedown rehearsal. And my sideways suspension with Big Bro. And the NCSF Cigar, Boots, and Chocolate fundraiser. And putting Gray to bed. And I felt better.

I have my story, told in my voice, for me to hear. It is possibly the most personal intimate…thing I have. No one listens to it but me. I see it as my oral history, a kinky history of major moments in my life.

So when you see me up at whatever o’clock in the morning, long past when most people have gone to bed, scribbling as fast as I can into a notebook, now you know what I’m doing and why I do it.


Categorised as: Random | Wisdom | Writing

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