poeticdesires

the life and musings of a kinky slut

SEAF

Daddy’s Baby Bitch

It was a small sketch, easy to just pass over, easy to miss.  But, as I gazed upon it, blue ink on paper framed, just sitting on a wall, my eyes couldn’t look away.

She sat on the floor, her head in his lap; her hair cascaded down her back.  It was as if she were holding onto him tight, finding comfort and protection with him there.

You don’t see him; only his legs and hand are featured.  But you don’t need to.  You see her, her devotion to her Daddy.  It was a simple drawing, small and inconspicuous, but it was my favorite piece.

Bootlicker

Hot.  Just so simple, and yet so hot.

Her eyes closed.  Her tongue sticking out.  Her hands holding up the boot she is licking.  All of her attention, her focus on this one act, for this one person.

It reminded me of the times I licked boots, and did other things to leather.  As I stood in the gallery, staring at the drawing, all I could do was sigh and rest in my immediate and sustained arousal.

Two Parts of a Threesome

They stare out at you, one with his eyes and the other with his presence.  The two of them, both beautiful, staring at you.  Through the lens, they pull you in.  Through the photograph, they grab your eye, your attention, your desire.

You know who the missing part of the threesome is.

Burlesque Beauties

As I strolled around the gallery, I happened upon prints for sale.  Most were out of my price range.

But then I saw a pack of post cards.  The backgrounds were earth tones, a favorite color scheme of mine, and the small drawings were delightful.  A dozen lovely ladies in various burlesque performance attire.  From the subdued suits to the flashy feathers, each had its own personality and prowess.

I bought the pack, knowing I wouldn’t ever mail the cards.  These images would be for my enjoyment, my own small pieces of art.

Gym Socks

Again, it was something so simple.  Black drawing on a white background.  Very little detail.  More of an outline than a solid sketch.  But the artist uses his sparse lines perfectly, indicating the curve of the body, the form, the nakedness.  Naked, save for the socks.

Two pony tails fling out to the side and her body is twisted, indicating movement, as if she had just turn away in shyness or, more likely, in glee.  It is simple, yet brilliant.  As soon as I saw it, I thought Yup, that’s me.

~

As I walked around the gallery, taking in the art, I looked down once and saw boots.  Doc Martens.  The signature yellow lacing.  They were immaculate leather, possibly worked on before the patron came out to the showing.

Their owner was on the other side of the art wall, behind the paintings, drawings, and photos I wandered past.  I never saw who owned the boots, never saw the form above the knee.  Just those pair of boots tempting me behind the wall, whispering for me to get on all fours and lick them.

~

There was art you could touch: a book with pages sown in, a block of ice melting with each new hand on it, a smooth stone with twisting folding forms.  There were performances; the one I happened to catch was of a woman in geisha attire dancing with a fan.  There were films playing on screens.  The one I will never forget involved giving fellatio to a pistol.

The Seattle Erotic Arts Festival was much more than I expected.  Photographs, paintings, sculptures, films, and live performance pieces spread out over a space for people to mingle and muse as they wished.  I saw a few friends featured, which made me smile.  I was captured in moments, captivated by work that I am still in awe of.

There are many reasons why I loved my time in Seattle.  SEAF was the icing on the cake.

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Remember Me

~ erotica ~

 

[TRIGGER WARNING: This is a rape fantasy.]

 

It was late, the deep dark that normally scared me.  But I was surrounded by sleeping kinksters, and I was at camp, at home.  I strolled down the path towards my cabin, a small smile on my face, happy to be back amongst my people.

I was tired, ready to pass out and recharge for my next day of filthy fucking fun.

I didn’t notice him.  Didn’t notice his steps towards me.  Didn’t hear his approach.  Didn’t know he was there until his knife was against my neck.  His blade against my skin and his arm around my ribs ceased my jovial pace.

“You were beautiful tonight.  I saw you staring at me all during the social.”

His breath tickled my ear.

I didn’t know who he was, didn’t know what he was talking about.

I thought about screaming, hoping someone would wake up and realize my call was not in pleasure but in distress.  He dissuaded me of that idea.

“I sharpen this blade twice a day.  Sharpen it to where if I even run my finger over it I’ll cut myself.  Can you imagine what would happen if you even whimpered?  If you spoke out of turn and I simply pressed my steel just the tiniest bit harder against you skin?

“You’re not going to whimper, are you?  You’re not going to say a word, not even a whisper.  You’re going to do what I want because you have the prettiest neck, the prettiest neck I’ve ever seen.  You won’t cry out, will you?  You value your neck more than that, don’t you?”

I felt the tear drift down the side of my face.  Felt as it kissed his hand, the hand holding the blade against my neck.

“That’s what I thought.”

There was a nudge, a soft pull with his arm against my ribs.  We stepped onto the grass.  It was wet, the evening cool air bringing dew to the blades.

As he knelt, I knelt.  His knife stayed on my neck as he pushed me down into the grass.  He loomed above me.  In the dark, I couldn’t see his face.  I was almost pleased I’d forgotten my flashlight.

I heard the zipper.  Felt his cock through the fabric of my dress.  He pushed it up above my hips.  More tears slipped down my face.  His free hand eased my legs apart, then eased himself inside me.  Despite myself, I let out a sigh as he entered me.

“I knew you would love this,” he said.  “I knew you wanted this.  I’ve known you wanted me for so long.  And now you get to have me.”

His blade stayed on my neck.  I could barely breathe, the threat of my blood on his steel an ever present fear.

His thrusts were long and slow, deep into me.  Were he a lover, I would’ve said he cared.  Were he a lover, I might’ve loved it.  Even with the fear, my body could not deny his skill.  The length and depth of his cock.  The way it fit me so well.  The way it hit all the right spots, gliding in and out the way my body wanted.

Were he a lover, my orgasm would’ve incited tears of joy.  Instead, my cum gave tears of shame as he continued to stroke in and out of me, his blade by my neck, his lips against my ear, whispering his pleasure, pulling forth joy my body desired but my mind didn’t want to accept.

“I know you love me inside of you.  I know you don’t want me to stop.  And I won’t stop.  Not til I’ve made you cum more times than you can count.  Not til my voice is the only sound rattling around in your mind.  Not til I’ve had every bit of your body.  Not til I am burned in you.  You will remember me.”

And I do, even now.  Even though I don’t want to.  Even though I wish I didn’t.  Even though I never saw his face.

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Her Lips

~ a story ~

 

Her eyes were soft, caring.  Her smile was easy.  She smiled at me as I looked up at her.

The conversation was laid back.  I was getting to know everyone.  She was a part of the group.  And she was beautiful.

I tried not to stare, tried to just sit and relax on the floor, my back against the couch, as everyone spoke.

I liked them a lot.  I was new in town and they were all so kind, so welcoming.  It was my first party, my first taste of their scene, my first inklings of what it was like to be in and among them.  I liked them from the start.

Warm hugs and kind words greeted me when I first walked in the door.  Snacks on the side if I wanted any.  I quick tour of the small space.  And now, in the lounge area, chatting about their scene.  They raved about an upcoming event; only a month until they all caravaned away to play in the woods.  They spoke about the various get togethers througout the month.  They wanted me to know it all.

Somewhere in the middle of the conversation, I’d done what I usually do: fade into the background, letting the party happen around me.

But then I saw her.  The way she bounced across the floor.  The way she connected with each person as she walked.  The way her words lit up anyone she passed.

When her eyes landed on me, I felt naked, raw.  She gave me an easy smile.  I was at first dazed, but then I blushed, smiled back.  A pretty girl, no a beautiful woman was staring at me.  I curled up a little tighter in my ball on the floor.  She sat on the arm of the chair next to me.

Occasionally, she glanced down at me.  I could feel her gaze even as I made myself look away.  When I did look up, my stare was always greeted with a smile.

“Kai, have you met Dream?”

I looked up again, looked into those eyes, and at that beautiful face, all of which I knew I could get lost in.

“Hello Dream.”

“Hi.”  My voice scractched out the single syllable.  My gaze ran back to the floor.

The conversation continued.  I went back to listening.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement.  Within a breath, she sat on the floor next to me.  Her thigh brushed against mine, skin to skin.  I wore a short dress.  She wore cut off shorts and a riped up shirt.  It was the type of outfit that looked ridiculous on some, but on her it was perfect.

“You seem nervous.”  My heart raced.  She was talking to me, touching me.

“I am.”

“We try to be welcoming here.  What can I do to help you relax?”

“It’s just.”

“What?”

I weighed the pros and cons.  I was new.  Did I really want to possibly mess everything up already?  But I was nervous.  And the only way I ever got over my nerves was to face them head on.  I turned, looked at her, made my eyes stay with hers.

“You’re really pretty.”

“Thank you.  You’re really pretty too.  I love your hair.  May I touch it?”

“Um, sure.”

Her hands reached up and caressed my choppy bob.  Her fingers delved under the strands of hair and began massaging my scalp, then playing with my asymetrical cut.  My eyes closed, rolled back into my head.  I relaxed, really relaxed, for the first time that night, a beautiful woman’s hands playing in my hair.

“I love your outfit,” she said into my ear.

“Thanks,” I said in a floaty haze.

“You really are beautiful, you know.  I noticed you as soon as you walked in.  We don’t get many new people.  You are a welcome addition.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you like girls?”

“Um, yes.”

“May I kiss your cheek?”

“Um, yes.”

Her lips lightly touched my face.

“May I kiss your neck?”

“Yes, please.”

Her lips tickled my skin.

“May I kiss your mouth?”

“Please.”

Her hands gripped my hair and brought my mouth to hers.  Her lips were even softer than I expected.  Her kiss was controlling in the way I liked, dictating what she wanted and how.  I gave in to her will, letting myself sink into her wishes.

I wasn’t nervous anymore.  I didn’t worry or even blush.  I only felt, tasted her lips, drank of them as she saw fit.

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Grind

The music pounded.  Lights danced through the air.  I sat on the other side of the room and watched as people let their bodies move.

Metkat, one of Amy’s partners and one of her housemates, stood behind his laptop dictating the playlist for this part of the evening.  MissAmyRed was one of the persons dancing.  Occasionally Metkat set a song to play and himself joined the folks moving as their bodies wished.

I sat in a chair, nerves taking hold.  Even though I knew that’s where I wanted to be, on that dance floor, even though I knew how good it would feel to let go, I felt tied to my seat.

I looked around the room, taking in the play.

As I gazed left, I glimpsed a suspension in progress.  The rigger was an attractive man, tall and broad, strong.  The bottom was a beautiful woman.  I let my eyes drift between the bodies on the dance floor and the pair in their scene.  Later I learned the rigger was Kilawama, one of the people Gray and Amy mentioned in our conversation in the Barn at Rope Camp.

With a bit of voyeurism under my belt, I relaxed somewhat.  I stood up from my chair, let myself walk the corridor to the more lounge-like area before walking back towards the dancing.

As I strolled for a spell, I saw Clash.  I’d met him earlier that day, too; he was Amy’s other housemate.  For the week, I was staying in the house’s spare bedroom on the third floor, the same floor as Clash’s room.  We attempted to chat over the din of the music before he had to go back to his rounds.  That night he was acting as a monitor for the event.

Even though I’d grown more comfortable in the space, I had yet to do what I’d wanted to do all night.  I took my spot in the chair again.

As I went back to watching, I saw Tandava and Amy setup for a scene.  Also, to my right, I saw a hot fisting scene on a nearby couch.

I also got into a conversation with a guy who took the chair next to me.  I forget what we talked about though, because of the song that played next.

I recognized the beat as it began, recognized the music and the voice.

“I’m sorry, but I know this song.  I have to dance.”

I excused myself from the conversation, stood up, and walked towards the dance floor.

Still, I couldn’t step on it, not yet.  There was a column just off the wood.  I leaned against it, moving my head back and forth and swaying my hips.

She Wants Revenge blasted about me, their song Out Of Control, one of my favorites.

As the half way mark came in the song, I started mentally pushing myself.  It’s just a few more feet.  No one will notice.  No one will judge you.  No one will care.  Do what you always do.  Close your eyes.  Let the music take you.

I took a step.  And then another.  And then another.

I let my hips sway, let my arms move.  I found an open area on the dance floor and closed my eyes.  I felt the music in my flesh, in my bones.  I let my body do what it wanted.  I let myself dance.

I stayed on the dance floor for a few more songs.  I let myself be in this tiny world.  Just the back of my lids, or my feet, or the lights filled my field of vision.  I let my body do its thing.  I let go.

I felt happy, truly happy, to be in Seattle.  And I realized why they named this party Grind.

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Introduction

As I waited outside in the cool air, I knew only that Tandava drove an Insight, described as an odd looking car, and, through the convenience of FetLife, I’d seen a picture of him.

As I waited, I looked for an odd looking car.  After about ten minutes, I saw it.  I waved as Tandava saw me and parked.

For a split second, it dawned on me: I was about to be picked up by a person I had never met, driven away to a city I had never visited, and I was staying with people I barely knew.

Tandava got out of his vehicle, helped me put my things inside, and we were off.

~

All I wanted was hot chocolate.

The airplane had been cold, much colder than I expected.  Thankfully I had dressed warmly, but that was out of mere practicality than an expectation of flying in what amounted to an icicle in the air.

Even through the leather of my boots (the most bulky item I brought) my feet froze.  With one jacket on and the other draped over my legs (the jackets were my next two bulkiest items), my torso and legs remained moderately comfortable.  But my feet were unhappy for the majority of my trip.

As Tandava drove, I voiced my request for my warm drink of choice.  He found us a little cafe close to where MissAmyRed worked.  I sipped my brew as we chatted and waited for her lunch break.

~

After savory crepes for lunch and fro-yo as a sweet treat, MissAmyRed had to go back to work.

Tandava and I had some hours to kill, so we decided to be touristy.  He knew random trivia about Seattle, and I loved hearing all the tidbits of info.

First we went to a shop called Gargoyle’s Sanctuary, a hole-in-the-wall full of art and incense, sculptures and jewelry.  It was a place one could easily spend hours exploring all the nooks and crannies.  But there was much more to Seattle than one shop.  We pulled ourselves away and moved on.

After dropping off my things at Amy’s house, we drove to the Freemont neighborhood.

~

It was a troll.  An actual honest to god troll.  Under a bridge.  Holding, of all things, a punch buggy.  That was when I knew I liked Seattle.

It was at least fifteen feet tall, but only the upper torso rose from the dirt.  Adults and children alike climbed all over it, taking photos and laughing.  A grin was etched on my face as I took in the sight.

A nearby plaque explained the sculpture was a project for the community, donated to the people living there.

After about ten minutes of whimsy, Tandava had me turn around.  Instead of admiring the sculpture, I was now in awe of the architecture.  The bridge above us, the bridge under which the troll lived, cascaded down a hill for hundreds of feet, art in its own right.

~

The air was cool, windy without being a bother.  The sky was overcast but without being gloomy.

We stood on top of the hill, water far below us, kites flying about, and a gentleman operating a glider nearby.  Sea planes took off and came in for landings.  Duck boats and personal vessels skimmed across the water.

Across the bay I saw buildings and homes.  Tandava pointed out the smoke stacks of a structure across from us.  He explained how it now housed a medical facility, but in order for them to use the building they had to preserve its fascade, including the smoke stacks.

To my left was the remanants of an old gas plant, competely fenced in, over run with grass, a bit of graffiti high up on two seperate towers drawn by some brave taggers.

Behind me, inlaid into the ground, was a sun dial.  Decorated with an astrological motif, it combined metal and stone and included a key as to how to read it according to the time of year.  The piece, though only partially practical in a rainy city, was another bit of art for me to admire.

I looked around Gas Works Park.  Saw people biking, kites in the air, families, a couple sitting in the grass together, and so many smiles.

Yeah, I liked Seattle from the start.

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Jitters

It hit me all at once.

I was sitting downstairs, one of my textbooks open, my notecards to my right, along with my pen and sharpie.  I was cold; there is about a ten degree difference between floors in my house.  I was trying to focus, reading material I presumed would be covered during my first day of class and creating flashcards for any key concepts I suspected would be important.

Class.  School.  Dedicated learning.  All over again.  Was I up for this?

Worry and fear burst forth like a broken dam.  Maybe I wasn’t as smart as I used to be.  Maybe I wasn’t going to be that kid anymore.  The one who sets the curve.  The one who knows the answer.  The one who makes it seem so easy, makes it seem like their brain is a sponge for all the knowledge the teacher has to offer.  The one everyone hates because she’s that good.

What if this, going back to college, setting myself on this path, is a mistake?  What if I crash and burn, fail horribly, laughably?  What if this is just a pipe dream, a flight of fancy, a waste of time, money, and energy?  What if it’s too late for me to be that woman in a lab coat, that person helping those people?  What if I got this all wrong?

I thought about backing out.  I could drop my classes now with a full refund.  I could return my books, no problem.  I only purchased maybe $25 in stationary; no big loss there.

But then I thought about work, about going back to my job knowing that was all there is, knowing my life would once again center around a profession I no longer loved, doing work I no longer cared for.  Yes, I would still have my writing, but I will always have my writing.  I knew my writing wouldn’t be enough to pull me from the doldrums sinking myself back into my work-abyss would cause.

The thought of going back, of giving up, of not trying, hurt more than the fear and worry that held me as I sat in that chair staring at the pages of text I still had to read.

Tomorrow is the first day of classes.  Whether I fall on my face or soar to the heavens, I’m going for this.  Whether I succeed or fail, shine or sour, I have to try.

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Memories

The first night of Rope Camp featured Midori’s Meat Market, a fun little event to introduce folks to one another and start the dialogue for play.

After the get together concluded, I eased my way over to Rough.  He was showing off his Fat Ass Rope, and I wanted a taste of the experience.  I asked for the pleasure, and leaned myself over a nearby table.  Instead, Rough called me over to an open area.

First he gave me a few whacks, which stung a bit and turned out were his warm up.  He then hit me hard on my back.  Then my ass.  Then my thighs.  And my chest.  I starting yelping and eventually wailing.  I fell to my knees.  In a moment of clarity, I took off my glasses and slid them across the floor towards a small group of friends.

Rough continued to attack my back as I continued to cry.  He grabbed me, pulled me up to sitting, and wrapped the rope around my neck.  In a moment, his blood choke took hold.  I felt my muscles give way.  He released me before my eyes closed.  A bit of drool leaked from my lips.

When I brought my head up, when he knew I was back, he began beating me again.  And blood choked me again.  And my muscles gave way again.

He went for my inner thighs, one of my most sensitive spots.  He regretted not being able to hit my cunt.  His rope was natural fiber and I wasn’t wearing underwear.

When he finished, I got up, thanked him, introduced him to NYRCherryBondage, and went back to chatting with friends.

~

“Ha ha, I made you have feelings.” – an attendee at Midori’s Negotiations class

~

Sometimes I like to fly under the radar.  I know intrinsically that’s not what’s happening, but in my sub-y mind that’s how it feels.

Wednesday night a few of us had gathered on a porch for cigars and libations.  I sat in front of Gray and Rough as they smoked and talked.

Rough’s feet rested on my right leg; Gray’s feet rested on my left.  I always had my torch at the ready, as well as a selection of cutters, boxes of wood matches, and a punch.

They told stories.  Gray taught MissAmyRed about cigar service.  I sat and listened, content, the occasional small sip of strong Japanese whiskey on my lips.

~

“I am the Dom and you will brush your teeth with your left hand this week.  Ha ha ha.” – Rough, during is D/s Roundtable

~

Friday it rained.  And rained.  And rained.

I’d wanted to wear my new red leather shoes, but I couldn’t abide getting them muddy.  I opted for my boots instead, which completely changed my outfit for the day.

As the afternoon came, I decided to do something different.  I grabbed my newly purchased camp chair, took it outside under the pop-up, and pulled out my new voice recorder.

In the rain, with the pitter patter of droplets above, I recorded a Fusion podcast.

There was a breeze that made the day cool, blowing the chill of the rain towards me, under my cover.  Because the pop-up had been erected before the turn in the weather, the ground wasn’t muddy in my sitting spot.  I couldn’t help but be happy and bubbly, even as the drops continued to come down.

~

“His desires are my priority and he is where I point my devotion.
“I am his treasure and I am to be taken care of.
“He is my King… my dragon.” – MissAmyRed, during Rough’s D/s Roundtable

~

Ropetastic had pimped himself, as well as his two partners, during Midori’s Meat Market.  As per his name, I knew he was into rope.  And I wanted a rope scene.

I happened upon him in the Barn.  Originally I was chatting with my friend Nomad.  She started spinning my LED poi to make herself feel better, so I took the opportunity to speak to a rope guy.

As we conversed, I realized we were compatible for a scene.  Since we both had time at that very moment, we headed up to the Dungeon immediately.

We chose a semi-private spot, what seemed to be a lounge room with a few couches but enough open space for us to work.  I stripped down to my underwear, as did he.

I explained how I liked to be challenged, how I wanted something different besides normal rope forms.  He expressed a desire to explore ichinawa, which I was all for.  We began.

He wrapped rope around me in asymmetrical patterns, twisting my body this way and that.  He did not make it pretty, but I loved the pain all the same.  He, at times, pulled on my hair, ran a shrimp deveiner over my skin, sucked on my nipples, and tickled my feet.  He rolled my body this way and that, changed his tie multiple times, added a second length of rope, and always kept me guessing.

We only played for about thirty minutes, but when all was said and done, I felt high, full of erotic and emotional pleasure from being in his binds.

~

“The greasy basement slave…the dirty basement whore.” – a talk on fantasy versus reality during Rough’s D/s Roundtable

~

Friday night we pushed all three of our beds together.  Saturday morning I awoke to dragon cuddles before breakfast.

~

“I want to be treated like a pile of gold.”
“You want to be a heavy currency?”
“I am valuable and worthy of protecting.” – an exchange between myself and Dov after a late night run to Waffle House

~

I felt like a voyeur.  No, worse than a voyeur.  I felt like I was intruding.

It was obvious there was a connection, a slow building of energy as they writhed on the mats.

I hadn’t witnessed it all.  At times, I was lost in scritches, lost to the rest of the world.  Pulsing pleasure from my scalp kept my eyes closed, my head bobbing about, speech all but impossible.

But when I came back, I saw them.  Saw the looks in their eyes.  Heard the yelp, the growl.

I wanted to sit and watch more.  I didn’t want to look away.  That energy.  That pure energy beamed from the two of them.  And I was only, maybe, five feet away.  Had been there the whole time.

But I did walk away.  Because I wanted them to have their moment.  Without an audience.

~

“You have a natural ability for connection…You seek out people you can connect with.” – Delano, to me, during his Bottoms class

~

He held the balloon away from my body.  I was dirty, filthy from the grim on the stage.  I don’t like stingy, but I take it for the person I’m playing with.  I take it.  And there was the balloon, tied around my chest, and stretched taunt, ready to snap against my skin.

He held it.  And held it.  And brought it back without snapping it.

“Really!?”

He pulled it out again.  I cringed again.  This time would be for real, I just knew it.  This time the pain would come.  And then he brought it back.

I laughed and hated him at the same time.

He used a pretty pink dildo on me.  He beat me with a pretty pink dildo, which stung like hell.  He used a collapsible baton and a plastic rod, too.  He punched me and wrestled me about on the dirty stage floor, attacking my thighs.  But it’s the balloon I remember the worst.

Talk about sadistic.

~

“If you are open to learning, you are open to deeper experiences.” – Delano, during his Bottoms class

~

I spun my poi in the dark.  Spun my poi away from the group sitting in camp chairs out in the chilly night air.

I stood in the middle of the road.  A cart came by once; I moved.

I spun my poi and soothed myself.  I accepted my feelings, accepted that was how I felt.  Acknowledged the sad little girl inside me.  Acknowledged what little power I had over the situation except what I did in that moment.

I spun my poi.

Then we went to Waffle House, I ate some food, and went to bed.

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DGG #19 Fusion 2013 pt 5

The final installment of my Fusion adventure.

Picture Links

Pose #1
Pose #2

Time Jumps

1:40 Tradition
2:24 Uncensored Improv Games
3:26 Kinky Life Drawing
6:00 Humiliation
8:17 Bare Stories
10:37 Back Patch
11:27 CBC
13:40 In Demand
15:27 Stefanos
16:44 Another Rain Check
18:10 Wrap Up

 

 

listen to ‘019_DGG Fusion 2013 pt 5’ on Audioboo

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DGG #18 Love Languages

Inspired by a tweet from @dirtylola, I spend an episode on some thoughts about love.

Relevant Links

Wikipedia
Website for the quiz
Amazon

Time Jumps

1:30 Inspiration
2:39 Background
3:50 The 5 Love Languages
4:16 The Quiz
6:43 My Results
7:40 Touch
10:25 Acts of Service
11:30 Quality Time
12:24 Reflections on Time
17:50 Wrap Up

 

 

listen to ‘018_DGG Love Languages’ on Audioboo

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EMDR

We started with a memory, a strong memory that incited a negative emotion.  I described the memory to Doc.  He had me close my eyes.  Travel back to that moment, back to those emotions, sit in those feelings.  The tears easily came.

“How do you feel?”
“Forgotten.  Not thought of.  Alone.”
“On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being perfectly fine and 10 being horrible, how do you feel?”
“Um, it’s an eight.”
“Okay.  Open your eyes.  Follow my fingers.”

His hand dashed back and forth in my field of vision.  I tried to not concentrate too hard on his hands, just allowing my eyes to move.  When the time came, he brought his hand to center, raised and lowered it.  I closed my eyes again.

I was relaxed.  I could feel myself sink into my seat.  I let my mind be, tried to allow whatever memories to come forth.

I was at Hershey Park with my family.  It was the time I got lost in the middle of the crowd.  I was crying and frightened.  Alone.  Helpless.  Powerless.

“Okay, let’s go with those emotions.”

I opened my eyes.  His fingers moved in front of my sight.  My gaze followed.  Then came the gesture and I closed my eyes again.

Now I saw my mother coming for me, finding me at the lost child station.  Riding on little kids rides even though I wasn’t a little kid.  And realizing I could remember nothing else from that day except getting lost and being found.  Feeling safe again.

“Okay, feeling safe.”

We repeated the pattern.

The next time I closed my eyes, I saw a beach.  Hidden.  Deserted.  Three people.  Two guys and a girl and a hidden beach.  And the guys sleep with the girl, and I think that meant they cheated on their girlfriends.  But I couldn’t remember the name of the movie.

“Y Tu Mama Tambien.”

I giggled at that.

Doc and I repeated the cycle over and over again for about twenty minutes.  Many random memories and images floated to the top of my mind.

There was how I felt physically when I was sad: tense face, clenched teeth, the muscles in my shoulders.

Safe in my bed at night with Tessie, my night light on, and snuggled under my comforter.

Realizing how much the therapy felt like my erotic hypnosis with Gray.  Different stories of others erotic hypnosis.

Back stroking through clouds.

Intricate woodwork.  The back of the chair hanging on my wall.

Aunties, Uncles, and Ella.  Me and them and Mom as a family, together.  And then each of the three of them dying, one by one.

The insurance check after Ella passed.  Ella being gone, but somehow still helping me.

Doc had me end on that imagine, those emotions.  He asked me to think back on my initial memory, travel back to the place where we started, back to those emotions.  And he asked me again, on a scale of 1 to 10, how I felt.  I was a four.

Doc asked me to come back, opening my eyes when I was ready.  I gave myself the time and space to return, opening my lids, my gaze lowered, and gradually bringing my sight and consciousness up.

Doc thought the therapy went well.  He felt it was great progress that I’d gone from an 8 to a 4 in only twenty minutes of work.  I acknowledged it was good, but he could see resistence in me.

“Why do you think it worked?” he asked.
“Well, you got me so relaxed, my body couldn’t tense up like it usually does when I tap into those emotions.  No physical reaction, so less emotional draw.”
“I think your partially right, but it’s more than that.  Your emotions around the moment aren’t as strong currently, so you physically don’t feel it like before.”

Doc gave me post therapy info about possible issues to come up.  I might remember random memories.  I might be overly emotional.  Though the memory is lessened now, that may not last.  He advised me to shower once I got home since toxins were released from my body.  And he encouraged me to attend another session, sooner than our normal turn around, for more EMDR.  I see him tomorrow.

In the week since our session, the inciting memory has not come back with the same force.  I didn’t have any of the possible post therapy issues.  I did have a moment of the emotions behind the memory occur in a similar situation, but I dealt with my feelings just fine.

I can’t deny that EMDR changed something in that moment.  Whether or not it continues only time can tell.

If you’re interested in the science behind what we’re trying, here’s a link to the Wikipedia article.  The short version is it helps to develop the amigdula, which handles emotional processing.  The therapy has been used for soldiers in combat and post combat.

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