Typecasting

Writing the post yesterday about the various members of the cast got me thinking. People often comment that someone is, or is not, their type, so I decided to try and work out mine. Then I hit a slight problem. The only common trait I can think of is that the majority of the cast are smaller than me, height-wise at least. But I have dated or been with plenty of people who were taller than me. I then decided to go with something more general, and decided that all of the cast are female, but events in my past have demonstrated that my inclinations are, or at least used to be somewhat more flexible than that.

There are very definite reasons they are no longer that flexible, but that is a story for another time and a much more morbid and depressing post.

So maybe hair colour or length? Nope, the cast range from long blonde hair to short dark hair, as have my past relationships. No real tendency to either, though longer hair is more common in my past history I suspect that is because longer hair is simply more commong than shorter. As for colour, again anything could apply. Having spent several weeks with one girl who had rainbow hair, produced by the application of dye, and also time spent with someone who had simple, plain, naturally coloured hair I think I can rule out hair colour.

Eye colour? Definitely not. Type of looks? Cute, sexy, innocent, and many others have featured in my past. This was where I began to pick up a few hints as to what may be going on. While I found them all attractive, I found them attractive in different ways. Tomboyish looks tend to end up in somewhat rougher sex than delicate, feminine looks which draw almost a romantic mood from me. So now we have a hint. I began to think back again.

The only common factor that really could be discerned is that all of the girls in my past, and my present, are relatively healthy. This is not to say that they were all athletically slim, muscled girls, many were far from that, but none of them were at extremes. I have no stick-figures, or beach-balls in my dating history. Anyone I have dated is capable of getting around on their own feet quite happily, and none starve themselves. So, that was something.

I thought through it again. My entire dating history has varied, but in each case I have fitted myself to another person rather than shaping them to me. Sure I may be convincing, probably about a quarter of the first dates I have been on have ended up in sexual activity of some kind, and of those that did not the majority of second dates have, but each time it does not seem to be because I try to pressure the other person involved into sex, but because I try to come across as a person who is right for them.

So a little voyage of self-discovery is beginning, where I will be trying to find out what I actually want out of life, and who I actually am when I am not pretending to be anything for anyone.

Into Unconsciousness

Originally I was going to make this entry a rant about something which occured at work today, but I have changed my mind, probably a good decision. Instead I will take you back on a journey through time, to a younger, more active time. In fact a time when I was back with Tart and discovered that it is in fact possible to screw someone unconscious.

The process took five hours, some bondage, a bit of light pain, and lots of sex. She was tied up and at my mercy for almost the entire time, though a safeword was specified first. The actual sex only started after the first hour, which I spent mostly teasing and tormenting her with mouth and hands, and various toys. Whenever I felt myself close to orgasm, I would stop, and use her mouth instead for a time, carefully to let me calm down but still keep me hard. While doing this I would abuse her with various toys, whether the rabbit, a plug or anything else that came to hand.

I did however take pictures, which I recently discovered when someone reminded me of this through an inadvertant comment. These pictures will not be up on this blog, for fairly obvious reasons I would hope. Anyway, as you can imagine after five hours of constant stimulation, usually in at least two places, not to mention that my hands and mouth were wandering, occasionally stroking, squeezing, slapping, licking or biting her defenseless little body, and more orgasms on her part than we bothered counting, she suddenly went limp.

After a moment's panic I ascertained that she was still breathing, freed her, and waited a few minutes for her to come around which she eventually did.

On more current matters Mystery is still around, and sent me a post card recently. It must be said that she has a talent for selecting good pictures. Tomorrow afternoon I will probably be meeting Essex for a time, and Thursday Sweetie. Then friday is more LRP, and next Monday of course is my trip to Ireland.

Word of the day: Woking, meaning to walk into the kitchen then forget what you went in there for.

Pet Names and Nicknames

I am sure that everyone has been called by one of these at some point in their life. Whether as a term of endearment such as sweetie, pet, gorgeous, or something similar which now breeches our lovely new view of political correctness, or as something less pleasant or less innocent. I tend to use these for people a lot. Even male friends will occasionally get called 'Sugarpie' or 'Snugglelumps', usually when I am trying to scrounge a drink from them. The most common two which I use though are 'Girly' and 'Boy'.

Of course this does irritate some people, particularly when I start using them on people obviously older than me, but in general I get away with it. Some limited number of the people I know actually have nicknames of their own, which I will usually use.

The kicker is that I personally believe a nickname you have acquired down the years actually says something about you, whether that is pleasant or unpleasant. You have actually earned a true nickname, and it will then stay with you faithfully. Only the closest of my family use my real name when speaking to or of me, anyone else calls me 'Rabbit' or 'Bunny', or variations thereof. That name has been with me for years now, since I was at University, and while it may be overly-feminized or just plain silly, it is my nickname and I am rather attached to it.

The theorised reasons for my nickname are many, and varied, but you can now hear the true story. At University I shared a house with various people of the female persuasion. Comments were made likening me in various ways to members of the lapine species. Eventually the comments stopped being made, and simply the name remained. Of course, one evening while the group of us were watching a film the conversation ended up turning to sex toys. During this conversation the Ann Summers Rampant Rabbit was mentioned, and things moved from there.

So what are your nicknames, and how did you get them? If you do not have one what would you like it to be and why?

Only a few weeks now until my trip into the land of debauchery and sin, which I am rather looking forward to. Slave has apparently been cleaning for the last few days, or at least trying to clean. Hopefully she will be meeting me at the airport, and with a little luck I can restrain myself until the risk of being hauled in by security guards is gone.

Also looking forward to meeting up with, or rather staying with, Student in a couple of weeks. Just for a night before I go camping, but with any luck she will be joining me on the weekend as well.

Cutting and Self-Harm

Self harm is a topic which is now being mentioned more often, but is often mentioned in a similar way to leprosy. There seems to be mostly pity for anyone who practices self-harm, rather than sympathy. It often seems that there is more actual sympathy for addicts, or people with eating disorders. These do all have similarities, which is why I mention them together.

All of these are coping mechanisms, addictions, self-harm, eating disorders, all usually begin as methods to deal with stress or misery. My own started around the time of my seperation from my wife, a particularly stressful time as I also could not find a job, and was for a short time homeless before I could face asking my parents to let me move back in. I managed to avoid starting smoking, which came much later, and avoid any other substance addictions. After all affording them was a little difficult.

What I did find though, which did help me cope, was that I could hurt myself. The insides of my forearms are heavily scarred, some of these scars are from other events but many are my own doing. I was extremely careful at the time, not wanting to risk causing any serious damage to myself, so I made sure to sterilise any blade I used, make sure it was sharp and smooth, and so on. Pretty much in the same way that a heroin addict might sterilise a needle.

As to what exactly it did, that is hard to say. In a physiological context I could point out that pain and injury releases adrenaline and endorphins, a very definite rush. In a psychological context it is a control method. The pain and injury, and the scars or wounds left behind, are signs that there is still some little bit of your own life that you are the one in control of. I will admit that this is not sensible in any way but that does not stop it from being at least partly true. It is an addiction, and it does help to cope, but as with any addiction once the need for the coping mechanism is gone the habit often remains.

I finally stopped at the same moment as I decided to stop cutting my hair. Part of the reason I am so concerned about people cutting my hair is because of this, it represents the fact that I have decided that part of my life is over. I had a lot of help before stopping, but when I actually did it was something I chose to do on my own.

For anyone else who may self-harm, remember that as with any coping mechanism or addiction you need to be careful not to put yourself at serious risk. And I do recommend getting real help, whether from a professional or someone else. There are all sorts of ways you can try and cut down on the addiction, such as wrapping rubber bands around your wrists.

The big problem now though is the fashion self-harmers. A large part of the reason I have an intense dislike of emos is the impression they seem to be insistent on giving that self-harming somehow is required to be in their clique. Accept someone who does it, without showing revulsion, yes, but actively encouraging people to cut themselves is just twisted, and not in a good way.

Now to emphasize my view. I will not condemn anyone who does it any more than I would a smoker, or alcoholic, how they deal with it and how it affects others is what will tip the balance. Better than any of these methods is to get real help to deal with things, or to just deal with it alone, and no addiction should ever be taken up whether as a coping mechanism or anything else.

Another Little Piece of History

I have decided to post a little more about my past, going further back now. In a way this was how things started. I apologise for the depressing tone, and content of this post, but it is an event that is very closely connected to who I am now. It may or may not explain a lot to people, I honestly do not know, but it is something that happened to me.

Let us go back in time, to meet a very insecure, very lonely boy aged fifteen. Just starting to study for his GCSEs, never had a real girlfriend, and with no actual friends. The closest he has are a couple of people who will talk to him. Of course they join in with the standard bullying he suffers, but they at least talk to him pleasantly enough when there is no one else around.
This boy has decided, on this particular day, to go up to London purely in order to have something to do. Just for once he is doing something for himself, other than simply sitting at home and teaching himself how to touch-type, program, and in other ways make a computer sit up and beg on command. He is not going to spend the day reading, as he usually does, he is actually going to get out for once and see what happens.

So he gets to the train station, and gets on the train, and starts talking to the passenger seated next to him. She gives him her name, and they chat for a few minutes, seemingly just clicking with one another. They decide to spend the day together and do so.

In fact they also end up returning to his house afterwards, since his parents are away for business and they got on so well. It is not as if he particularly cares about school the next day, nor as though she does. They walk back from the train station holding hands, pausing occasionally to exchange nervous, first kisses. She is the same age as him, and their conversation has revealed that they are both virgins though she is on the pill for other reasons, related to her hormone balance.

They stop on the way back, taking a detour through an old graveyard. It is dark and both of them are enjoying it, their hands roaming a little more than they perhaps should. Then things start to happen.

Afterwards they are both sore, not from the sex as such but from what accompanied it. Both of them releasing their anger about the world on each other, enjoying the feelings of violence and pain that accompanies the pleasure, somehow fitting. Their clothes are largely torn, or scattered over the ground, but she finds his shirt and pulls it on. The shirt is just long enough that she looks dressed. He hunts down his trousers and pulls them on, even though the zip is broken. And together, limping a little, nursing various cuts and bruises, bites and scratches, they walk back to his house.

Four more times that night they have sex, discovering all sorts of things. After the first time they are gentle and the sex is accompanied by winces and yelps as their sore bodies press together. They cry, they hold each other, they rant against the world, they say all sorts of things that both mean for the moment but which may mean nothing in a day.

For four months this continues. They see each other, she introduces him to her friends and to what they call their coven. They begin to meet more regularly, him slipping out to go up to London and making sure he is up before dawn so that no one in his house knows.

This is his little secret, things do not hurt so much at school any more, the bullies begin to avoid him when he not only ignores their verbal jabs but also their blows. Standing up after being hit and not showing the slightest sign of pain or even upset.

Her friends, and she, are teaching him about things. All sorts of things. What bodies can do to one another, about their beliefs and the things they can do with those beliefs. Some of those still stay with him to this day though in altered form.

And then after the fourth month, he suddenly stops hearing from them. Any of them.
A few days later he receives a letter. When he opens it he realises almost immediately what it is, though his first thought is wrong. He thinks it is just a goodbye letter, and in a way it is. The girl has said goodbye to everything, for reasons that he can understand. He has no wish to follow, despite the fact that his heart feels broken, and for a long time he becomes little more than a hollow shell, or so he feels, going through life and just trying to get by. He has no interest in anything other than getting through to the next day and hoping it will hold something that will bring him out of his fugue.

Years later he realises that he has healed, put himself back together and recovered from the hurt he received, though changed for the experience. He still has the scars she left him with, physical and emotional, but they are just scars now rather than open wounds and he can carry on. It took learning to hate someone he once loved, being abused, being homeless, and various other tragedies to do it but now he is able to deal with things again and he turns the tables.

So How Did I End Up Rampant?

This is not an attempt at self-justification, I do not count any of these as reasons, or excuses, simply things that have led me to be the way I am. To be honest I do not even see any reason that I should justify myself, I do not feel I am doing anything wrong. Anyway moving on...

So this little story accounts the tragedy that was my marriage. Obviously it was my first marriage, and I do not know whether I am divorced now or not. That is another story which I have mentioned before.

I met the Ex-Wife while she was in England on a study exchange program from America, going to a University in London. We got together, and she lost her virginity to me shortly after I saved her life. That may take some explaining. The place she was living was a rented room in a house. The owners of the house at one point went on holiday, and their son decided to break into their house. I happened to be visiting at the time so when he came down with a carving knife to chase her out of the house, since it was 'his house' according to his drug-addled brain I managed to get in the way and take it away from him.

While I spent about ten minutes talking him down, keeping him pinned, she packed her stuff and loaded it into my car. After that she moved in.

Everything was fine for about nine months after that, and at Christmas I proposed. Three months later she had to go back to America for a year in order to finish her course, and we agreed that the wedding would be after she had finished her course, and that we would consider ourselves free agents until then. Yes, I know that is quite obviously a stupid idea, but at the time I did not realise.

During that year there were all sorts of indications that perhaps marriage was not for me, but my family and friends constantly told me how happy they were for me. Admittedly they did not know that during that year I paid my rent at university by being essentially a house-pet for the five student nurses my accomodation was shared with. Nor the other events that happened. The last indication I really should have picked up on was that on the flight over to America for my wedding, I ended up having sex with another passenger.

Unfortunately by this point everything had gathered a large momentum, and despite expressing a few doubts I could not get things post-poned, let alone cancelled, without just saying no. I did speak to her father about this, as I was staying with them, but he made it quite clear that I was going to marry his daughter. Or get shot. He even showed me the gun as he explained. You can imagine the sort of impression that had on me.

After the marriage, and a short honeymoon, we returned back to England. Since I was still a student and she was unemployed my parents had converted part of the house into a flat for the two of us. The idea was that she would be looking for a job, while I continued my studies.

Six months later I left University, in order to try and find a job since she had supposedly had no luck. She had also revealed that she was somewhat abusive, and I still have some scars from times when I would come home, see her on the computer, and suggest that maybe she should do the cooking for once, or maybe tidy up a little, or make a little more effort to look for a job.

Two months later I kicked her out after finding that about 200 application forms I had picked up for her over the last eight months had not been filled in, but had in fact been hidden under the bed. I found out a few weeks later that she had also been cheating on me, with at least two different people.

A little after that I found out that I owed £20 000 on credit cards that she had applied for in my name. I still do not really know what she spent the money on, though I did find some receipts that at least some of it was spent on her having very expensive meals out with another person.

I went a little loopy for a while after that. Went somewhat goth.