"The gift I gave Greg, was a necklace of purple and black, man-made Tahitian pearls. That necklace he gave to me when we had broken up, when he came to my door high, and when he aborted our love-making, looking through me with the coldest glass black marbles that had ever been blown."

Last night Vegas presented the opportunity it always presents whenever Greg and I go there together. Last night on a silk comforter in some planned paradise, opportunity opened our suite door; it also opened a bad memory. Did it make the bad better? I don’t know. My hands ache from squeezing something too big and too hard. I can still feel that his skin gets hot when it’s bruised.

I told you I was going to start doing this, telling stories of a life lived so far, and right now I just have the camera of my mind, my muscle memory, and my quiet beast sitting on the other side of the room. Beasts are like that when they are licking their wounds.

I always get these questions, “Why does he stay with you? Why don’t you leave him? What keeps you together? Why do you put up with so much pain? Why does he put up with so much pain?”

The answers are something that is not concrete. Those answers are a feeling. Those answers are in the air at this moment in this room. Those answers are the look in his eyes as he rolls a white ribbon of gauze around his arm. Those answers are in the heat rising on his neck.

Those answers are turn-around, not payback, but redemption.

We don’t need a church. We never have needed a God for that. I don’t need the collective guilt of scripture to make me kneel in front of power and to give my life’s blood; to sacrifice myself. Neither does he. It is in his eyes, that soft pleading breath, this moment, where we save each other.

Thoughts on a Silk Comforter – 2am in Las Vegas

This silk comforter wicks off my sweat and slides down the hollow of my spine. I sweat even though the room is cool. I sweat because my stomach knows where my husband Greg is, and I sweat because I have been witness to what he is going through now. I sweat because I wait for him to come back to me.

I lied to my friends last night. I told him that he was out collecting some winnings from his bookie. He wasn’t watching a board and pushing numbers. He went to the man that taught him everything he knows to do to me.

I’ve never talked much about it. The manipulation of a soul’s body, it’s skin, it’s muscle, it’s heart, it’s blood, is not something that you can easily put into words. Sometimes you reach it, too much of everything, and you curl up in a ball. That’s where I was that night had talked about Dallas in the playroom. I was in a ball on the floor when Greg came in and soothed me back to reality’s consciousness.

One doesn’t come to Greg’s level in BDSM without practice, without learning from someone who knows everything. I am talking about knife play, extreme edge play and breath control. One doesn’t pick up a razor one day and start practicing on a watermelon, and then try that on a human being. Greg is very good at what he does; only good because he learned it