To those readers who were hoping to read another documentary of one of our twisted little romps, I apologize in advance for the slightly different tone of this article.
Communication is important. More important, I believe, than trust. More important than love. More important than sex.
Without communication, it all breaks down.
This is especially true when your monkey is mildly insane flavored.
Since I started playing with the monkey, I have been trying, rather hard, to push the monkey in certain directions. I've been trying to push him to express his needs, to try and tell me what he's feeling, and maybe even try to expound on *why* he is feeling what he's feeling (although I recognize that the irrational nature of feelings, even in most "normal" people, will cause that one will not always know WHY one has a feeling, just as one cannot stop feeling a given feeling at will). I have tried to encourage the monkey to call yellow when he has had enough of a given treatment, and I have tried to cause the word "yellow" to be sacred.
I suppose some background is necessary on how I treat the rather standard words "yellow" and "red", because I believe they're different from the standard stoplight system most kinksters play.
For most, I believe, yellow means "don't go any harder than you're going", for example, if a submissive is being whipped, this indicates that they are at, or close to, the point at which they cannot take anything harder.
For myself and the monkey, "yellow" is more of a "detour" -- it means "something is getting dangerous to triggering some unpleasant reaction, and might do so even if the degree of stimulus is lessened." Thus, if I am using my favorite lucite rod on the monkey, leaving a lovely series of bruises, and the monkey calls yellow, the rod goes *away*. Out of my hands, out of sight. It doesn't come out again, usually in the same evening. I tell the monkey so -- that it's away and that it cannot hurt her anymore. I want her to believe this, and I believe this behavior is at the core of some of the trust I am trying to build. Even if the monkey is tied and blindfolded, I feel it's important to communicate that she's free of the potentially bad stimulus.
Similarly, "Red" means "EVERYTHING STOPS." Full abort. Gear comes off, goes away. Dominant tones cease (although a steady, reassuring, "okay, I'm taking this off you, okay, everything is okay" is warranted), but otherwise, lines of communications are implied to go full open. Speech restrictions are fully removed, and like the CS geek I am, at this point, one can choose to launch the debugger, look back through the stack trace, and figure out what caused the panic.
There have been times, recently, where the monkey has felt afraid to express her own emotional needs -- where she wants to be held, to be loved, to be dominated, to be hurt...and because she's afraid of feeling "needy", she does not tell me her feelings and desires.
I continue to tell the monkey many things. I am her dominant. I am the top. I am in charge of her. But I am *not* psychic.
A day or two ago (depending on one's definition of days, as it's well after midnight as I write this), the monkey was upset with me. I had been working outside, doing things other than playing with her, and she was out of sorts. (I welcome the monkey to comment on this). She wanted to make me angry at her, and the words "Fuck You" escaped her mouth, in what I felt was a hurtful tone. I admit to not being able to replay the rest of the conversation up to that point, because of the intensity of what *has* stuck with me, and I apologize, both to reader, and monkey.
But then, it wasn't more than three seconds after her impudent utterance before my hand slapped across her cheek, and she started crying, almost instantly. As much as it has taken some adjustment on my part to not feel this particular behavior is NOT abusive (it's been asked for, repeatedly), and it's become our sign of "this is how you know you're in trouble" -- this was unusual. It was not a particularly hard slap -- hard enough to leave her cheek red, but not enough to even turn her head. It was, however within earshot of others (I do not know if anyone heard it). From there, we retired to the monkey den, and sat down and had a long talk.
There were times when she was crying, in a mood I call "the bad place", begging me to hurt her, and in such cases, I generally do not deem it healthy to do so -- This is not the classic case of the sadist refusing to hurt the masochist, this is, instead, the case of "there's a time when it's safe to play with pain and when I feel you will respect your own limits, and this is not one of them, and I will not feed into such behavior".
But we talked, a lot. And I held my monkey, a lot. I told my monkey, over and over, how much she was loved. Made her repeat it after me. "I am loved." "I want to learn to love myself." "I am a good person." "I will learn to treat myself better." and other such affirmations. We continued to discuss it late into the night, and I told her, outright, that if we had another communications breakdown such as this, where she left me in the dark about her feelings to the degree that things came to such a head -- that it would be dealt with, in a caring, and loving manner...that I would make everything okay, and give her what she needed...and when it was all over, she would go to the basement (or something similar).
I drew for her, an alternate scenario of our basement play --
And I suppose at this point, I should explain what the basement is. Normally, the basement is a place where she is cuffed to a hook above her head, stripped naked, gagged, blindfolded, and whipped -- usually with a number of strokes she knows in advance, and usually with a look-me-in-the-eyes-and-tell-me-why-you-are-about-to-be-punished confession. It is NOT play, it's discipline, and it's quite serious. The use of safewords falls back to far more reserved meanings (as in, physical inability to take punishments, as opposed to discomfort). After all is over, when the blindfold is removed from her tear-stained eyes, she is held, told that she's forgiven, and loved, and loved, and loved.
Much like the "space monkey" analogy that formulated the title of this blog and it's starring role, there is, similar to Fight Club, a spot in our basement where the floor is stained with sweat, tears, mucous, and the spread footprints of a naked slave who knows they've done something wrong, chained in the place where I first showed her pain, where I first triggered her, before she was even mine.
But this time, I painted a different scenario -- one in which there would be no pain, merely standing, and waiting, contemplating -- considering what one has done, alone with one's thoughts...maybe for hours or more -- possibly even wearing a diaper. Instead of our usual cuffs, instead there would be suspension cuffs, and spreader bars, standing, uncomfortably, for as long as it took. "This is the consequence of non-communication. Not pain, not anguish, but just a timeout, A long timeout."
I asked the monkey, again and again, if they believed I was capable of doing this.
"Yes, Sir." was the soft reply in my ear.
I swear to whatever chaotic forces that helped create the universe, that are as close to a deity as I am capable in believing in, that I never have to do this to my monkey. And just as much, I swear that I will do it if it becomes necessary.
I love her. I feel with her as I've felt with no other. She satisfies and completes me in ways previously unimagined -- but without communication -- without her being able to tell me when something is wrong, when something is breaking, when she is feeling hurt, I don't feel I can be the dominant she needs me to be. She accuses me of reminding her too many times of how intensely emotions run in BSDM relationships -- but it's not an environment in which I feel safe taking shots in the dark.
I've told her many things in the past. I've told her I am not afraid of her crazy. I have told her she will not scare me away. I have told her that I will stand by her through the worst, as long as she will let me stand by her. And I stand by every statement I have made. I am willing and ready to commit to her for this...we've known each other a short time but I feel this so deeply.
I have told her of a previous mate, who had a hanging fetish -- and in telling her of my ways to satisfy *that* fantasy -- the machinations I would take -- of panic release snaps, of the drop-weight calculations, of the pulse oximeters and OSHA-compliant safety harnesses I was ready to buy to complete this fantasy, before that previous mate disappeared from my life -- all those things in that fantasy, being things I need to, as the responsible one, as the one in charge, to *know* that things are as okay as they possibly can be, that things are as safe as possible.
This, to me is no different. I'm the boss-man. Need the info. I cannot make her wear a 24 hour EEG, nor would one even be reliable in determining the types of moods, the types of needs felt, the types of insecurities that can be alterted-to with a simple word, gesture, or a look (once the monkey makes such looks clear to me, and tells me that this is their meaning). Without that, I am in the dark. And that is where I will leave the monkey (still firmly in my care), if comms fail.
Hello. My name is D, and I am, reiterated once again, and as always, in love with a Space Monkey.