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Tell Me

April 26th, 2015 by

Tell me you’re mine
While you fall asleep
Thoughts scattered,
Mind adrift
Whisper it, with a kiss
And my name

Tell me you’re mine
When passion throws you to the ground
Let it come out, unbridled and unbidden
Escaping your mouth,
A release,

Tell me you’re mine
As I start to slip away
And the distance is too much
And you feel lost
Use it as a call, to find me,
Seeking you

Tell me you’re mine
In the space between the fights
The bitter puncta that blossom into an ellipsis
Say it!
One last time–
Lie, if you must–
Tell me?

Untitled Update

April 24th, 2015 by

I am far too fond of alliteration for my own good.

I really appreciate everyone’s comments on my last post. They mean so much to me. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to reply. I don’t have the mental capacity to do so just yet.

It’s been a month since I was released from the hospital, and I’m only doing marginally better, physically. I still can’t tolerate much by mouth. Moderate to large quantities of clear liquids make me very sick and I can only handle a little “full” liquids at a time. My doctor tells me not to push it, to take it easy on my gut. But my stomach frequently complains how hungry it is, and that’s hard to ignore. Plus, I miss food.

I miss all the things I used to be able to do. Not just eating. I miss the things I used to do for stress or pain relief–baking, weight-lifting, taking baths.

Consequently, I’m doing much worse mentally. “For now” has, in my mind, stretched into “forever” and that’s hard to ignore. I’m still grieving. Others have projected an image of “toughness” onto me, and I’ve adopted it for myself, stubbornly trying to hold onto some vestige of emotional, if not physical, strength. So I project an air of “I’m doing fine” when I’m shattered inside. I’m still not able to work properly, and my supervisor is frustrated with me, which only makes me more angry with myself.

I’m falling into a lot of the same unhealthy patterns as the last time I was on TPN. This includes distraction from my grief–when I can’t work, I constantly occupy my mind with puzzles and music, audiobooks, or TV. This is not a thing I like to do. It feels empty, so I punish myself later.

And I’m also falling into the same relationship patterns I was as last time. And it kills me. Peroxide is a doll. He wants, desperately, to make things better. I recognize that he can only make things easier. I feel bad that this has come down not only on my shoulders, but his. And so, whether to punish myself or through a misguided attempt to “protect” him from the same pain that I’m experiencing, I push him away.

I did this with Shadow, before. And Peroxide’s feelings for me are much stronger than Shadow’s (and so are mine), so he’s willing to put up with more crap from me, and he won’t allow me to push. But he can’t keep me from withdrawing, so I do. Even though I don’t want to, I do. Even though it hurts me, quite possibly as much as it hurts him, I do. Because I don’t know how to do anything else.

Yes, I am in therapy. Yes, I’m trying to process. But trying is all I can do. The wheels are just spinning.

Missing Person

April 8th, 2015 by

I haven’t been around much lately. I haven’t updated my Patreon in months. I haven’t posted much here either. I have a good reason for it.

It has been over three weeks since I have eaten solid food.

As part of my complex, multiorgan illness, I suffer from digestive tract paralysis. It’s an enigmatic, and for the most part, untreatable disease. It has rapidly progressed in the past six months, and I can no longer tolerate anything more substantive than clear liquids.

As a result, I am being fed through my veins until my gut has had enough rest. This process, known as total parenteral nutrition (TPN), is one which I find myself simultaneously terribly resentful of and immensely grateful for. This is not the first time I have been on TPN, nor will it, I imagine, be the last. (At least, I hope it will not be the last. The possibility of this lasting forever is too bleak for my mind to accept.)

I am adjusting to life on TPN. It dangerous, but it is not terrible. I have a bandage-wrapped IV line in my arm that never comes out and itches. I have a bag of nutrients and fluid to lug around for twelve hours a day. I have new and deadly risks to live with that require me to go to the emergency room at the slightest sign of them. These things are irritating, but immeasurably better than constant pain and nausea, than malnourishment and untrollable weight loss.

I am in mourning. I miss food. I miss being able to fully partake in the social activities that revolve around it without huge amounts of stress. I miss feeling properly human. The urge to eat is so primal, the lack of the ability to do so has plunged me into a pool of identity loss. I feel more artificial than animal.

Being chronically ill can be terribly isolating. I  feel as if I’m outside of my “real” life, looking in at what could be, what “should” be, unable to reach it, as it passes by, without me. And I grieve and give voice to my grief, and if anyone happens to hear, they usually don’t know what to say, so they don’t say anything. I know people care and don’t know how to express it, but their silence adds to the feelings of loneliness. I see them express more sympathy over the flu than ten days in the hospital. I know why. The flu is relatable. People have had the flu, and they know it sucks. But few people know the grief I’m experiencing, and they don’t know how to relate. And so they say nothing, and I feel alone.

And what of the boy? He is wonderful, as always. He is my light in the darkness, my breath of fresh air, and all the other clichés that spring to a love-drunk mind. He does what he can, and it is more than enough. He makes me chicken broth and fancy drinks. He helps me with. But part of me worries that he will miss the woman he could cook for, the woman he could go out to eat with, the woman whose body and mind weren’t so brittle and breakable. And that my lack of ability to lead a “real” life will outshadow his love for me. And part of me feels I will never deserve the sort of sweetness he gives me, and that he will realize it. I fear this terrible thing, this thing I have no control over, will kill his love for me. Bad enough that it should kill me.


February 2nd, 2015 by

On my way to the Thursday night dance, I pass by an area of town I don’t visit much anymore–not for any particular reason, just because I don’t find myself with any cause to go there. Walking past your old apartment, I am suddenly gripped by a memory, whisked away by nostalgia. I remember that first night, the first time I slept in your arms. You snored, so loudly it woke me up, but I didn’t care. I lay awake for a long time, not able to believe I was there, not able to believe how lucky I was (and still am). I was so unsure of your boundaries, unsure of what was and wasn’t allowed. I remember I asked you, awkwardly, if I could see you naked, if I could touch you, and you said “Yes,” surprised, as if the the thought had never occurred to you. How unused to being an object of desire you were back then! But you caught on quickly. You teased me a little, do you remember? Turning your back to me, not letting me see what I wanted until the last possible second, your lips curving into that mischievous little grin that demands to be kissed. But at last, you let your briefs fall to the ground (they were purple, do you remember? You wanted to impress me with my favorite color, and I was, although truthfully, I would have been impressed no matter what). You let them fall to the ground, and turned to face me.

And when I put my hand on your cock, you gasped.


December 30th, 2014 by

A few nights ago, I, in my infinite grace and majesty, took a tumble down the stairs, the result of which is a significant bruise above my rump. The bruise is enormous–bigger than any I’ve ever had before, and is dark purple which Wikipedia tells me is called Byzantium.

This, among other things, has got me to thinking about marks.

I love leaving marks on H2O2, of all kinds. I carefully apply lipstick only for the purpose of leaving prints of my lips all over his face. I beat his ass to a lovely Byzantine shade, not unlike the one mine currently sports. Afterwards, every time he sits down, each resulting wince will remind him of me. I leave bite marks all over him. I write on his body–his chest, his ass, his cock. Loud and lovely proclamations that he is mine.

But marks fade. They are transient by nature. This seems like it should bother me, but it doesn’t. Their impermanence compels me to reapply them, frequently, in new and creative configurations; each kiss, each scribble, each bite a sign of my desire made manifest upon his body. My love emblazoned upon him, evidence that, despite whatever may come, I was here, this happened.

Chaos Was Here

Chaos Was Here

How to Save a Life

October 19th, 2014 by

Six and a half years ago, I started taking a medication that changed my life, drastically, for the better. There is no doubt in my mind that without starting this medication, I would not be writing this today–I would be dead, probably a couple of times over.

If you have been following this blog for any length of time, you will know that I am chronically ill. My health is not always under control, but sometimes I am granted respites from the tortures that are concocted for me by my body.

Before I began taking this medication, I was very ill. My stomach had lost the ability to empty into my intestine, and my intestine fared no better, no longer able to push food through it. I suffered from frequent blockages and bacterial overgrowths. I couldn’t eat much, and what I did eat, I couldn’t absorb. I lost a lot of weight very quickly. I was told that if I lost any more weight, I’d be given a feeding tube.

Despite the severity of my symptoms, it took years for me to be properly diagnosed. Six and a half years ago, I was finally given a diagnosis, and, even better, prescribed a treatment. It was a medication in the form of subcutaneous injection, a delivery method that frightened me and fully realized for me the gravity of my situation.

In all actuality, as scary as needles are for some people (a group of which I have previously counted myself a member), they are, in and of themselves, not terribly dangerous, and not particularly painful. Six and a half years after that first terrifying needle stick, I do not blink an eye at even the most particularly painful poke.

Since then, I have dealt with situations so much more painful than needles: all manner of trials and tribulations dealing with my health insurance and this medication. From figuring out how to dispose of half a dozen cold packs and a giant styrofoam container each month to making sure someone was home for the delivery man, from finding a place to empty my sharps containers to dealing with a supplier shortage, from prior authorizations to a shipment of the wrong needles to a shipment of the medication without needles, I have been through the fucking mill.

I currently await something far scarier than that first needle stick. In three days, I will give myself my last injection. In three days, I run out of medication, and I cannot get more.

Let me explain as best I can. I still don’t quite understand the situation myself. Insurance companies don’t aim to be understandable, or friendly.

A little over a year ago, I started a new program at a new school, and consequently switched health insurance. This is something I only undertook with much trepidation. In fact, health insurance played a key factor in my decision for what graduate program to attend. (It shouldn’t have had to, but it did. Uninsured, the health costs I would accrue over only a year would be more money than I have made in my entire life.) Fortunately, the health insurance at my chosen program covered all of my medications, even the injectable.

When I transferred my prescriptions over, I was filled with apprehension. What if my new pharmacy wouldn’t fill it? What if my new health insurance didn’t pay for it? What if they refused to deliver it to my tiny little post box at my tiny little apartment?

Unbelievably, the process of getting my prescription was completely smooth. It was a dream. They didn’t have to deliver it–I could just pick it up at the pharmacy. My insurance covered it, and paid for it without a fight, or even a prior authorization. The medication even came in prefilled syringes so I no longer had to deal with the not-really-a-big-deal-but-still-a-minor-hassle of drawing the medication up into the syringe and making sure I got every last drop.

I should have known it couldn’t last. I’ve been burned by insurance companies before. Earlier this month, the insurance plan year rolled over, and my insurance decided to use a new formulary (meaning a list of the medications that they’d cover). Under this new formulary, my medication is considered a “specialty medication” and only 50% of the cost is covered, meaning I can no longer afford it. Without warning, one of the key factors to my health and happiness was ripped from me.

Before you ask–there are no alternate treatments, there is no appeals process, there is no one I can talk to, there is no one I can send H2O2 after with a hickory stick. There is nothing I can do.

There is, however, something you can do. I don’t like asking for help–not from my family, my friends, or even my readers.

But this is also an opportunity–I’ve been considering recently, unrelatedly, starting a new blog. My writing has taken a turn for the steamy as of late–some of it erotica, some of it just more graphic than what this blog usually sees. It doesn’t seem appropriate for Lab Coats and Lingerie, but I have nowhere else to put it.

Instead of a new blog, I’m starting a Patreon account. If you want to be a patron, you’ll get access to exclusive writings about my fantasies, my sex life, and other things I am too shy to talk about here. If I can get one hundred and twenty readers to pledge $1/post, and if I post once a month, that will be enough to cover my medication. I may post more often, and you can set a monthly limit for how much you are willing to contribute. If you want to see what sexy thoughts lie within my twisted brain, and you want to earn my undying (literally) gratitude, then consider pledging, and please share the word. If, for whatever reason, you can’t contribute, that’s fine too, of course. Lab Coats and Lingerie will remain here, free to read, and continuing to update. You still have my gratitude for reading this far, and for supporting me with your desire to read my words. It means more to me than you can possibly know.


September 22nd, 2014 by

I wanted to give blood today.

I have never donated blood before, only had it taken from me for the purposes of diagnosis or maintenance. It’s not that I was unwilling; I was forbidden from this particular act of charity for one reason or another. But today, it has been long enough since I have lived in Europe, and enough time has passed since I have had sex with a bisexual man, and I am finally, finally above their minimum weight requirement, so I give.

I am having health problems. They are too close, too imminent for me to talk about them here yet. Just know that they are serious, and they are frightening.

Walking to lab this morning, I saw the yellow sign reading “BLOOD DRIVE TODAY” and I was seized with a fervor, a desire to do something useful with the body that has been letting me down so much as of late.

Trapped in the space between numbness and my feelings, I am not handling the news well. The feelings are inaccessible. It’s like I can see them out of the corner of my eye, but when I turn to look at them, they’re not there. They won’t let me touch them, and yet they slip out when I’m not paying attention; grief threatens to spill out of my eyes when I ride the bus home from work. Loss clutches at my chest and steals my breath. The numbness is easier to reach. It surrounds me like a blanket, stifling, yet comforting. It is all I have, so I cling to it, though I am desperate to feel.

The yellow sign poked me squarely in the heart, and I felt an inkling of hope. My body was failing me. Perhaps it could do some good to someone else.

I sat in the booth and fidgeted as the tech took my temperature, pulse, blood pressure (my claim to fame, it is always perfect). “One more test left,” he told me, and jabbed a tiny needle into my middle finger to squeeze out a fat drop of blood into a high-tech instrument. I tried to stifle my impatience. I wanted to be in the phlebotomy chair with its oversized arm rests and sticky vinyl seat. I wanted to feel the poke of the needle in my vein, to see the blood pouring out of me, to feel the lightheadedness from bloodloss and to know that loss was for another’s gain. To save someone’s life. I cannot save mine.

Meanwhile, the tech was frowning and making frustrated noises. I asked him what was wrong. “Your hematocrit is 37,” he said. “We need it to be 38. There’s nothing wrong–you’re perfectly healthy, it’s just we need it to be at least 38 for us to take a pint of blood from you.” He told me that it can fluctuate sometimes, so we tried another finger. 36. He threw up his hands and told me to eat some spinach to raise my iron levels and try again next time. “Don’t worry about anemia,” he told me. “It’s just that it’s not high enough for you to donate today. You’re perfectly healthy.”

Perfectly healthy. It made me want to laugh. If only he knew.

I left the blood drive and headed back to work, crushed. There was nothing more for me to do. My body had failed again, but it was not just letting me down this time. I silently apologized to the unknown stranger who would no longer be getting my blood, whose life I wanted so badly to save. I could not save them today.

There are times when you can only save yourself. Sometimes you can extend the effort for altruism, and save another. And sometimes, you cannot save anyone at all.


July 17th, 2014 by

As she lay dying, we made the long drive back from his parents’ house. By which I mean, he was driving, not me.  I don’t drive, I don’t know how.  First I wasn’t allowed to because I wasn’t old enough, then I wasn’t allowed to because of medications, finally I wasn’t allowed to because of seizures.  Now I am twenty-eight and embarrassingly, still without a driver’s license. Unless I can get my health under control, I’m not sure that I’ll ever get one.

Her death was with me, weighing on me. I speak up about it, an attempt to lighten my load. I talk of her presence in the scene, how much of an impact it made on me, a young femme dominant. I talk about the tea party I attended at her house, and how much of my love of tea service can be attributed to her. I talk about the love I saw between her and her slave, how it was always something that simultaneously warmed my heart and made it ache, not knowing if I would ever get to experience that kind of love.

“That must be hard,” he says. “To outlive your owner.”  And at that I become quiet. There is too much to say, so I say nothing at all, and instead I look out the window, into the night roads, illuminated by street lights. Finally, I reply with a requisite: “I think it must be hard for an owner to outlive their property, too.”

And it must be, I’m sure, but that is not really what is on my mind, which is flooded with thoughts and sorrow.

I think about my property–him–and how, if our relationships lasts, he will almost surely outlive me, something for which I am self-centeredly grateful.

I think about how I always wanted to ask her for mentorship, and how I was intimidated to approach her about it, so I didn’t, and now I never will.

I think that while she lived a full and rich life, she still died too young. I think about the precariousness of my health, my uncertainty of my own life expectancy. I wonder if I will still be here in ten years, in twenty.

I think about myself. I think about heartbreak dogs, and whether those of us who are destined to die young are really worth loving in the first place. (I am not certain, myself.)

But most of all, I think about her, and her smile, and her class, and her generosity, and how I wish I had had the chance to know her better. I think how scared she must be, and how alone she must feel, and how I am certain she is handling it all with the grace and poise we have all known her so well for. I think on all these things and my heart fills with grief: for her, for her loved ones, and, selfishly, for myself.

Lock and Key

June 21st, 2014 by

This is not a post about chastity. (Sorry, chastity enthusiasts. Perhaps another time.)

Before I knew I was dominant, I still knew what I liked. I liked to be in control during sex. I liked collars. And I liked locks.

I make jewelry. I have been making it for very nearly my whole life; without a pair of pliers in them, my hands feel empty, and they itch for the tools with which they can create. And, of course, when I started dating, I would make jewelry for my my sweethearts–handmade chains that they would put on reverently, wear religiously, and rarely remove. (One of those things that, looking back on, makes you say fucking duh.)

In my early twenties, I was in a monogamous vanilla relationship. I became restless. Something was missing from my life. I wanted something, yearned for it, but wasn’t quite sure what. During that time, I developed a fascination with lock charms. I began to collect them. I could not get enough of them. Every time I bought one, I became dissatisfied with it, and would soon find another that I would have to have. And yet, I did not make anything with my lock charms, nor did I want to wear them myself. I just kept them.

Heart-shaped locks with filigree details, locks with the key attached, small locks, delicate locks, chunky locks. The prize of my collection was a sterling silver clasp that was cleverly shaped like a padlock. It didn’t actually lock, of course, but it worked like a padlock, and I thought, like one does when one is twenty, that it was the coolest thing I had ever seen, ever, oh my god, I have to have it. I attached it to a rubber cord and wore it around my neck, once. That felt odd–wrong, somehow. Uncomfortable. I took it off, put it in my jewelry box, and left it there for years.

And then I met Peroxide.

Peroxide and I both love the symbolic aspects of D/s, and from very soon after we started dating, I knew I wanted to make him something with that clasp.

Isn't he gorgeous?

My boy, my collar.

This collar is delicate–its lightness belies its impermanent nature. It was not meant to be a forever collar–training, consideration, what-have-you, I call it a preliminary collar. Still, it is, if I do say so myself, quite pretty. It still has the original rubber from when I first put it together, but now I’ve added onto it with a bit of silver chain, a ropelike weave of which I am particularly fond. I was worried it would be too feminine, but Peroxide, bless him, cherishes it and wears it almost constantly.

Peroxide and I recently discussed ownership. This means that it is time for a new project for my plier-itchy hands, a new collar, a symbol for “forever.”

Permanent collar

Gold and steel. Function and decoration. As strong as my love for him, as precious as he is to me.

We would like to use a real lock with which to close it. Unfortunately, as he discovered in his last relationship, he is sensitive to nickel, which makes most locks inutile. I have not yet figured out how to work around this problem, but I welcome suggestions. For now, the collar is one continuous chain, as unending and infinite as I hope our love will be.

As for my lock charms, they lay languishing in amongst my other beads. Their number remains steady, as my drive to collect them has vanished. I no longer feel as if something is missing; I’ve found someone who fits.

Image from http://www.sterlingsilvermall.com/

Image from http://www.sterlingsilvermall.com/

Platonic Fission

May 10th, 2014 by

This is a love story.  It is an atypical love story; there are no happily-ever-afters or till-death-do-you-parts.

Six years ago I met a tall awkward boy at a park for a first date. We talked for three hours. I did not think I would see him again. Later, much later, he would become one of the most important people in my life, one of my closest friends, my “Vanilla Ex”. That day, at the park, I did not think he was interested. I could not have been more wrong.

But that is not where this story begins. No, this story begins with a break-up.


We had been dating for nearly two years at that point and I very nearly hated him. We argued almost every day and there was an ever-growing pile of resentment weighing the relationship down. But even through all of that, somehow, I was sure I was in love. Until one day I looked in the mirror and realized that I not only didn’t think I liked him very much anymore, but that I didn’t like myself. We talked. We agreed it wasn’t working anymore. We ended it.

And yet, somehow, it didn’t stop. We kept talking, kept seeing one another. We kept having sex. And oddly, unexpectedly, things got better. We stopped fighting so much, started to communicate better. The resentment lifted. Now that I no longer begrudged him for not being all the things I wanted him to be, I could appreciate  all the things he was. He was accepting. He was supportive. He was funny and kind.

Our relationship wasn’t perfect, by any means. We still quarrelled at times. I still occasionally fell into the habit of wanting him to be something he wasn’t. But, mostly, things were great, infinitely better than they had been. We kept on like that, for years.

And then, it was time for me to move away. He helped me move across two states, drove me 1000 miles, all for the friendship and love he had for me.

The last night we spent together, I teared up. “DON’T,” he said. “DON’T DO IT.” He’s terrible with emotion, and I stifled myself. I knew it may very well be the last time we had sex, and I was worried that we would no longer be as close, now that we no longer had a physical tie to bind us together.

The last time we saw one another was five months ago. I was back home for the holidays and had been visiting with him, but it was once again time to say goodbye, and he walked me to the train station. The impulse to kiss him goodbye was gone. My lips had forgotten that need. Yet it was harder, much harder, to let him go. This time, unlike the last, I could not hold back my tears, and down they came unexpectedly. Despite the fact that any romantic aspirations for him had faded away, my heart squeezed something terrible in my chest. I did not know when I would see him again. The thought troubled me more than I’d thought it would and I cried.

No chastisement over tears came from him this time, no discomfort with my emotional display. Instead, he hugged me and told me he loved me, words that do not come easy from him. True, we had lost the same physical intimacy, but our relationship was not so different than it had been. I had been worried it would be, and told him as much. “I wasn’t,” he said mildly.

One of the things he provides is an unshakable faith in me. Even when I feel I am uncertain of anything and everything, I can be certain of that, and of his love and good intentions for me. Consequently, I trust and admire him more than almost anyone else in the world. I never want us to have a romantic relationship again, but I also never want to lose him from my life.

Our society values romantic love above all others. Romantic love is wonderful, I agree. But I’ve often thought that platonic love can be just as powerful, just as life-changing, and that is something that is rarely acknowledged.

Love can grow. Love can change. People are not immutable, nor are our relationships. But just because they are different doesn’t mean they are broken, or any less valuable. And just because a relationship doesn’t fit one particular societal mold doesn’t mean it should be discarded entirely.

The day we decided we could no longer be together, I cried and cried, mourning the loss of that relationship. But I needn’t have. We didn’t break our relationship that day. We fixed it.