This is an updated version of one of my first posts on this blog. I’m not re-writing history, it’s just that there are parts missing. I’m not the same person I was 7 months ago. No that’s not true, I’m willing to admit that I’m still the same person I was 7 months ago. That’s a huge step for me.
Before starting this blog, I wrote my first novel. I’m not a writer by nature, if anything, I’m a very visual, sensing person. So, when it came to self-publishing a book, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. But I did know about BDSM, kinks, fetishes, and being an escort. What actually drove me to writing was the inability to express myself; to be open about my own life, my own past, failed relationships and a fear of intimacy. I created a fictional image of the way I would like to be.
I know exactly who my heroine is. She is good and evil, light and dark, full of contradictions. And powerful, fearless, trusting, vulnerable, full or rage, and scared. Intimacy was never part of that image.
So I set out to write over 100,000 word, all in a passive voice, little emotion, more of a bystander’s account. At least that’s how it feels now. It wasn’t all bad, but when I read the works of other erotica writers, I feel pretty silly. If anyone got turned on by my writing, it was probably thanks to their creative imagination, more than my writing.
And the cover I used for the full novel says more about me than those 100K words ever could. Unfortunately, what it says, is everything that’s wrong with me.
When I first wrote this post, I innocently wrote: “I was with a friend, who is a pretty decent photographer, in London for a fetish event.” Well, guess what: he wasn’t just a friend, he was the one who invited me months later to St. Petersburg, where an entire drama unfolded between us.
I remember thinking that day in London how crazy this was. I’m driving with him in the middle of the afternoon right into Hyde Park to show him what kid of person I can be. A fearless, unashamed, exhibitionist, who wants to be his submissive; not just in a novel.
I couldn’t tell him how I felt about him, I had it all in my head, but not the words to say it. So I tried to have my fictional self, Clarice, say it for me. Hiding behind her facade, I could be a different person. I could say things I would never reveal about myself. This sounds crazy, but I could ‘act myself’. But in the end, though, it was still an act.
This is how I ended my original post:
But it was fun to go out in my catsuit, the full gear, and do an outdoor shoot in plain sight. I was a bit of a nervous mess, but it was exciting. Still, couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel knowing that the goal for the day was accomplished. I finally had my cover. Hope you like it.
What a fucking lie! I hadn’t accomplished anything at all! If anything, what I really wanted had just moved much, much further away. What better way to say I don’t need you in my life than to stuff my cunt and ass with dildos under the crotch piece? I can take care of myself, thank you very much.
Is there a better way to say that I have a steel wall built around my emotions, my self, than putting on a harsh corset? Lacing it as tight as I can stand will certainly send a clear ‘do not enter’ signal. Yes, I can suffer, but only to protect me. Not once did I signal any vulnerability, emotional need, or desire for intimacy. I made it fucking clear that I cared for him as a photographer, a job, not a real person.
What better way to shut off all intimacy than to create a sexy and strong female image, just for the purpose of shooting a cover? Any accidental intimacy was quickly brushed aside like the dust on my catsuit. He got the message.
It’s easy for me to lie. Most of all to myself.