I’m not eating all that much right now. I “eat” mostly organic protein drinks, soy milk, and portions of plain chicken or shrimp. Why? I need to lose weight, and until I see a doctor (May 1st) who can help me understand what my various eating disorders (anorexia, bulimia, compulsive over eating, and orthorexia) have done to my metabolism, and test me for thyroid issues, and refer me to a nutritionist, I really can’t eat like a normal person or I gain weight at an insane rate…

Now, I’m not saying that to launch into a sob story. I’m just saying when I don’t eat much, I love to cook even more than usual. LOVE it. And tonight is one of the last nights for a while I can cook for my brother. He’s having his wisdom teeth removed on Friday, and I’ll be gone tomorrow night, and he’ll be working late Thursday.

So I made him dinner. Roasted beef tenderloin steaks with roasted shallots and a beef broth and port wine reduction, and herb-coated roasted potatoes. (I’ll offer him a salad too, but he might be too busy eating Man Food to bother with vegetables.)

It smells amazing, I feel like such a “real” cook, and there is just something about cooking good food with a lot of care and effort and love that makes me so happy. It is so satisfying about feeding and nourishing someone you love. I reap great personal rewards from being the source by which my loved ones can meet this basic human need.

I don’t really know why, I just do.

And I take pleasure in the art and the skills I have honed over time. I used to be a terrible cook. Utterly terrible. But I’ve gotten so much better (hell, I cooked the tenderloin steaks, shallots, potatoes, and the reduction in a perfect sequence so they are all going to be ready at the right time. I know, it’s not rocket science, but I love how effortless that has become for me.) And I am so determined to master many more styles and types of cooking.

But the overwhelming feeling I’m having right now? The one that trumps all others, and has been an obsessive thought for the entire night?

I wish I were cooking this for Antonio.

In related news: Long distance sucks.

As of posting, I’ll be with him again in 43 days, 19 hours, 16 minutes and 9 seconds. And when I’m with him, I’ll have 6 days and 45 minutes to just drink him in. Well, slightly less, because I’ll have to leave him to go through security at the airport…

(Not that I’m counting or anything…)

God dammit, I miss him. It just aches. I ache.

This wasn’t meant to be depressing or anything, it’s just a bit of musing. And… I guess a small plea. To everyone who has any sort of long-distance elements of their relationship, got any tips for handling it?  Like, good ones?

Because, more than just missing him, I find myself being a mild bitchface (at the time, it’s always “about” other things), to the point where I actually go silent and ruin time we do have together to talk. I curse myself over it afterwards like you wouldn’t believe (or, actually, I’m sure some of you would). I just WANT him and his attention and the littlest things make me so touchy, and that desperation for HIM and longing for HIM makes me such a moron…

Ergh. Grrrr. Argh. *other pirate noises*

Help meeeee.

I thought, for fun, I’d torture Kaya with a story from when Antonio was here. I was hoping to make her giggle. She then informed me it’s Totally Against Blogging Law not to share these things publicly…

So… This post is her fault. All her fault. BLAME KAYA!

*smirk*

As I’ve mentioned a million billion times, Antonio was just here at the end of March.  I was so excited to see him; I could barely function above the level of an oxygen-deprived turtle.  (Or, at least, that’s what I’m blaming my idiocy on…)

I was exhausted come bedtime the first night, but I was still so keyed up that OMG HE WAS RIGHT THERE, I couldn’t fall asleep.  He fell asleep, though, and I just lay there, watching him breathe.  It was lovely. 

(Side note:  Long distance is good for only a handful of things.  One of those things is bringing a deeper appreciation for small things.  For instance, I was GLOWING from the fact that I could experience him with all my senses.  You don’t realize this sort of sensory deprivation with constant contact.  Here, away from him, alone, I can hear his voice… I can have him send me things that smell like him… I can look at pictures of him… But together?  I can touch him, smell him, taste him, see him, and hear him – all at once!  I don’t appreciate that fully unless I’m deprived it.)

Anyway,  ‘round about 4:30am, I was just dying of tired, and wanting to shoot myself and every chemical in my brain and body that was not allowing me rest.  Also ‘round about that time, Antonio woke up.  He saw me staring at him and muttered “You still awake?” and I said “Yes… I’m SO tired, though. *whine*“

At that moment, it came to my attention Antonio has the incredibly odd idea that I speak in code.  I do not, for the record, speak in code.  He, however, thinks when I say pretty much anything it’s code for “Master, can I please please please suck your cock?  Like, omg, please-right-now-please?”  Again, I repeat, there is NO CODE.  He just thinks there is, God love him.

So, with his imaginary-code-breaking skillz, he decides 4:30am is a good time to haul me off the bed so he can perform some sort of perverted examination of the contents of my stomach.  With his cock, of course.  After roughly nine thousand years of having my face and mouth just brimming with dick, my lips were numb, my eyes were tearing up and (because at one point he’d said, “Put your hand in front of your mouth, now”) my upper lip was cut from my fingers crushing my lip against my teeth over and over.

And I was getting incredibly frustrated. 

I ended up sort of crying from pain and exhaustion and frustration and he laughed at me and asked what was wrong.  I said, in a VERY slave-like manner, “You are doing this on PURPOSE, dammit.  Why aren’t you COMING?” 

(I will admit the effect of my badassery with those comments was slightly marred by the fact that, thanks to aforementioned activities, I was talking like I had taken several shots of novocain straight to my face.)

My badassery was also slightly marred because then he had made me gag until I threw up on myself.  (GOD.  Totally embarrassing, totally disgusting, and I swear he was almost pleased, the bastard.) But he STILL hadn’t come. 

Looking back, I REALLY should have realized the issue. I mean, why do people usually wake up at 4:30am? To pee, right? Right.

(I’m a moron.)

Confirming both the peeing theory and the moron-for-not-realizing theory, he said, “I have to piss and it’s making it hard as hell to come.  It’s also going to make it hard to piss, because it feels like there is a wad of cum blocking it.”

At that point, I knew exactly what was coming.  I KNEW IT, and my feeble little brain could not think of a way out of it.

He said, “Open your mouth, don’t move, and don’t touch me.”

I sat there, mouth open, eyes desperately rolling in my head, praying he’d be unable to piss…. And then, ACK! I felt the urine start trickling and spraying into my mouth – and dear GOD is it a messy affair when he has a hard-on.  It was all I could do to stay still with my mouth open, clenching my fists and making little half-moon marks in my palm with my fingernails. 

I concentrated the whole of my mental capacity on the debate of: “Keep waiting?  Or swallow some now?  He’ll be mad it you let any out, so maybe swallow some now, then again, it’d be easier to just do it all at once… God this is taking forever and….  Ew, God, ew, should I swallow now?  I hate everything in the entire world, ever ever ever, OH GOD, EW.”

Finally, I swallowed, and he decided to finish up in the bathroom.  I got dragged in with him, by the hair, so I could clean him off when he was through. 

So, picture this: I’m kneeling there, on the bathroom floor, sleep-deprived to the point of delirium, with my head frighteningly close to the toilet, feeling drops of urine hit my hair and face, with puke dripping down my chin and PJs, tears and mascara running down my cheeks, the taste of piss in my mouth, and all of a sudden Antonio farts.

And then he says, “Excuse me.”

And I totally lose my head. 

LOSE IT.

I honestly don’t think anything else on Earth will ever be as funny as that. It was this “Oh God, can’t breathe, going to hyperventilate” moment of comedy. 

He’s SO polite that he always says excuse me if he so much as burps, even in front of just me. It’s habit for him. But… The man had just gotten through doing things that most would consider utterly depraved in my presence and to my person, and the thing he excuses himself for is a FART?

I just couldn’t hold it together. Couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think, couldn’t see – couldn’t do ANYTHING but attempt not to laugh so hard I woke people up in the hotel.  

Even right now, the image of him standing there, (and my memory of it is just a waist-to-knees image) naked and trying to piss with a hard-on, with a filthy, messy, crying, bloody-lipped girl kneeling by the toilet, and then the fart, and then the “Excuse me” just… Oh God, I’m going to start laughing again.

(One day, I promise I’m going to have classy, kinky, fabulous stories for you guys. For now, you get me giggling at excusing farts.  I deeply apologize, and would like to remind you to Blame Tess, plzkthnx. )

I’m going to pick up Master at the airport tomorrow cuz he’s visiting!

That calls for an Oh-Em-Gee!  (In related news, if I don’t wet myself from all the wiggling and twitching I’ve been doing the past couple days, it’ll be a goddamn miracle.)

I’ve spent the day baking and packing and generally being flustered. Oh, and smushing my face into a shirt of his.  You see, Master smells like awesome.  And while I have a ridiculously acute sense of smell in general, I take it to a whole new level with him.  I love, love, love his scent.  And I can smell him on anything he touches.  No one else can smell him on things, and I can’t smell anyone else on things.  But if he holds Tupperware, I can smell him on it.  His cell phone is saturated in him-ness.  And sometimes, while we’re apart, I beg him to wear shirts and then send them to me.  Mmmmmmm.  He smells SO effing good.  And it’s not a cologne or anything, it’s HIM. And… Wow, that was tangential.

ANYWAY.  Point is, I’m off for a bit.  I’ve got to return him to the airport Tuesday evening, the 31st.  And I HATE April Fool’s day with a passion, so I will probably be hiding in a closet all day Wednesday.  But I’ll see you guys in about a week.  Talk amongst yourselves.

Long distance sucks.  No two ways about it.  But both Antonio and I recognized it was necessary, for right now.   I wanted to finish something, he supported me in it, and it meant I had to move in with my family for a while, and right now I’m 1,000 miles away from him.  It’s shitty, but it will be over soon, and it will have been worth it…   And I’m not going to dwell on the bad things here.  (At least not today…)

I’m going to talk about something great that came out of long distance – my schedule. 

I love my schedule.  I’ve grown SO attached to it.

Actually, that’s a total lie.  I’ve grown attached to ONE portion of it. The part at the end where I get to write my thoughts, whatever they may be.

It’s my little safe haven at the end of the day.  Anything and everything that I want to talk about can go in there.  If I need to rant and rave, I can.  If I need to mull endlessly over a problem one of my friends is having, I do.   If I had an issue with an order or task he set for me, I can complain there. If I feel compelled to be sappy and girly, it’s all good.  If I want to tell him I think he’s being an insufferable jackass, I do, right there in my safe place.

Some days, I have worked 19 hours straight, gone to classes, dealt with family issues, and I just want to collapse.  I have a giant Do Not Want attitude about it.  But I have to do it.  I HAVE to.  One, because he says so.  Two, because I need to.

I’m not allowed to be a horrific complaining mess during a task/argument/whatever, or else things get a lot harder for me.  It turns out, “Do as you’re told, slave” does not mean “Do it, and while doing so please share all the reasons you hate it.”  (I know, I was shocked too.)

But I AM allowed to reflect on those thoughts in my schedule.

This does great things for me, just knowing at the end of every day it’s coming.  I know that I will get my say on anything I want to talk about.  So things that irritate me throughout the day?  I know I’ll get to voice the irritation.  So often, those little things are free to evaporate and I don’t dwell (as much).

But here’s the provision…  I can’t just rant to be a bitch.  Oh, I can rant all I want, but I have to attempt to analyze my thoughts, and present him with a thinking-through of my behavior and mental processes. (He’s actually never set this provision officially… I think it’s just understood.)

I have come to many conclusions about myself from being forced to be totally honest, even if it comes across as harsh toward him, and then pick my own brain about WHY.  Often, knowing I have to write it makes me think harder during the day, spend more time analyzing myself during a moment of pain or irritation, and I arrive at better conclusions in the moment simply knowing my schedule is on my horizon each evening. I can’t fully describe how useful it has been. 

(Also, I should note it’s not just a venting arena.  There are many, many times I am just rambling about my day, or going into detail about how happy I am in my slavery, or what he means to me, or just all the times I thought about him.  But, for the purposes of this post, those days are not all that useful to talk about!)

So, clearly, it’s invaluable to me.  But I think it’s invaluable to my Master as well.  He gets to read, at his leisure, my thoughts on anything and everything I felt was important during the day. (And, I’ll be honest here, a few not-so-very important things.)  

It’s not that he doesn’t know what’s going on in my head (well, sometimes he doesn’t – my head is ridiculous), but it’s more that he likes to see my mental process… See HOW I arrive at conclusions about myself.  He can also gauge how long it takes me to come to certain realizations about myself and thus gauge my progress in self-analysis. He might already know “She’s being this way, because she is attempting to manipulate me into a reaction.”  But it’s helpful to him (and to me) to see me self-analyze and reach that conclusion on my own.  I think real progress comes when I can say “here’s how I’m feeling, here’s how I’m acting, and I know I’m doing it because I want this reaction, or I want this attention, and this is how I’m interpreting your actions.”

And then it’s up to him what to do with that. 

Lalana was posting about feeling wary about purging some thoughts into her blog, here and here.

And I had a whole lot of thoughts about that, because of what I write in my schedule… 

She seemed worried about hurting or insulting her Master.

Now, I get that.  I do.  But it struck me – I don’t think I truly worry about hurting Antonio’s feelings.  Like, ever. 

(I’m beginning to question myself on this – question if it makes me essentially the worst person in the world.)

It’s not that I don’t think about his feelings – I do, a lot.  I love knowing he’s feeling happy, satisfied, or proud – whether it is because of me, or just because.  I think a lot about what I can do to make him happier, more at ease, etc. Obviously, yes, I believe my actions affect how he feels about me and the state of his life.  I guess I just don’t often think my actions change how he feels about HIMSELF.  He’s too secure and rational, and his confidence is too intrinsic and self-contained.  He’s never relied on another human being to make him feel good about himself, so no matter what I do, he has that slight distance from the emotional reaction.

I don’t know if I’m being clear.  I doubt it.  Gah.

It’s just… I’ve never held something back because I’m afraid of hurting his feelings, insulting him, or anything.  In my head, there is one reason and one reason only to hold something back – because I haven’t yet found a way to be respectful in saying it.  I would be (and have been) incredibly ashamed when I’ve said something disrespectful.  That sucks beyond description and I hurt MY own feelings when I do it.  But does it “hurt” his feelings?  No…  At least, I don’t think so.  It disappoints or angers him.  I disappoint and anger him.  But I don’t think I hurt him on a personal level. 

He’s one of the most intelligent human beings I’ve ever come in contact with.   It’s impossible to bullshit him. So even if I happen to have a hormonal rage, see red over something, and tell him he’s acting like an insufferable bastard and a self-involved arrogant prick?  Yeah, well, I’m toast for running my mouth. But if I say I feel he’s acting like those things doesn’t mean I think he IS those things. And he’s certainly not going to get all sulky about it.  And if I put it in my schedule along with an analysis of my reaction?  I’ve never once detected a note of sulk or pain from him.  Not once.

My opinions matter, but only up to a point.  They don’t alter his feelings about himself and he’s not easily deceived.  I am desperately, passionately in love with him.  I want to be his and only his.  I want him and only him.  He is my own personal deity and he makes me happier than I can possibly describe.  But I am an imperfect creature.  Some of the things I think and feel and experience are twisted emotions derived from my perception of his actions, my hormones, or my general level of idiocy.  He knows that and I’m his slave, so clearly it’s not like my word is gospel.  And his tolerance level for manipulation is ZERO.  So he’s not going to play back if I’m trying to be manipulative, even subconsciously. I am a very, very lucky girl that way.

Also, he does not have a problem with criticism.  At all.   He takes it in, processes it, and decides if it’s worthy of his attention. So if I’m “right” about something?  If I’ve observed something in him or his actions that he hasn’t?  He doesn’t have an ego problem, and he will admit when he’s wrong, and he doesn’t sulk or punish anyone around him for it.  He’s too comfortable with who he is.  He should be.  He’s utterly amazing.

I guess the way I look at it is this -  every day, he asks for my thoughts.  My most honest thoughts, no matter what they are.  And I give them to him. He doesn’t ask for them because he feels he needs to change or anything.  He asks for them to get information about me.  Information is power.  So the more information I give him about myself, the more power he has over me.

And that makes for a happy slave.