Why do I keep calling you predator? It’s not about race or skin color.

But you knew that from the words I wrote under that title. Unlike most people, I do not hide behind a vanilla exterior. As long as you’ve been through my blog back and forth, has it not occurred to you that I started looking at you within a leather paradigm the moment we met? Certainly after a few conversations you knew my history and identity. In fact, it occurred to me you were doing a poor attempt at mindfuck. Right now you have, at best, attempted to emulate a Dominant persona without actually being one. I’ll recommend some readings for you, but for now you need to figure out how to not come across as an emotionally toxic person accustomed to being pampered by women you collect and discard.

Are you a Master? Am I a slave? Perhaps. Perhaps not. A Master/slave relationship is a far more healthy connection between two people than the one I have described in my Master/slave poetry. Of course, most vanilla people (again, not race) see all BDSM/leather folk as mentally unhealthy, an assumption I find to be ironic, since I have run into more mentally unhealthy vanilla men than leather men.

Honesty. Openness. Consent. Pride.

That’s missing in your approach to me, and it probably didn’t help that I was slowly descending from a mountain of pain–unaddressed PTSD that emerged in a series of illnesses that put my very life at risk.

Imagine that: get your head together or die. Just like that. I chose to live and it demanded very painful confrontations with everyone in my life having impact on my emotional health, good or bad–and everything in between. I had to clear my desk and go up to the attic to pull out those old records still playing just to smash them into pieces. I had to make phone calls and type out texts that six months ago would have been sitting in my brain rotting and leaking.

Six months ago no one would have expected me to dare to leave such a harsh digital trail. One year ago I was still willing to take yet another face-slap or microaggression and swallow it like fresh sperm. In some ways I was the slave or the unpaid servant for you, emotionally, but I was in the ultimate position of slave in that I was unaware of my state of being. I was being drained by a shaman in a cave in a parallel universe while in an ecstatic trance.

In both universes I had two grand mal seizures that forced me into full consciousness and memory of the far past. All of this feels familiar, as if this has already happened, as if I am writing to you and me in a time-warped teachable moment. Ride along for a bit as I travel back to my leather memories and dreams. My first venture will address the first word that I feel you are most unfamiliar with when it comes to women. Next post will be Consent.

Muse, you are indeed. You got the right one.