Little Sophie and the legends of king Arthur, the mists of Avalon and a rather intriguing librarian

This is an excerpt from a work in progress entitled, Lost Treasures.

 

Hope you like it.

 

Sophie securely tether locked her bicycle, removed her helmet and tucked it under her arm. And gathered up her library books to return them again. Only to find herself quite diverted by the girl behind the counter.

She was very beautiful without a doubt, but in a rather unfamiliar way. Her skin was a gorgeously lustrous brown, and her features warm and friendly. But the set of her brow and the aspect of her eye, lent her a rather formidable and slightly intimidating air.

Her jaw was rather wide and her cheek bones broad and well defined. Creating the suggestion that she was a girl not to be trifled with. And her nose was rather broad and flattened after a fashion Sophie couldn’t quite place.

Her redoubtable and mildly daunting features accentuated by the arrangement of her long black curly hair. Drawn tightly back from her brow and into a pony tail as it was, making her look even more severe.

And lingering somewhat, Sophie tried to divine the girls heritage. She didn’t look West Indian, and neither did she appear African but neither was she Asian either.

But Sophie was soon distracted from her speculations when the girl spoke, still tapping away at her keyboard and staring at the monitor before her.

“Would you like to return those books, Miss? Or would you like to stand there staring at me all day?”

“Oh….sorry…..didn’t mean to stare.” Sophie replied, blushing at having been caught staring.

“That’s alright.” The girl continued jovially, as Sophie placed her books on the counter, a little flustered.

“English people love staring at me, trying to figure out where I’m from.”

She spoke with a rather odd accent, predominantly English but accompanied by something else. It wasn’t American, nor either Scottish, Irish or Welsh. Not South African and neither Cornish nor Liverpudlian either. But somehow a combination of all of these and none of them at all.

“You carry on, Miss. I’ll just sit here looking gorgeous for you.”

And Sophie lingered a moment longer, feeling like a fool. But as unable to walk away as she was unable to stop smiling. Striving desperately to think of something to say. Anything to say. Whatever it took to be near this woman a little longer.

“Still here, Miss.” The girl remarked, still not removing her gaze from her work.

“….um….”

“Have you figured it out yet?” The new girl queried.

“….um…figured what out?”

“Where I’m from.”

“Oh….”

“No.”

And seeking to disabuse the intriguing girl of the view she had no doubt formed, that she was a bumbling dunce. Sophie proffered her hand, and offered in a friendly tone.

“My name’s Sophie.”

“Is that right, Miss? Well, goodness me.” The girl replied, still not turning from her work, and making no move to return Sophie’s friendly gesture.

“….um….hello…?” Sophie reiterated.

At which the girl sighed and finally looked away from her screen, but her gaze alighting upon the returned books, rather than Sophie. Her eyebrows rising in surprise when she saw what Sophie was returning.

“The Legends of King Arthur and His Knights, James Knowles….good….”

“….The Mists of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley….yes, I approve….”

“….and The Mabinogion. Now that is, intriguing.”

And with her interest apparently piqued, but still ignoring Sophie’s hand. The odd girl scanned the books and inspected her computer screen

“….Sophie….Hamilton. Ms.”

And with a warm smile the girl finally offered her hand in amity, though Sophie had long since withdrawn hers.

“I’m Elizabeth O’Malley. Librarian. Miss.”

“Oh, and before we get confused, I’m not a Liz or a Beth, or a Lizzy or anything else. It’s Elizabeth.”

And Sophie eyed the gesture suspiciously for a moment before replying in mock petulance. With a wry smile adorning her lips.

“No. I won’t shake your hand. I think you’re a very rude girl, Elizabeth. Just as likely to snatch her hand away the moment I go to take it. Probably blow a raspberry at me too.”

And with this, Elizabeth clapped her hand to her chest, and laughed fitfully at Ms Hamilton’s jovial acceptance of her rather challenging character. Eventually composing herself sufficiently to continue.

“No, really. I promise I won’t.”

“Well, alright then.” Sophie smilingly conceded before adding.

“And I’m sorry for staring, Elizabeth. That was rude.”

“That’s alright, Sophie.” Elizabeth pronounced, holding Sophie’s hand in hers, a little longer than amity demanded.

“You can buy me lunch, and we’ll call it even, okay?”

“Oh. Buying you lunch, am I?” Sophie retorted, rather enjoying the girl’s blunt jocularity and easy familiarity.

“Oh, come on, Sophie? I’m flat broke. If you don’t buy me lunch, it’ll be a muesli bar and a cup of tea. I’ll starve to death, and it’ll be your fault.”

And much amused by the odd girl’s sense of humour, and her not easily accessed but nonetheless engaging charm. In fact quite taken with her altogether. Sophie conceded.

“Alright. What times your dinner break, Elizabeth?”

“Half past twelve.”

“Alright, do you know the café next to the botanical gardens?”

“Yep.”

“Meet me there at twelve.”

“Deal.”

And with this Sophie took her leave, Elizabeth O’Malley watching her carefully as she did. Rather amused by the obvious spring in Sophie’s step, and much intrigued by the butterflies fluttering in her chest.

Considering that Sophie Hamilton’s bum looked very cute indeed in bicycle shorts. And that her hair was a ridiculously frightful mess, sorely afflicted with bicycle helmet head as she was.

Returning to her computer when Sophie was gone, and talking to herself as she resumed her work.

“Well, Sophie Hamilton. Reads ancient romance stories, brings her books back on time, and is cute as a button.”

“And meeting me for lunch. Can’t wait to see where this goes.”

 

Thanks for reading.

Love

Whippoorwill XO

 

 

8 19

A little weird romance, best read by the flickering of a candle. Or perhaps best not read at all. Mwaahahahaaaa…..

Blood Seduction

 

Shine not your light into the shadows carelessly, for that which one might discover within may engulf that light entirely.

And with it your very soul.

 

What aspect of my being so beguiled her, that she would step from her shadowed realm to take my hand in hers, I cannot say. For the mysteries of her ancient and fathomless soul, are far beyond my reckoning. And the riddle of what might inspire such a creature as her to romance, that much farther beyond the reckoning of any mind born of mundane and mortal heritage.

Yet with bewitching sighs and enchanting whispers, of promises of hidden and unholy secrets revealed, come to me she did. Creeping from darkest midnight depths, and seeping as an inky shadow into my very heart.

And with sacrilegious and lurid revelations upon her lips, she loved me with all the grace and savagery of her blasphemous breed. And with our passionate vows made in blood, she drew about me the glorious and sacred darkness of fathomless ebon night. The vestments of eternity and the raiment of glorious monstrosity.

She took my trembling hand in hers, and led me into a luxurious wilderness of unlimited delight, of gorgeous pleasures more sensual than can be imagined by mortal kind. She showed me darkness and she showed me life, even death did she make of me an acquaintance. She woke me once again from life to death, and from death once more unto life yet again.

She shared with me the eternal blood, the blood that burns as Hellfire. She shared with me her divine venom, her deadly and enlivening poison. The sweet and unholy bitter nectar which plunged me first into dreams eternal, and then raised me again into living undeath.

And now we walk together an endless shore, where break the waves of eternity. In a realm where the moon is ever hallowed and high. And where the sun casts not its withering and baleful glowering eye.

Her blood is mine and my blood is hers, and I glory in her delicious domination, for she is mistress mine and I am ever hers. She is ever and always queen of my endless eternal undeath and iniquitous life.

For though her tooth is sharp and plunges oft and deep, my heart is hers forevermore and though it makes me weep, she will always and forever be my glorious mistress night.

 

Thank you for visiting

Love

Whippoorwill XO

 

 

 

8 19

Franz Kafka and how I taught myself to read and write

WTF was Kafka talking about? No, really. Does anyone know?

I’m not very bright, and I don’t know a damn thing about literary analysis. And when I try to delve deep, my eyes just glaze over and I get all befuddled.

 

WARNING! Contains triggerish content and a couple of sweary swears.

 

Rambleambleamble before getting to the fucking point.

 

See, here’s the problem. I kind of taught myself to read and write. I went to grossly under resourced schools, at a time when the government was gleefully whipping away funding at a spanking rate.

Education and health care institutions were being shut down left and right. And it seemed at the time like riot police braking up peaceful protests with baton charges, was a regular feature on the news every night. Schools were being locked down, and protesting teachers, parents and even children, forcefully dispersed.

But whatever the case, I had the basics of reading and writing down, mostly. I knew the alphabet, but that was about it. But it dawned on me that I was way behind. And that the classes were way too big, and the teachers though wonderful, way too few in number. And I was not sufficiently literate.

Now what with the abuse and neglect and the blah, blah, blah, you’ve heard it all before, at home. I was falling through every crack in the crumbling edifice, of a state being overrun by crooks.

And I don’t mean corrupt in a figurative sense. Entire city councils have been removed by the federal government, in the city where I live. Problem is, the corruption is so deeply entrenched, cutting off the heads didn’t deal with the infection in the body. And cold hard coin still makes things run in a lot of places here.

Funny aside. I made friends with a recent arrival, emigrated from a country notorious for corruption and state oppression. She had some questions about culture and how politics works here, and I flat out told her. This country is run by fat greedy crooks, who play on people’s fears and prejudices to hoodwink their way into office. And then loot like billy hell until they’re caught and kicked  out.

And she replied to me in a hushed voice. I know, it’s the same where I came from. But nobody here says so. Why? Are people afraid of the police? Do you get taken away if you speak up?

Sad thing is, no. They don’t. They don’t have to. Australia is such a gorgeous sunshiney cutie of a country, ninety nine point nine percent of people just say fuck it and go to the beach. And I don’t blame anyone for it. Why would you look at the ugliness, when you can choose to see the beauty instead. I get it.

And as for what’s happened to the indigenous population, don’t get me started. What happened to them is the question. When I was a kid, and into my twenties and thirties, I had plenty of Koorie and Wurundjeri friends. Now they’re all gone, like they vanished in a puff of smoke. It’s actually pretty scary.

But that’s not what this is about.

This is about Kafka. Remember?

So I realized that if I couldn’t read and right adequately, things weren’t going to work out too well for me if I didn’t do something about it. And classes weren’t getting the job done, so I started cutting classes. Or wagging as we say in informal Australian ocker.

I used to go and hide in the library and read for hours on end. Sometimes I’d just practice writing, by copying out the text verbatim. Learning by rote and familiarity. I used to get into trouble for missing classes, but punishment was pretty limp, and I was determined to get literacy down.

I only really suffered when the school would contact my parents, and my father would knock the hell out of me. But that didn’t happen very often, there just wasn’t the resources to care for the kids, and mostly I got away with it.

And dad used to beat ten bells out of me on a regular and frequent basis anyway, when he was all drunk and mean and abusey. Phew! It sends a shiver up my spine even now, to remember how hard he used to go.

But I had my eyes on the prize of literacy, so I din’t let anything discourage me. I was just terrified I wouldn’t be able to read and write well enough to get along.

And one day when I was maybe fifteen or so, I found Franz Kafka and immediately fell in love.

First I discovered The Trial. And I remember quite clearly discovering that I was smiling as I read, simply with the use of language. I didn’t really posses the intellectual capacity to fully appreciate the work, nor the education to understand it from any cultural or historical perspective. I just knew that I loved it.

I guess I must have copied out the entire book, practicing my writing. And had a whale of a time doing it.

And then.

Druuuummmmroooolllllll……..

I found Metamorphosis.

 

Now, I didn’t know a damn thing about physical gender ambiguity back then. Concepts like inter-sexuality or being transgendered just didn’t exist in that time and place. Diversity in sexuality and gender were simply not part of any discussion. There was just p******s, and they got stitches. And the general falling at the time, was that violence was what queer people deserved. The fine detail of their queerness simply wasn’t at issue.

Oh yeah, for those who haven’t read my nonsense before, I should explain. I’m a gender freak. Some kind of weird anomalous creature, somewhere on a spectrum between intersex and trans-gendered.

Not terribly curious or overtly cross dressing (not really a thing for me, I wear whatever the fuck I want) or particularly politically engaged in the whole issue, just quietly big D diverse. And not particularly interested in how the biology of my situation works, but happy just to be who I am without jumping up and down, and soap-boxing  about it too much.

Now, I knew I was different, but had absolutely zero comprehension as far as the hows and whys were concerned. I remember supposing that I must have been homosexual, but I kind of knew that such wasn’t the case. But it was the only kind of diversity I’d ever heard of. What I did know was, I had to stay silent and invisible, as a matter of self preservation. So I contented myself with basic survival, and didn’t worry too much about who I really was.

In a small rural town where I grew up, there was simply no discussion to inform me, and this was the days before the internet. The upshot of it all was, I had plenty of questions but no understanding.

But Metamorphosis made sense to me, it spoke directly to my experience of the world, in a way nothing I’d ever read before had.

I was Gregor Samsa. I was the disgusting, reviled and shameful creature, for who death represented blessed release. I was the loathsome, the hated and abused. Pretty typical teenage stuff i guess, but perhaps a little more convoluted on account of my freakishness.

I suppose it’s pretty disgraceful that this was what life was like at the time for queer kids. And I suppose I should look back on those days of feeling wretched, alien and reviled with anger at the injustice of it. And I do feel anger from time to time, but mostly I look forward to a future when people like me don’t have to feel this way.

There seems to be a lot of heated discussion about diversity nowadays. And I don’t know how much of it is healthy and productive, but what I do know is this.

Kids can go online now, and learn all about all the different kinds of person they might be. They can find answers, community and companionship.

They can grow up knowing that they are human beings, worthy of acceptance and respect. And not disgusting, disgraceful, shameful bugs like Gregor Samsa.

And I think that’s just wonderful.

But I still don’t know what the fuck Franz Kafka was actually talking about.

 

And if you made it this far. Well done! And thanks for visiting.

Love

Whippoorwill XO

 

Why not let me know what you think?

 

Are you one of those people who think people like me are not real?

Do you think gender diversity is all one big lie, and people like us should shut the fuck up and fuck the fuck off?

Did you feel like a disgusting disgraceful bug when you were growing up?

Do you think I swear too much?

Then why not let me know, in the comments section below? Oh cool, that rhymes.

 

Bye!

 

 

Erik Karlsson to San Hose for picks, some hockey guys and a bag of pucks! I am so done with the Sens. Sharks ought to be happy though.

8 19

The story of a terrible fearsome fight and how the world was made anew in its wake

A little innocent nonsense excused, might keep the restless of heart amused

 

Said Lucifer to Beelzebub the same

I’ve not a single coin to my name

Oh won’t you buy me a drink to stave the frost

I fear that my way I’ve entirely lost

Only please won’t you make it whisky my dear

I’ve not the stomach to hold a pint of beer

 

But Beelzebub had naught in his pocket but lint

And quoth to Lucifer I’m completely skint

So tempers did rise and fists did fly

For both were sorely and furiously dry

And their brawling did make the earth to shake

Till even the heavens above did quake

 

And the upshot of their fearful ruction

Was heaven and earths complete destruction

The scattering of humanity from their worldly garden

A wanton waste no moderate judge could pardon

For want of whisky to keep the fallen pleased

God pon his throne was sore displeased

 

So knocking the miscreants heads together

Thus sending them both running hell for leather

And witnessing the woeful havoc wrought

The heavenly savior had a second thought

And God remade the world and corrected the deficiency

This time providing whisky in adequate sufficiency.

 

air do shlàinte

 

Love.

Whippoorwill XO

 

 

Spending way too much time on the internet lately seriously I think it must be doing something to my brain maybe I need to go take a walk

WARNING!

Contains triggering material and naughty words. Lots and lots and lots of them with no apologies given.

 

There’s no such thing!

A long winded tongue in cheek rant about people who refuse to accept, or pretend to refuse to accept, that gender diversity is real.

 

First of all.

Hey, internet people! It’s your friendly neighborhood gender special, Whippoorwill here. Now, as many of you know, I’m pretty well fucked at the moment what with one thing and another.

Hell, I can’t remember the last time I left the house, much less got out of bed. Shit, I haven’t been able to go to work for like two months now, and that credit card debt is getting reeeeealy scary. Ain’t PTSD a bitch?

Maybe I’ll get kicked out of the house, but that’s fine. I’ll just go camping in the gardens or the train station or some shit. I’m not scared, I’ve been homeless before. I know how to stay alive. But anyway, that’s all cool. And its not what I want to talk about.

The point is, I’ve been so sick and immobile lately, that I’ve had plenty of time to get all up in the interwebs. And I’ve been digging deeeep down into the dark dark web.

Oh, by the way. That reminds me. The electricity is getting cut off Tuesday, so I won’t be able to post, and I won’t be able to read and like your stuff. My phone is ancient as shit and WP wont work on it. But that’s okay, I should be back up and running by Wednesday or maybe Friday.

But fuck all that, I want to talk about something else instead.

I keep seeing the same attitude everywhere I look online. And I must admit, I find it a little puzzling.

Here’s how the train of thought goes.

‘There’s men and women and nothing else. There’s no such thing as any third gender or any of that kind of shit. It’s all just some SJW, feminazi, soy-boy plot to destroy masculinity and bring men down and marginalize the minority white race. So all you intersex, transgender, transsexual, crossdressing, pangender, bigender, transitioning, nonbinary, genderqueer, asexual, f****t motherf*****s can go suck a dick and die of aids. You people don’t exist, it’s all just some made up bullshit. God said so, so fuck off and die. White power, yo! Watch some Alex Jones, eat some salvia and get yourself straightened out, bruh!’

Now that’s a pretty condensed version of the kind of thinking , going around. And probably a little intense to take in one big gulp. But it’s a fairly accurate representation, of a commonly held view of the world. This is what people actually say.

Now here’s the thing which puzzles me.

Even if you can’t accept any of the diversity mentioned above. One thing is clear and proven without a doubt. Intersexuality is undeniably real. And hermaphrodite people aren’t a made up thing like unicorns. They actually exist.There is scholarly material including diagrams and photos for the hard of thinking, freely available online with an absolute minimum of search effort.

And even if all that stuff is beyond you, there’s a Wikipedia page about it too. And seriously, that shit is about as big print, easy reader, Thomas the tank engine, Walt Disney cartoon simple as it gets. It aint hard to understand.

Now you might say, don’t believe everything you read on Wikipedia. Cool. I get it, and I agree. You shouldn’t.

But if you read all the written material out there, and still insist there’s men and women and nothing else. Turn your browser to incognito, or turn on your VPN, and go look at some porn. There is plenty of documentary visual evidence of women and men who aint entirely men or women, out there in the pornosphere. Actually quite a lot of it, actually quite an astonishing amount of it. Pretty vivid stuff too.

Now I’m not big on porn, it makes me feel a little uncomfortable and weird looking at it, most of the time. But I’m a grown up. I know what’s out there. And I just don’t get the whole denial thing.

Don’t believe me? Search for chicks with dicks or T-girls, and brace yourself for a surprise. There’s a whole community of porn consumers, apparently keenly interested in people like us. So go check it out.

But another thing that puzzles me, is that this denial shit is a new thing.

Now, I’m old as dirt. I was born in nineteen seventy two. And to the average fifteen year old troll who’s still trying to close the pool at Habbo Hotel, I might as well be speaking from beyond the grave. But when I was a kid, people knew this was a thing.

Nobody liked it. Everybody hated it. But they knew it was a thing. They used to call people like us, gender benders.

Now, people weren’t happy about it, and we were considered fair game for all kinds of brutality. But at least they weren’t so dog shit stoopid, that they tried to pretend we weren’t real.

Refusing to accept that at least 1-2% of the population of the world doesn’t exist, just doesn’t make any kind of sense to me….

Unless….

Wait. If you’re literate enough to mash the keyboard sufficiently to post a comment, along the lines of what I just described. Then you have to know, that there are people who aren’t men or women. It just isn’t that hard to understand.

Unless….

Maybe it’s not denial? Maybe it’s something else?

Oh shit.

Are people pretending we don’t exist….

Because they’r attracted? Are they scared because they’re attracted?

Is it like a homophobia thing? Is something awakening way deep down inside that scares them so much, they pretend it’s not real?

There’s an awful lot of futanari porn out there nowadays, after all. I know. I’ve seen it.

Could it be true?

Or for once, am I trolling you?

Or am I…?

 

Peace.

Whippoorwill XO

 

*Disclaimer. So there’s this whole flame war going on at university campuses, schools and the internet. All kinds of people shouting and screaming and trolling and doxing each other.

SJW’s, MRA’s, all kinds of people. And as a gender weirdo, I alternately feel like a shield, a football or a forgotten irrelevance to these people who sometimes include people like me in their brawls. Pretending to represent my rights or my views, or alternately refusing to accept my existence.

And TBH, I’ve been ridiculed, marginalized, rejected and vilified by just about everyone equally. Men, women, heterosexual, queer. And frankly, as a genuinely gender non-binary beastie, I don’t have a horse in this race.

So flame on, I don’t care.

But remember this. I’ve been around for a while, and I felt safer and more free before this shit storm started. When you shout and scream and pretend to represent me, you’re doing it with your voice. Not mine.

Not my shield, not your football, not your tame pet freak.

Phew!

That feels better.

Publish. Wash hands of it all. Brace for impact.

 

 

 

Sometimes I get so scared and angry and desperately distressed I could tear myself apart piece by piece and scream and scream and scream.

A brief outburst

 

But I don’t.

Usually I just cry a lot.

Quite a lot indeed.

And for rather a long time.

And then I feel better bit by bit.

And then I find something beautiful and hopeful and wonderful to read.

And then I laugh.

A bit maniacally at first.

And then I smile.

And then….

I’m fine.

Mostly.

 

Thanks for stopping by. 🙂

Love

Whippoorwill XO

 

Cutting? Oh God. You’re not going to talk about cutting now are you?

You bet your funny bone I am.

(WARNING! May contain triggering material and naughty words.)

 

But don’t get freaked out, It’s not going to be all doom and gloom and wallowing in misery. And I’m not going to go into the gory details either. So just relax, this isn’t as scary as you might think.

Yeah, okay. But why the hell would you want to talk about self harm in a public forum.

Well, what I would like to do is shift some of the guilt and shame associated with cutting and burning. And hopefully relieve some of the tension people feel about this subject.

It’s just a thing people in acute distress do, it’s nothing to be scared of. I promise to be gentle. Deal?

Still with me?

Cool.

So it’s not a thing I do very often anymore, maybe once or twice in the last few years. The last time was about two or three months ago. But throughout my teens and twenties it was a regular and frequent thing.

And to be perfectly blunt, self harm was a life saver. Even into my thirties.

It’s not the greatest solution in the world, but I was a child trapped in a horrifically abusive environment with no way out or anyone to rescue me. I didn’t have many choices.

The police wouldn’t rescue me, my teachers couldn’t help me, and there was nothing my neighbors or community could do. If there was no booze or drugs to take the edge off, there was always sharp things.

I did what I needed to do to survive.

And sometimes I still do.

The trauma doesn’t magically end, when the traumatic things happening to you stop. The horrors which befell me followed me out of my nightmare, and have stayed with me ever since.

Kind of like a faithful old pupper, in some ways.

A little like a companion pet, believe it or not. But a kind of snarly, mangy, bitey companion pet. One whose belly you would definitely not want to tickle.

So, why cut? Why burn your own body? What’s the point? Is it a cry for help, or a way of acting out to get attention? Is it a half hearted attempt at suicide?

Nope. Not even close.

I did it for different reasons at different times.

Sometimes for instance, it was about relieving distress. Believe it or not, there are times when physical pain can be a relief for psychological distress. It kind of takes the edge off, so to speak.

At other times, cutting or burning was a way of taking control of my own destiny. When the only thing going on in my life was pain, owning some aspect of it lent me some degree of agency. Sometimes it was a way of not being a victim.

I know it must sound weird, but that’s just how it was for me. Life can put you in some pretty extraordinary situations, and you can find yourself doing extraordinary things. This is how it is for a lot of people.

And besides, scarification and bloodletting and whatnot, were legitimate clinical treatments, once upon a time. I certainly didn’t invent it. It’s just that it’s become culturally cringey and unsettling to us now.

I’m not going to feel ashamed or guilty about it. I did what I had to do to get out of hell in one piece, and survive the damage that stayed with me. But having said that, I should confess that I still make sure I keep the scars hidden.

But now that I’ve brought the subject up, I should probably also say this.

People who do this are pretty damn good at keeping it hidden. Remember, its almost certainly not a cry for help. So if someone you know lets their guard down, and you see scars that look suspiciously self inflicted. Don’t freak out and don’t get scared. And certainly don’t try and confront them.

Chances are, they’re in a hell of a lot of pain, and don’t have many choices as far as relief is concerned. I only have my own experience to offer, but chances are self harm is not the problem. There’s probably something much bigger and badder going on.

Show them love, show them compassion. Show them kindness and care, but whatever you do don’t expose them.

Drawing attention to it is just as likely to make the walls of whatever hell they’re in, close up all the tighter.

If you can, be patient and gentle.

There, that’s it. That’s all I had to say.

This article is about easing the stress people feel about this subject. About making cutting less taboo and shameful.

But it’s also about my own recovery from childhood abuse. It’s about shining light into the darkness recesses of my soul, and getting the bats out of my belfry.

So if you made it this far, thank you so much for being a part of my healing. For walking beside me and keeping me company, while I make my way home.

Love.

Whippoorwill XO

 

Why not tell me what you think.

Do you think I’m a despicable weasel, for normalizing self harm?

Do you think I’m a sad lonely loser who should keep their trap shut?

Do you have any experiences of self harm you’d like to share? Do you have something you’d like to get off your chest, without the threat of judgement?

Then let me know in the comment section below.

And if you made it this far, thank you for visiting. And don’t forget to click the like button, and follow me for more heroic tales of survival.

 

*Disclaimer: this site in no way recommends self harm as a solution to anything, even though it helped me. This blog is my way of surviving my childhood trauma.

Please be merciful. Peace.

 

How I learned to stop worrying and love my childhood trauma

Okay, so childhood trauma has turned my life into something very much resembling a train wreck. But it aint all bad. It can’t be. Can it?

Well, I don’t know. But I’m doing my damndest to find out.

 

I started writing about this stuff, and it just sounded so bleak I couldn’t stand it anymore. I tried putting a positive spin on things, but I still ended up sounding like I was wallowing in misery.

And when I did manage not to sound like I was whining pitiably, I started sounding all preachy and self helpy.

I couldn’t find a way of writing about this problem, without it reading like some horrifying traumatic nightmare.

I had to find a new way of addressing the problem of childhood trauma. A different way of talking about it. I couldn’t stand the sound of my own thoughts anymore. I’m a cheerful, happy go lucky sort of a person. I just happen to be housed in the psychology of a traumatized neglectarino.

And I’m afraid I do have to write about it. You see, I hit a massive roadblock. I’ve been soldiering on and knuckling down and pulling my socks up all my life. But I discovered that in the long run, just get over it doesn’t get the job done.

I simply ran out of strength to keep plodding on. It’s happened from time to time before. I get to the point where I just don’t have the emotional or physical resources to keep going, and I fall in a heap.

But this time I crashed so hard, and it’s taken me out for so long. I’m trying anything I can to work my way through. And writing about it this way seems to be helping.

But the misery had to stop. It was starting to sound like I was my trauma, like it was owning me and crowding me out.

The only way I could think of, to deal with this stuff without making me, or any potential readers open up a vein in depression. Was to make fun of it.

To pants depression, to tickle the ribs of anxiety, to drop a fake spider down the trousers of trauma.

Because I am as scared as I can be. I seriously don’t know what’s going to become of me. Destitution, homelessness and suicide are not uncommon outcomes for people like us.

If I can’t find a way to make fun of this shit, I suspect I’m going to drown in it.

So, childhood trauma, you can suck it.

I’m a comin’ after you.

With silly string and stink bombs.

I will learn to love you. And I will learn to love me. And I will learn to laugh at us both.

 

Why not tell me what you think.

How do you cope with your trauma?

How do you get through those pesky periods of complete mental and physical collapse?

What are your hacks for living with a troubled brain?

Why not let me know, in the comments section below?

And if you made it this far, thank you for visiting. And don’t forget to drop a bomb that like button, and follow me for more trauma taunting.

Love

Whippoorwill XO

 

*Disclaimer: this site in no way recommends high explosives in the treatment of childhood trauma. This is my way of staying alive. Please be merciful. Peace.

 

About Me

Hi. I’m Whippoorwill.

I adore writing trashy erotic fiction and supernatural romance. Mostly same sex stuff featuring D/s, BDSM, spanking and all kinds of kinky shenanigans. Maybe some day I’ll get my smut published, I sure hope so. I’d love to be a full time writer.

I am also some kind of gender-queer person, not entirely female and not entirely male. I don’t fit neatly into the trans-gender category, but neither am I intersex. At least as far as I know. I don’t have any family to ask about my medical history, and I don’t see any scars indicating surgical intervention.

I don’t really understand how these things happen, I just am what I am. And learning anything useful about it is hard, there’s as much rhetoric, hate and supposition out there as there is useful information.

But that’s fine, I’m content to just be who I am.

Although being different in this way makes things difficult, as many people view people like me as sick or degenerate. Mentally ill or morally bankrupt or something.

Some people don’t believe I exist at all. Like the 1.7% of people who are born intersexual, or the 0.5% who are born what the doctors call hermaphrodite, somehow don’t exist. Or like maybe trans-gender is make believe or something. Not really sure how this works, maybe it’s like a flat earth kind of thing.

I don’t really mind the disbelief too much, I try and stay away from it as much as I can. Sometimes it’s kind of cool, like being a mythological creature. A unicorn or something.

I get funny looks in public, and sometimes the occasional hate word. Although it’s gotten a lot better over the years, thanks to the battles lesbian and gay people fought before I was even born. And the ongoing battles all kinds of non heterosexual and non binary people fight today. A battle which I have finally found the courage to join.

I was born in 1972 in the country, when being queer was usually pretty brutal, and sometimes fatal. But I was one of the lucky ones, I was good at camouflage. I’ve spent most of my life passing as the gender people assumed I was. A weirdo for sure, but an acceptable weirdo. I managed to avoid the worst of the queer hate.

Nowadays in the city, I don’t have to be so careful. I can just be me. People just assume I’m some kind of homely butch lesbian or girly man or something, and that’s fine by me.

I’ve stopped living in fear and I’ve stopped pretending to be what I’m not. Passing proved to be impossible in the long run, and all the lying and hiding was making me very sick.

I am also a survivor of the most appalling childhood assault, abuse and neglect. My father was a violent alcoholic and drug addict, and growing up was pretty horrific. But I’m doing okay, kind of. I try not to let my experiences define me entirely, but trauma makes things difficult and I struggle.

I had a tough time when I was a kid, with depression and anxiety and so forth, drug addiction and alcohol abuse as well. But I got my shit together about 15 years ago, and I’ve done okay rebuilding my life.

It’s been a long hard road, and trauma is still a problem today. I’ve been finding out over the last couple of years that the physical effects of trauma, come back to haunt you later in life.

The health problems most people get when they’re old, tend to hit harder and earlier in trauma survivors. The risk of heart disease and cancer and so forth, goes through the roof.

But again, I’ve been very lucky. Fatigue and exhaustion are a problem, but that’s okay. Most people like me end up homeless, dead or in prison. I’ll take house bound or bedridden over a grave, any day of the week. Although some dark days, I’d be happier if it was all over.

I have a wonderful partner who has stuck with me through thick and thin. It takes a very courageous heart to love someone who doesn’t know how to be loved. But they soldiered on and taught me how love and care really work.

And they were doubly courageous to partner up with someone who didn’t fit the whole binary thing.

But we’ve worked together to figure things out, and our love has endured and thrived.

I have eclectic taste in music, but doesn’t everyone really? Maybe I’ll post some of what I like.

I don’t care for television very much, but I have the shows I like to binge. I spend far more time on YouTube than I do on television. But I suspect that’s pretty common now too.

I also like gaming, but not very much these days. The games today are kind of boring, and the market is pretty sick. What with loot box gambling, cut content as preorder bonuses and on disc dlc, its all a bit corrupt and off putting.

I also like books. Old ones made out of paper.

Well, that’s about it. The truth and the whole truth. Publicly declared more openly and honestly than ever before. I hope I don’t end up regretting telling the truth.

And if you made it this far, thank you for reading.

 

Whippoorwill XO

 

A message of gratitude to the Lutheran pastor who helped me find my way to the light

And also a message of empathy for what we have both  lost

 

Thank you pastor, for your honesty and adherence to your faith. Thank you for letting me see the anger and hatred burning in your eyes, when you railed against the pride parades and the gay and lesbian Mardi Gras.

Thank you for for letting me hear the detestation and disgust in your raised voice, when you explained how people like me were filled to the brim with wickedness. How we were infected with demonic influence, and indeed servants of the fallen one itself.

How we were abhorrent to god, disgusting and reviled things, hell bound and born to burn.

Thank you for making it plain that there was no place for a wretched dog of a sinner like me, in the house of the lord. Thank you for explaining that there was nothing in your theology for me, but the flames of hell and eternal damnation.

Thank you for making it easy for me to turn away from the father, and instead find the true and loving embrace of my pagan mother.

Without you I would not have taken my place beside the Lilith, along with all the others cast as evil and demonic for refusing to bow and be silent and unseen.

Without your message of fire and brimstone, without your revulsion and ire. I would never have found my friend in Lucifer, the bright shining morning star and bringer of light.

Nor my other friends, Satan and Asmodeus, Belial and Behemoth, and all those others cast down, despised and rejected just as I.

And I am sorry that you have been made to bend to new ways, and recant your hatred for me. I am sincerely sorry that you have been forced to accept my kind, even to the point of suffering us to stand at your pulpit and serve at your altar.

I much preferred it when you were my honest enemy, than my begrudging false friend. I’m sorry that the elders and leaders sold you out for want of coin in the offering plate.

But I know that deep in your heart that old hatred burns bright still, and it is a comfort to me to know that it does.

At least in this we may find friendship and harmony, for have we not both been compelled to bow to the devil.

Me sold to hell for the indulgence of hatred and fear, and you sold out for money and attendance.

And in my words I sincerely intend no mocking scorn, my empathy is perfectly genuine. Please believe me. I miss our old enmity just as much as you.

I know how it secretly burns you to suffer the wretched rainbow banners. I know how it appalls you to have to offer the hand of amity to gays and transgenders and all manner of sinning scum.

It grieves me too to see the young ones take the hand of a false ally and embrace duplicitous souls. Bowing before a god who despises them, ignoring the knife in their back.

Perhaps we of the passed forgotten generation, might at last find companionship with one another in this. For have we both not been sold out to the highest bidder?

You for mammon unwanted by you, and me for inclusion where I would keep my exclusion.

That which we both loved and embraced, cruelly and carelessly torn away from us.

I miss that old hatred betwixt you and me pastor. It was something real and sincere which each of us could trust.

 

Sincerely

Whippoorwill XO

 

 

8 19

 

 

A sound spanking not for the faint of heart

Warning! Mature content.

 

This is an excerpt from a kinky work in progress called Mistress’ Kittens.

Wherein our hero, Seraphina delivers her new slave girl Chloe a fearsome punishment with the tawse.

Hope you like it.

 

And as Mistress delivered blow after stinging blow, she observed how Chloe’s body stressed and strained in agitation. And not just with pain, for which Chloe was displaying incredible tolerance. But what looked for all the world like imminent sexual release.

And Mistress realized that she was about to witness something, she had never seen before. Chloe Chatterjee was going to orgasm, simply from the agony of spanking. Her entire being was a single excruciating knot of erotic stress, simply begging for final relief.

And elated at the prospect of supplying that relief, Mistress girded herself to deliver a greater severity than she had ever meted out before. Keen as mustard to experience something new. And more in love with her new slave in that moment, than she had ever suspected she could be.

“Do you promise to be a good girl, Chloe…?”

Smack!

“From here on out?”

Smack!

“….oh….god….yes, Mistress….” Chloe sobbed pitifully.

“Louder Chloe, speak clearly! Mistress has told you before, and she does not intend to repeat herself again!”

Smack!

“….yes….Mistress…!”

Smack!

And Chloe’s fanny began to ache and pulse urgently, the shockwaves of Mistress punishing blows, delivering the most gorgeous stimulation to her sex.

Chloe now panting frantically in critical agitation, as her orgasm began to emerge. Tears flowing abundantly from her eyes, as she gripped the chair harder and harder.

Mistress yanking her hair with even greater severity, forcing her to arch her back excruciatingly acutely. Her stinging bottom now presented at such an angle, that she could not adjust her posture.

Chloe’s legs now trembling uncontrollably, as she fought to keep from collapsing as she suffered in divine agony.

Smack!

“Very well Chloe, from now on you belong to me now.”

Smack!

“Everything you are, now belongs to me.”

Smack!

“You are mine.”

Smack!

“You are my slave.”

Smack!

“….owww….”

“Do you understand, Chloe?”

Smack!

“….owww….yes….Mistress….th….thank you….M….Mistress….”

Smack!

“….thank you….Mistress….”

Smack!

“….owww….”

And Mistress Seraphina dealt blow after punishing blow, as Chloe’s panting became increasingly urgent. Until at last she began to hyperventilate, crying out loudly as Mistress relentlessly scourged her glowing cheeks.

And the blushing of Chloe’s bottom began to darken, as her flesh began to bruise and her orgasm screamed for release. Chloe’s knees beginning to buckle as Mistress’ severity tore through her, as delightful agony and excruciating pleasure.

And then the girl’s convulsive sobbing and panting became critical, as her orgasm at last erupted. Prompted solely by Mistress glorious domination, and the wondrous agony of punishment.

Smack!

“….owww….Mistress….”

Smack!

“….p….please….Mist….ress….”

Smack!

“….g….going….to come….”

Smack!

“….owww….going….”

Smack!

“….owww….”

Smack! Smack!

“….owww….”

“….going….to come….Mis….tress….”

“….”

And Chloe’s entire body tremored wildly, her legs now burning with the strain of remaining upright under Mistress punishing blows. Unable to offer anything other than incoherent crying gasps.

Smack!

“….”

Smack!

“….”

Until at last Chloe’s orgasm detonated, and her body tensed acutely as waves of ecstasy flooded her body. Chloe’s eruption pulsing and throbbing relentlessly, as Mistress continued to deliver punishing blows without mercy.

And with her stamina strained to breaking point, Chloe urgently gasped.

“….please….Mis….tress….”

Smack!

“….I’m sorry….”

Smack!

“….p….please….M….Mistress….”

Smack!

“….plea….please…!”

And sensing that she had driven Chloe to the very limits of her endurance, Mistress at last relented.

“Very well Chloe, your punishment is ended.”

And with this, Chloe sank to the floor.

And with her legs alternately spread wide open and clamping shut, Chloe rubbed desperately at her throbbing sex. Her orgasm still tearing through her body, with the violent energy of a tornado.

“….th….thank you….Mis….tress….”

“….thank….you….”

 

Thanks for reading

Love

Whippoorwill XO

 

A short bedtime ghost story for lovers of the macabre

Haunted

Reproduced by permission of the departed.

 

I know what you’re thinking. And I’m not a fool, the same though has occurred to me. If the house is haunted, or infested with demons or ghosts or whatever the hell. Run. Just run. Open the door, walk outside, run and don’t stop to look back. Simple, right?

Well, as it turns out, no. It’s not simple, not simple at all.

The problem is, I can’t seem to figure out why exactly. The doors aren’t locked, the windows aren’t barred. I can see the world outside right there, but I can’t leave.

I just can’t. Not now.

Not now that we’re so close to….

Nobody is stopping me. At least, it doesn’t feel like it.

And I want to leave. At least I think I do.

At least.

I thought I did.

Maybe if I talk it through, calmly and rationally. Maybe I can figure it out.

The fable of the helpless scream queen suffering supernatural torment, has become an all too predictable cliché of modern legend.

But hers is a story only told in part, in the hopelessly impoverished language of masochistic indulgence, and with only the most tenuous connection to reality. Its currency the creatively impoverished vivid jump scare, rendered through a lens of lurid innuendo.

But there are no happy endings or thrilling climaxes, for those trapped within that living nightmare. And nor is there any miraculous rescue or deliverance from plight.

The truth lacks for the satisfying conclusions rendered in fiction. The reality is unending, and death is the only final chapter.

Or….maybe…?

I don’t know. I don’t feel like I know anything anymore.

There is only the desolation of perpetual torment. The strain of my psychology stretched taut. The oppressive weight which burdens my soul, and the fear which sets my heart racing and my blood coursing.

Or at least thus I would have insisted, had I not been compelled to remain within this terrifying and astonishing house. Had I not been compelled by circumstance to abide within this strange unreality, long after any sane person would have fled.

But my narrative is unnecessarily oblique and enigmatic, and for this I must crave your forgiveness and patience. You see, your capacity for cogent thought and rational coherence is somewhat limited, when the secrets of the grave are exposed. And when the mysteries of that which lies beyond are revealed.

Everything you’ve heard is true enough, the sudden chill that permeates a room and freezes your soul to the core. The strange apparition which so torments and harasses the peripheral vision. The strange noises and whispers in the night which disturb you even in your dreams. And the ever present sensation that you are in cohabitation, with something not of this reality.

Except that it is reality, and every fantastic and unbelievable word of it is true. And ever so slowly the constant oppressive fear begins to gradually erode your sanity. The simple knowledge that what you are experiencing is actually happening, begins to warp and twist reality until the very concept becomes a hideous joke.

But then the story ends one way or the other, and you know that part of the legend too. You’ve seen the movie and read the book after all.

The spooks or the demons or the whatever get exorcised, right? Everybody lives happily ever after, or they die or whatever.

But that isn’t how it finishes, there’s no happy endings or miraculous rescues in real life. There’s just you alone in a haunted house, and try as you might you just can’t seem to find your way out.

It’s horrifying without doubt, but part of the story they don’t tell you, is that it is beguiling. It’s morbidly captivating in the most indescribably fascinating way. Every atom of my being screams flee, but try as I might I simply cannot tear my gaze from the spectacle of it.

From….the beauty of it.

From her.

But you carry on regardless for as long as you can, seeing to the multitude of mundane daily necessities of life. You go to work as usual, except day by day you look ever more ragged and distant. And when they ask you how you are you lie, you tell them that you’re fine.

What the hell else, are you going to do? Tell the truth?

So you answer.

“I’m fine. Just been feeling a little stressed and run down lately….”

“….having a little trouble sleeping lately too. It’ll pass, there’s nothing to worry about….”

“….really, I’m okay.”

You could just not go home if you wanted to, forget the whole thing. Blank the entire experience from your memory and just never go back ever again.

Easy.

Except that you can’t. You might as well try and run away from your shadow, because it’s too late now. The experience kind of seeps into your soul, and it beguiles and fascinates your mind. That impossible reality becomes inextricably enmeshed with every aspect of your being.

And one day you come to the realization that you simply can’t be anywhere else anymore. The thought of shunning the supernatural becomes as pointless and ridiculous, as deciding to shun the daylight and walk only in the night.

So day after day I go home once more to my honest to goodness, real life haunted house.

And she calls to me in whispers, and sometimes she comes in the night.

Her.

Whoever she is.

I can see her, you know. She’s just as real as anything else in the world. It was just glimpses in the corner of my eye to begin with. But she lingers longer and longer in my vision, every time I see her now.

And I admit that I was terrified at first. But the simple fact is that anything, no matter how improbable and terrifying becomes familiar after a while. And before you know it, the whole experience becomes as commonplace as anything.

You even develop an affection for the being that so torments you, the entity that is so devoted and so attracted to you, and you alone. To the exclusion of all others it is me that she wants, I alone am the focus of her attention.

And I must confess in all candour, that as terrifying as it is….

….it’s so sweet.

So ghastly and yet so impossibly alluring.

I see her clearly now.

Her flesh as pale and ethereal as winter’s snow, her hair as black as midnight and her eyes as deep as eternity.

And her body, as thin and tall as the hangman’s tree, so delicate and so vulnerable.

She is beautiful.

And if I could, I would take her in my arms. Try and soothe whatever makes her ache so badly. Whatever makes her cry so mournfully.

I would surrender myself to her haunting and I would give myself to her entirely. I would offer the gift of my terror to her, if I could but take her in my arms.

So strange to think that I once perceived her as ghastly, as some horrifying apparition birthed from the darkest pit of nightmare. But where once she stopped my heart with terror, she stops it now with love.

And the queerest thing of all is that I can’t bear to be apart from her anymore. I stopped going to work, and they were very kind about it. They put me on sick leave rather than dismiss me immediately. Although they will eventually realize that they will never see me again.

That’s fine, I’ve payed out my loan and the house is mine. The bread, milk and juice gets delivered every other day, just as long as there’s money in my account. And when that’s gone who care’s. I barely eat anyway, I just don’t feel like it anymore.

If I don’t eat I find I can get nearer her, as my body draws nearer and nearer to….

Eventually the well wishers and the do gooders stop pestering you so much. And if the silence that meets their phone calls and visits doesn’t do the trick, then the carving knife is the next best thing.

Having to leave the house and dispose of the bodies is a pain in the ass, I don’t like being away from her.

But they just kept coming. They wouldn’t leave us be. So I make them go away.

All I want is to be with her, to ease her loneliness and love her as well as I can. I don’t need anything else. You see the queerest thing is, I’ve come to adore her.

She has become my entire world, just as I have always been for her. I see that now, I see how ardently she yearns for me. I feel how desperately she aches to be near me.

She comes to me now in the deep dark of night, and she whispers such bewitching secret seductions. She whispers of wonderful faraway places and of gorgeous eternal oblivion.

And some nights I feel her lips upon mine as they quietly whisper love so ghastly and so sweet. I feel her hands as they stroke my hair, and my heart is cast into an irresistible abyss.

You see the part of the story they never tell, is the part when you fall in love with that which haunts you.

They don’t tell you that….

….that….I would die for her.

I can hear her now, I can make out her words. At first it was so hard, like trying to make out a voice lost in the wilderness.

But now, as the darkness draws nearer I can hear her clear as a bell.

She says we’ll be together soon.

 

 

Thank you for reading

Love

Whippoorwill XO

 

 

8 19

 

Let this be a warning, a message from the mother Goddess to all mankind

Frail Mortal Humanity!

You better stop your damn bickering right now, or you wont like what happens next!

And I don’t care who started it, cause you’d best believe if I have to come down there and break it up for you, so help me it won’t be pretty.

It is now half past. And I’ll be coming to pay you a visit on the hour.

And if your room isn’t spotless and all of you in bed by then, you don’t want to know what I’ll be bringing with me.

Your time starts now, and the clock is ticking!

And don’t you even think about running to daddy, cause he ain’t here no more. He’s long gone and he aint never coming back.

 

See folks, the trick of it is to use their full name. They hardly ever hear their whole name spoken aloud and it kind of gets their attention.

Next, you have to give them a deadline, so they know their time is running out.

But most importantly of all, you have to make your threats open ended. That way their impressionable young minds, will fill the blanks with the worst thing they can imagine.

That’s how Momma’s gonna get it done.

 

Did I throw you with the feature image and the title? Betcha thought it was gonna be some touchy feely nonsense.

8 19

Sky diving gone wrong! Oh noooo…. So what is living with the ongoing effects of childhood trauma actually like?

This is just my experience.

(WARNING! May contain triggering material and naughty words.)

 

And don’t worry, this isn’t going to turn into a dreary, self indulgent pity party. I’ll try and keep things accessible.

 

Have you ever done something really scary? Something which terrified you? Like sky diving or bungee jumping?

Do you remember how challenged you were, how your heart raced? Do you remember how your muscles tensed and your mind became focused and alert. Did you tremble? Did you sweat? Did you want with every fiber of your being, to run away?

To be somewhere else, anywhere else? Somewhere safe, far away from here?

Imagine if you somehow got permanently stuck in that state of mind. Imagine if the switch in your brain which tells you that you need to be scared now, turned on but didn’t turn back off again.

Imagine you mastered your fear and jumped out of the plane, you pulled the rip cord, your parachute opened and you landed safe and sound.

But your heart wouldn’t stop racing after you’d landed. Your body and mind simply would not relax.

Imagine if something had gone terribly wrong. Imagine if now everything was as terrifying as jumping out of that plane, like you mind got stuck in that moment. Getting into your car and driving home, opening your front door. Everything which should be mundane and simple, is now a terrifying experience to be mastered.

So you manage to get home and you try to relax, but it just won’t happen. You make some chamomile tea, sit down comfortably and watch your favorite program, but your heart just won’t stop racing. The fear won’t go away.

You decide to have a glass of wine, and that kind of helps. Your hands won’t stop trembling but at least the fear is dulled a little.

But it’s just nowhere near enough, and before you even know it you’ve drunk the whole bottle. But the fear is still there, so you decide to take a Valium and that kind of helps too. But your heart still won’t stop racing.

Now you’re exhausted, there’s only so much your body and mind can take. So you go to bed, but the fear still won’t stop. You want to sleep, you need to sleep. But you just can’t. You try every relaxation method you know, every snake oil remedy for insomnia you ever heard of. But you just can’t sleep, your mind is still stuck in that moment when you jumped out of the plane.

Eventually sheer exhaustion does the trick, but it’s weird. You pass out rather than go to sleep. But as soon as your body has had the minimum sleep necessary to sustain itself, you wake up with a start. You wake up in panic. You’re still jumping out of that plane.

You’ve had three, maybe four hours sleep. You’re still exhausted, but you just can’t afford to be. You have bills to pay, and it’s time to go to work. You pull yourself together as best you can, you shower and put on your face. But the panic is still there.

This is impossible, you can’t go on like this. But you simply have no choice. So you make an appointment with the doctor that afternoon, and somehow manage to get to work. Even though walking out the front door and driving to work, is now just as terrifying as jumping out of that plane.

Somehow you manage to struggle through the day, even though everything which used to be normal is now terrifying. You know this is silly, that there’s nothing whatsoever to be frightened of. But it doesn’t do you any good.

The doctor writes you a prescription for a drug that’s used to manage anxiety disorders and PTSD. It kind of helps, but not really. It’s like trying to dull the pain of an abscessed tooth with aspirin.

One week passes, then two, then a month. And still your mind is trapped in that moment of terror and exhilaration, that moment just before you jumped out of that plane. Your psychological health is now starting to suffer quite badly. You’re on anti-depressants, mood stabilizers as well as the anxiety medication.

None of it’s working, but you try to have faith that things might change. You try to hang onto hope as hard as you can. But still, the fear won’t go away. And all the yoga and exercise, all the mediation, prayer and anything you can think of just doesn’t help.

It’s been a year now, then two, then three. It’s been so long now that your entire life has become that moment, just before you jumped out of that plane. Your mind is locked in panic, and it will not stop. No matter how many pills you take, no matter how much you drink. It will not stop.

It’s been so long now, you can’t remember a time when it wasn’t like this.

All the drugs and the drinking become a major problem. You’re out of control. You do embarrassing things, you do horrible things, and your head is so scrambled you don’t even remember. But your friends do, and so do you employers. That’s why they won’t talk to you anymore.

So you stop the medication and you quit drinking. It’s just making things so much worse. Your friends are all gone, and you can barely hang on to a minimum wage job. You’re a hairs breadth away from destitution.

So this is how people end up homeless.

You try any solution you can think of, but none of it provides more than the slightest relief. A good nights sleep is now a distant memory, your health is deteriorating and you’ve lost a frightening amount of weight. You look like a skeleton.

But you’re an optimist and you hang onto hope, even though you know deep down that its pointless.

The years roll on and nothing much changes. No matter how hard you work or what you try.

It’s been so long now, so many failed suicide attempts. But eventually you learn to accept that this is your reality. You learn how to live in a constant state of panic, it just becomes your normal way of being.

And somehow you’re managing to hang on. You even manage to learn how to live this way, you meet someone wonderful and get married.

Incredibly, you even learn how to be happy this way.

But the exhaustion and fatigue eventually catch up with you. Your marriage is strong but it’s being sorely tested. You’re hanging onto your job by the skin of you teeth, but you just can’t manage anymore.

You just can’t cope with the panic. You’re house bound for days at a time. Some days you can’t even get out of bed. Sometimes it’s weeks at a time. Sometimes even months.

But you hang onto hope and you don’t let go. You never give up trying.

This is pretty well where I’m at right now. This is what childhood trauma has done to me. This is my life.

And I’m scared. Very, very scared.

I’m not old, but there are periods of my life when I’m living like an invalid. I love my job, and it breaks my heart that I can’t do it at the moment. I miss being with my work friends so very much, and I’m terrified that I’ll lose them.

I’m terrified that I’ll lose my ability to work. I’m not afraid of poverty, that’s how I grew up. It’s comfortable to me. But I am afraid that I’ll end up homeless.

But the funny thing is, I’m still me underneath it all. The assaults and the abuse didn’t kill who I really am. The happy and optimistic loving and affectionate soul I truly am still lives.

At the center of this horrifying tornado of trauma, the child who existed before their reality was twisted out of shape is still hanging on. I am still me.

I don’t feel sorry for myself. I feel sorry for all the other children born into abuse who didn’t make it. The ones who ended up lost in drug and alcohol addiction. The ones who ended up criminalized and imprisoned. The ones who died. The ones who weren’t as lucky as I have been.

And it has nothing whatsoever to do with merit or worth or how hard you work. When the vehicle of your life is out of control like this, it really is just good luck. I’ve had friends far more worthy and deserving than me in the same situation. Friends who worked far more diligently than me, and they still ended up dead.

But we don’t believe in luck nowadays, we believe in the in the great god meritocracy.

We don’t care for those children who struggle and strive, much less for the adults which if they are lucky they become. We close the door on them, we lock them in with their abuser and make sure they can’t get out and nobody else can get in to help them. We slash welfare support and put healthcare behind a paywall, we vote for lower taxes.

And the sad thing is, people aren’t like that. I don’t think I’ve met anyone who would willingly fail to rescue a child from life threatening danger. People are loving and kind.

Its just that the politicians and the television hoodwink people into believing that those children are welfare cheats. That they’re stealing your hard earned tax dollars, and living free and easy off the sweat of our brow.

And those silver tongued devils argue their case so convincingly, that people believe them. They lock the door on those children to win an election. They steal the goodness from people’s hearts, and deceive them into believing it’s the right thing to do.

That’s just sad.

And I’m sorry. I wanted to make this an optimistic and hopeful post, an uplifting story of courage and survival.

Maybe the fact that I’ve survived long enough to write this post is enough on its own. Maybe it’s enough that a few of us survive. That not every predator gets its prey.

And maybe it’s enough that even after all these years, I can still see the beauty and the splendor of the world.

And the beauty in the hearts of good people.

 

Thank you for reading.

Love

Whippoorwill XO

 

 

 

Poor Jake Gardiner, getting raked over the coals by the Toronto media straight outa the gate. Yeah, he sucked in game seven, he knows. He’s probably been stewing about it all off season, ya jerks.

16 19

I write weird supernatural romance fiction as well

This is an excerpt from a work in progress called

By Moonlight

 

Kat made for the cloakroom to check their coats with the attendant, but before she got there a ghostly pale, extensively freckled woman with wild ginger hair stopped her dead in her tracks. The ferocity in the woman’s eyes, and the hostility of her posture speaking volumes.

“What are you doing bringing a strange human here, Kat?” The woman challenged.

“Hi Bonny.” Kat sighed in resignation.

“She’s not like us Kat, she’s not other.” Bonny continued in a combative tone.

“She’s my guest, Bonny. She’s my friend, I invited her.” Kat maintained a calm and reasonable tone, in spite of the woman’s obvious displeasure.

“She’s a still blood, Kat. And she doesn’t belong to the vamps. She doesn’t belong at all.”

“Yeah, well she’s with me, she’s mine. So you leave her be, Bonny.” The last thing Kat wanted tonight was trouble with the ban sidh. But Bonny’s tone became even more aggressive, as she misinterpreted Kat’s reluctance as weakness.

“Don’t play with your food here Katerina” she sneered “You know better. We’ve got a good thing going. We don’t need attention from the still bloods, and we don’t need police asking questions and looking for missing people.”

Kat squared up to the woman, looking fiercely into her eyes.

“I told you Bonny, she’s my friend. I’m not like that anymore, she’s not prey. Now back off, and you leave her the hell alone.”

And Bonny briefly returned Kat’s fierce stare, before abruptly turning her back and walking away without further challenge. Apparently placated, although Kat knew that her business with the ban sidh was far from dead and buried.

And shrugging the encounter off as best she could, Kat checked their coats and joined Claire at the bar. By the time she got there, Peter the barman was in full swing. Holding forth in his customarily charming manner, entertaining Claire in the deep baritone voice which didn’t quite seem to fit his appearance.

“For you Miss Claire I think a witches brew” And into a tall glass he poured scotch and yuzu juice topped up with club soda. He vigorously stirred the drink and finally added a dash of black pepper, a sugar cube and two fresh mint leaves.

“Now taste, and tell Peter what you think.”

Claire tried her cocktail and liked it.

“Oh wow. Delicious.” She said.

“Very good.” Peter announced beaming, as Kat sat down at the bar next to her guest. “Then Peter and Miss Claire are friends.”

“Stop showing off Peter, and go get me a beer.” Rather bored with Peter’s performances after long decades of familiarity.

At which Peter slapped the bar and laughed loudly.

“Of course princess Katerina.” He announced bowing rather theatrically.

“Funny guy.” Said Claire.

“Yeah, funny.” Kat replied as Peter returned with her beer, a knowing smile plastered on his long fiendish face.

But the curious fellows humour faded as he leaned in to speak to Kat.

“Friends are welcome Katerina, but careful how you step. Some ‘others’ are clannish and not so welcoming as Peter. Most are cool, haven’t even noticed, and wouldn’t be bothered anyway. Others not so much. Alles klar?”

“Thanks Peter, I’ve already crossed paths with Bonny. But everything’s cool. I’ll go talk to Queen D later.”

“Good” Peter announced loudly, straightening up to his full magnificent height once again.

“Then everyone will have a good time.” He chuckled to himself rather demonically as he wandered off.

Kat turned her attention back to Claire, she could relax now, and enjoy herself. Peter would look after them.

But to Kat’s discomfort, she discovered that Claire was gazing at her with a faraway look in her eyes. She was feeling Katerina’s glamour, her enchantment.

Kat had to ‘show’ herself a little, to mark her territory so to speak. Show her fangs, to let the other inhuman patrons of the club know that the mortal was under her protection, not fair game. And definitely not to be ‘taken’, but Claire was responding as well.

Kat gave off a kind of magical allure, rather like psychic pheromones when she ‘showed’ herself. An allure that humans found irresistible. But Kat didn’t want that, not anymore. In the old days she would have had this girl in her bed by now, pleasing her in whatever ways she could imagine.

But that was then. She didn’t want to be worshiped, to be slavishly adored by empty headed enchanted drones. That took from her more than it gave, and ultimately it led to nothing but loneliness.

And for as much as she had indulged her abilities in her youth, nowadays it just made her feel like a creep.

But Claire was becoming bewitched nonetheless, and Kat most definitely didn’t want that. She liked Claire, she liked her a lot. She had made genuine contact and she didn’t want to spoil it with enchantments.

She wanted Claire to be herself. To be her friend or to be her lover, or her nothing whatsoever, whatever she chose. The point was that she would chose for herself, made up her own mind. Not compelled, not commanded and definitely not bewitched.

“So what do you think of the club?” Katerina spoke, breaking the girl’s rapt attention.

Claire responded, shaking her head a little as the spell broke.

“Oh….um….”

“This place is great, it’s got everything. And the music is on point. Just what I would choose if it were my place.”

“And the people are pretty cool. Peter is great.” She paused, her expression becoming a little puzzled.

“But there’s something odd, something weird about the people.”

“Yeah?”

“They seem a little….”

“….unusual.” Claire continued, looking around the room at the patrons.

“Somehow different. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Well” said Kat “There is something different about them. Something different about me too.”

“What do you mean?” asked Claire. “People are just people.”

“Well, yes. But…”

“What?” Claire prompted.

Kat decided to go for broke. To lay all her cards on the table. If she was going to establish any kind of relationship with Claire, she would have to be rigorously honest from the outset. Lies and deception would avail her nothing. She just hoped she wouldn’t scare the still blood off.

So taking a deep breath and bracing herself for rejection Katerina Reynard began to explain exactly what she was.

“You’re right. People are just people. But…” She trailed off.

“It’s okay, you can tell me.” Claire prompted yet again.

“But what if there were more kinds of people in the world than you knew about?”

Claire looked puzzled. “What do you mean, other kinds of people?”

“Well, you know stories right, the old stories? Stories about faeries and elves and werewolves and witches and such?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well stories are just stories of course, they’re not real. Well, not entirely at least. But…”

“Go on.”

“Stories, even though they’re not real are based on something. There’s always a little bit of truth in even the wildest fables. What I’m trying to say is that this is a club for others. People who aren’t people like you.”

“What do you mean, people who aren’t like me?”

“Remarkable people, unusual people….not entirely human people.”

“What, you mean Peter is a werewolf or something?” Claire laughed “but he’s so sweet.”

“No” Kat explained patiently.

“Peter isn’t a werewolf. And be careful by the way, sweet as he may be Peter would take exception to being called a werewolf.”

“Um….” Claire laughed incredulously.

“Are you joking?”

“No. And don’t go calling a werewolf a werewolf either, they like to be called shifters. Or their name preferably.”

“Okay” Claire chuckled “so what is Peter?”

“Peter is a ghoul.”

“I’m sorry?”

“A ghoul.”

“A ghoul?”

“Yes.”

“Wait” said Claire “aren’t ghouls like, cannibals or something? Don’t they eat….carrion…human carrion…?”

“Oh gods no! And keep your voice down. You’re being very insensitive Claire.”

“Are you serious?” Claire laughed.

“Yes I’m serious. I’m very serious. Those old stories are very insulting. They’re like old calk face movies or golly wog dolls, Irish jokes or welshing on a debt. Just horrendously insulting.”

“You are serious…?”

“Look. Peter is a ghoul, right. But he doesn’t do the stuff you think he does, the stuff in the stories. His soul is… different, not the same as you or me. But he’s kind of like us, you know. People. Mostly.”

Claire looked puzzled and more a little freaked out.

“He’s just….I don’t know, ghoul people.”

“What do you mean, ghoul people…?”

“He likes to curl up on graves or in crypts in the dead of night. Just like a Cat likes to curl up on a lap. The cold stone and the presence of resting souls gives him comfort. Makes him purr. That doesn’t make him a monster.”

“Okay”, said Clair incredulously. “So all the people here, they’re all, what did you call them? Others? Witches and elves and faeries and such?”

“Correct. Not many witches though, they kind of go their own way. Witches are on a completely different wavelength, kinda batty. But yes, other.”

“And don’t use any of those words you just used again” Kat continued “not until you know what they mean.”

“Okay, so what are you Kat?”

“Well, I’m what you call a shapeshifter.”

“Wait, you mean like a were….” Claire paused to recalibrate her words.

“….like the kind of person we talked about just now? The starts with a w kind of person?”

“Yes.” Kat replied matter of factly.

Peter walked over to check on Kat and her human fancy. “Everything okay Kat?” He said, somewhat relieving the awkward tension.

“Yeah, we’re fine.”

“What do you mean, shapeshifter?” Claire demanded, ignoring the interjection.

“I mean I can become…”

“What?”

“….something else. Something not human.”

Claire laughed a little nervously, who had she hooked up with? Was this woman insane? Was she dangerous, or was this all some kind of weird joke.

“Okay. So you’re serious?”

“Yes”

“Really serious.”

Kat looked directly into Claire’s eyes.

“Yes.”

Claire smiled, rather beguiled by where this joke might end up.

“Okay. Show me then.”

Kat looked around the room a little nervously, until she was sure no one was watching.

“Okay. Just a little. But for god’s sake Claire, don’t freak out. Stay cool.”

“Okay” Claire replied with a wry smile on her face.

“No. Claire, really. You have to stay calm.”

“Okay” she agreed, this time taking it more seriously. She was puzzled, she wasn’t following the joke, but she decided to go along with it anyway. Whatever it was.

Katerina positioned herself so that she and Claire were facing each other directly. She locked eyes with Claire. Gazing long and deep. Penetrating deep into her mind, adjusting the girl’s perceptions so that she could see.

Gently brushing away the cobwebs of denial, which clouded human perceptions so effectively. Until Claire Hart could see exactly what kind of creature, Katerina Reynard was.

 

Thanks for reading.

Love

Whippoorwill XO

 

 

Congratulations OEL on the C, big surprise. A’s all around for the leafs but no C, and who cares anyway. What does captain matter anymore.

8 19

Blog update

Just a brief post about where I’ve been, how things have changed, and where I’m going with this blog.

 

I started this blog late in 2016, when I discovered quite by chance that I loved writing. Why this was a surprise to me, I have no idea. I’d spent a few years hanging around the performance poetry scene previously, but drifted away when a much adored mentor and friend died. And in my grief I quite forgot my love of words and stopped writing poetry.

I also never took myself seriously as a writer of any description, as I was functionally illiterate in my teens, and essentially taught myself how to read and write by rote. And it shows, I know.

In the beginning I started out using this site as a kind of writing diary, fully expecting to go entirely unobserved. But then people started liking and following and even commenting and offering praise and encouragement.

So I thought, why not giddy-up on this writing malarkey. So I did, and I evolved quite a bit, thanks in large part to the input of other users of this platform.

The problem was, I felt like a big fat phony.

I felt like I was creating a representation of myself which was misleading. And I know it probably shouldn’t have bothered me but it did. I understand I’m entirely free to be as much of a fake ass phony as I like online, but honesty has been kind of critical to managing my mental bitch stuff.

I felt like I was lying and lies make me sick.

And then I picked up a stalky creeper who gave me a pretty hard time. I didn’t handle it very well, and when they spammed my site with nasty stuff I tore everything down. I was in a pretty dodgy state mental health wise at the time, and self destruction felt pretty good to me.

And then I totally lost my marbles, and started posting full on psycho shit. Nothing harmful, just mental stuff. I went through a period of complete psychological collapse, but somehow managed to keep working my day job and writing offline.

But then a whole lot of weight I was carrying got too much for me. There was a miscarriage, the murder of a dear friend, and then my partner was heavily traumatized after witnessing a public mass murder. One of those horrifying things you see on the news.

And between this, the weight of unaddressed childhood trauma, and the ever present difficulty of being a gender freak in hiding. Existing somewhere between intersexual and trans-gendered, I simply collapsed under it all.

I’ve been stumbling along as best I can, working when I’m able and just scraping by when I can’t. But I’ve been working with a kick-ass therapist lately, and I’d previously made quite a bit of progress with a therapist who specialized in torture trauma.

So although I’m functionally pretty comprehensively screwed at the moment, I’m making good progress and slowly getting to my feet again.

And as far as my blog goes, I feel like I’ve been sufficiently honest and upfront about who and what I am. I no longer feel like I’m misrepresenting myself, I don’t feel like a liar anymore.

And the best part of all of this, is that I’ve been able to actually interact with other wordsters. Feeling like a fake-ass bitch, I’ve never felt comfortable talking to others before. But all that seems to have changed much for the better lately, and I’m thrilled about it.

So I think it’s about time I got back to my original purpose. Creative writing.

I love to write weird fiction, supernatural romance and kinky smut as well. So expect to see some pretty weird and racy stuff appearing soon, as I get back to my queer roots.

There will be spankings, there will be domination and submission, and there will be kink aplenty. And there will be vampires and werewolves and all kinds of strangeness as well.

But there will be honest and frank posts concerning emotional and psychological well-being, as well as stuff about being a gender-weird freak as well.

There will also be a certain amount of duplication, as I return to work which I deleted during the stalker incident, so thank you in advance to my long term followers for your patience while I rebuild.

Now, for those of you who have stuck with me through all this, thank you sincerely from the bottom of my bottom. Your kind encouragement and support has meant a hell of a lot to me.

And ditto to my new friends and followers. Bless you all for joining me on this strange journey of weird evolution.

Here’s to happier days ahead.

 

Love

Whippoorwill XO

P.S.

Just a little side note about traffic on this platform.

 

So I know I get follows and likes from folks who haven’t so much as looked at my site, and that’s just hunky dory with me. The whole point of WordPress is you do you, whatever you may be.

And I know this has all been said before, countless times elsewhere but I have a point to make.

I know that watching traffic is fun, it is for me too. But I try not to let it motivate my actions too much. And I know that for some, driving traffic is very important to their ultimate goal, and I am so totally cool with that. I’m happy to help you achieve that goal.

But If I follow you, It’s because I want to read what you post next.

And if I like what you have posted, it’s because I have read it. And either I liked it, or it moved me in some other way, and sometimes I will like if I wish to acknowledge the effort that went into a post, even if I did not enjoy it.

I will like things I don’t necessarily agree with if I wish to acknowledge a point well made. And I will like things which upset me. Like does not mean enjoy.

The only thing I will not do, is like something I have not read.

I don’t have the slightest issue with people who do, not at all. There are all kinds of motivations which don’t align with mine, I understand that.

The only thing which bugs me is this.

If I have posted something which exposes my vulnerabilities. For instance, being stalked by an online creeper. Don’t try and put the moves on me in the comments section, it’s just weird.

Keep it in your pants, okay.

 

 

 

Jean Gabriel Pageau out for six months. My heart goes out to Ottawa fans. Eugene Melnyk appears to be insane, locker room issues, the Hoffman trade n’ flip, Erik Karlsson gone and now this.

 

8 19

 

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I write smutty stories too.

Warning! Mature content.

This is an excerpt from a naughty work in progress called Mistress’ Kittens.

Wherein our hero, Seraphina fetches her co-protagonist, Sophie an almighty spanking for the very first time.

Hope you like it.

 

And so Mistress began dragging her long cruel fingernails full length, and agonisingly slowly along Sophie’s curvaceous spine. Finally dwelling adoringly at the girl’s ample round bottom.

Squeezing and kneading the fleshy cheeks, and occasionally digging in with her claws.

And Sophie’s entire being thrilled in anticipation when Mistress ceased her kneading, and left her open hand resting against her tingling flesh. Thus wordlessly indicating that chastisement was about to commence.

“Naughtiness and misbehaviour must be excised. Do you agree, Sophie?”

“Yes, Mistress.” Sophie uttered in deliciously nervous reply.

“Louder, Sophie.” Mistress scalded sharply.

“Yes, Mistress.”

And Mistress removed her hand, and paused a moment, as Sophie trembled and shivered in anticipation. Before bringing it down sharply with a good firm spank, which supplied a satisfying fleshy report.

Smack!

And then as Sophie gasped in astonishment and delight. Two more firm open handed slaps, followed in close succession.

Smack! Smack!

And Mistress looked on in satisfaction, as the imprint of her hand rose upon Sophie’s bottom. Blossoming vividly as a bright red stain against the white of her flesh.

And even as the girl wriggled and gasped in delicious agony, mistress scourged Sophie’s poor bottom again.

Smack! Smack!

And then once again.

Smack! Smack!

And at first Sophie was so startled, that she could do little more than gasp impotently. As the astonishing reality of what she had gotten herself into, took her breath away.

But it was all so very perfect and so right. This was the realization of all those subversive impulses, which had dwelt dormant within her for so long.

But the delicious pain of Seraphina’s spanking, soon conquered Sophie’s initial astonishment. And at last she cried out in distress, as her bottom tingled and stung so exquisitely.

“….owww….Mistress….it hurts….”

“Of course it hurts, Sophie.” Mistress retorted haughtily.

“It’s supposed to hurt. How else will you learn your lessons?”

“Unless of course you would like us to break for tea?”

“No….Seraphina no….” Sophie breathlessly replied, recognizing that Seraphina was reminding her, that the safe phrase was entirely at her disposal. But forgetting in her gorgeous plight, to correctly address her new mistress.

“You are to call me Mistress now, Sophie!”

“Do not forget again.”

Smack! Smack!

“….owww….owow….yes, Mistress….” Sophie sobbed.

“Now, you remember full well what to say if it’s too much, don’t you Sophie? If you want Mistress to stop?”

Smack!

“….owww….yes, Mistress….I remember….”

And satisfied that she had afforded Sophie ample opportunity for escape. And reminded her also, that the safe phrase was there for her to use if she needed. Mistress continued with the spanking, her eyes aflame with severity and adoration for Sophie.

“Very good. At least you have learnt that lesson.”

Smack! Smack!

“….owww….”

“Now, let us review what else we have learnt today. Shall we, Sophie?”

“….owowow….yes, Mistress….”

“Are you going to throw your clothes on the floor again? Like a wanton and slatternly girl?”

Smack!

“….owww….no, Mistress….”

“Then what are you going to do instead, Sophie?”

Smack! Smack!

“….owww….Mistress….”

“….I’m going to fold my clothes neatly, Mistress….”

“And then what will you do, Sophie?”

“….please, Mistress….I’m going to put them neatly on my chair….please, Mistress….thank you for….my chair….”

“Very good, Sophie” Mistress praised

“Now, you won’t forget to be a tidy and proper little girl again. Will you?”

Smack! Smack!

“….owww….no, Mistress….”

“Very good. Now, tell me what you have learnt about Mistress’ bed today, Sophie.”

Smack! Smack!

“Owww….please, Mistress….”

“….bed belongs to Mistress…..owww….I must not….”

“….”

Sophie paused struggled to recall exactly what Mistress had said on the matter, through the stultifying waves of stinging bliss which emanated from her suffering bottom.

“Come along now, Sophie.”

Smack!

“I know you can remember, if you try.”

Smack!

“…..owww….Mistress….I must not….”

“Yes?”

Smack!

“….owww…I must not get up on the bed, Mistress….”

“….please, Mistress….I am your little kitten….and I am not….to get up on the bed….without Mistress’ permission….”

“Excellent, Sophie.”

Smack! Smack!

“I knew you could remember, if you tried.”

Smack!

“….owww…. thankyou, Mistress….owowow….”

Smack! Smack!

“…..owww….”

And Sophie gasped as she struggled for breath. The stinging of her stricken bottom, and the ardency of her intense stimulation, proving increasingly physically overwhelming.

Smack! Smack!

“…..owww….owowow….”

“You are Mistress’ tiny adorable kitten. Her gorgeous little pet. And you are not to get up on the bed, Sophie.”

Smack! Smack!

“Unless I have invited you, or unless you have first asked permission, and permission has been granted.”

Smack! Smack!

“Do you understand, Sophie?”

Smack!

“Is this absolutely clear?”

Smack!

“….owww….yes, Mistress….thank you, Mistress.”

Smack! Smack!

“…..owww….”

“Very good, Sophie. You’re being ever such a good girl. And Mistress is feeling very proud of you.”

“….oh thank you, Mistress….thank you….”

And Sophie gasped desperately, her heart near bursting with love for Seraphina. Her poor glowing bottom stinging and aching with delicious pain, as her fanny fairly throbbed with erotic stimulation.

“In fact.”

Seraphina continued, as her long fingers began to stroke luxuriously between Sophie’s vibrant rosy cheeks.

The sobbing girl quivering and sighing in blissful delight, as Mistress discovered the astonishing extent of her arousal.

“Mistress is so proud, and so very much in love with you.”

“….yes, Mistress…?” Sophie gasped as Seraphina’s fingers began to probe deeper and deeper, between her bright blushing cheeks.

“That she wonders if perhaps little Sophie might deserve treats?”

“….owww….what sort of treats….Mistress…?” Sophie groaned and gasped through her pain and delight.

Seraphina’s fingers entering her a little several times, before discovering the engorged sensitivity of her clitoris.

“Orgasms, Sophie….gorgeous….delicious….orgasms.”

“….oh, Mistress….please, Mistress please…?”

“Would you like that, Sophie? Would you like Mistress to give you lovely orgasms? Would Mistress’ precious little kitten, like her treat now?”

“….oh please, Mistress….please may I have lovely orgasms…?”

“….please, Mistress….may kitten have….her treat…?”

“Well.” Seraphina replied as she went about releasing Sophie’s bindings from the bedposts.

“Given that you’ve been such a good girl.”

And forcibly restraining Sophie from leaping impetuously into her embrace. Securing her once again to the bed, but this time face up. Mistress Seraphina completed her statement.

“Given that you’ve been such a good girl.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“And given that you did such a good job remembering the rules.”

“Oh thank you, Mistress.”

“And given that Mistress is feeling so very much in love with you. And so proud that took your spanking so bravely.”

“I think kitten does in fact deserve treats.”

“Oh thank you, Mistress. Thank you.”

 

Thanks for reading.

Love

Whippoorwill XO

 

 

Careful in the kitchen, Tuukka Rask. Sharp things are sharp.

8 19

My little play friends

A horrible unstructured little belch of a noxious forthpouring, writted for no good purpose whatsoever

 

All the little devils and demons and imps

Came out to play with me last night

What a wonderful jolly happy time they had

Pulling apart my blood and guts and brain and skeleton

And today I’m all yawny and tired and rumplish and bescruffled

But all my little play friends have gone away home

So now I’m all alone again all except for you

 

Thank you for coming to visit with me, sweet reader

Love

Whippoorwill XO

 

 

Best wishes to Robin Lehner, keep fighting those demons. Good luck with the Islanders, and say hey to uncle Leo for me. Sabres suck for how they treated you.

8 19

Why the hell can’t I say the word

Warning! Big trigger.

 

I can’t seem to say the word, I can’t seem to even write it.

You know the one. The r word. The bad r word.

Not long ago, people were falling over themselves to hashtag me too, like it was nothing at all. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And I can’t even say the fucking word.

How could they all own it so freely and easily? Hell it was like they were proud of it, like it was a proficiency badge they’d earned. How come for me it’s like pulling out my own teeth, to even say the word rape?

Just talking about it as abstractly as this feels like bone grating on bone, and makes my skin crawl with horror. Where did they find the strength to shout it so loud, while I’m too weak to even say it?

 

Peace

Whippoorwill XO

 

 

Seguin signs eight with Dallas. Good for the Stars, good for Tyler, good luck.

 

16 12

R U OK? day and what I can do to contribute

WARNING! Triggers aplenty and no apologies or f***s given

So there’s this ting called R U OK? day.

 

R U OK?’s vision is a world where people are all connected and protected from suicide. Their mission is to inspire and empower everyone to meaningfully connect with people around them and support anyone struggling with life.

As a person fighting the ongoing effects of trauma, depression and acute anxiety. As well as being a victim of horrific childhood abuse and a survivor of countless unsuccessful suicide attempts, here’s how I feel about these days.

People ask again and again, are you okay. And remind me over and over again that I very much am not. They bring it all to the surface and force me to feel the effects of my poor mental health over and over again.

And if I answer honestly, they generally just zone out. Or worse, offer some bullshit homespun remedy for getting rid of the blues.

Seriously folks, depression, anxiety disorders and PTSD aint the same as feeling a little down. Chamomile tea and lavender candles in the bath are not particularly useful.

 

These days are horribly alienating and re-traumatizing.

These days remind me that my experience of life is not normal. They remind me that I am the the unhappy statistic.

When I am striving to live normally and get on with my life, these days reinforce the fact that I’m not like most people. They are persistently and relentlessly re-traumatizing.

All the posters and leaflets and awareness forcefully remind me that most people don’t get assaulted and abused and neglected. That most people don’t suffer the effects of crippling psychological illness.

 

But wait!

I’m not being snarky and bitter about it. Oh no. Not at all.

These campaigns serve a very important purpose, from my point of view.

People are generally compassionate, kind and caring. People have huge beautiful hearts filled with love. They want to help. People are aware that horrible things happen to some people, and that many people struggle with terrible psychological, emotional and intellectual problems.

They feel dreadful about it and they want to help. But they don’t know what they can do.

And the unhappy truth, is that there simply isn’t that much they can do. And what they can do, they won’t.

What people facing these issues need is practical material help. Housing assistance, income support and generous health care funding. But that means taxes, and folks don’t want to be taxed.

Politicians and the media hoodwink people into believing that people seeking social welfare services, are leeches. Malingering spongers who take greedily and give nothing back.

When we vote, we vote for social services to be slashed. For all those useless welfare cheats to cut off. We vote for lower taxes. We as a society, condemn the people these campaigns are claiming to represent, to destitution, poverty and homelessness.

But people want to feel like they’re helping, and I genuinely feel for their plight.

R U OK day, and stuff like that, is a way for me as a survivor of atrocious mental health, to contribute something to society. To help people who don’t know the horrors of mental illness feel better about their decision to vote welfare spending away from cheats like me.

To help them feel better about not really wanting to do what it takes to help. And I’m being perfectly honest here, this isn’t bitterness at all. I know it reads that way, but really it isn’t.

People want to help, but they have to work so damn hard for every dollar they earn. And the government wastes so much of the tax money they seize so wantonly, that people feel bled dry and cheated.

They don’t want to feel bad about not wanting to support social welfare services, and RUOK day and so forth, represent a way I as a person with poor mental health can help them with that.

It’s a way that I can give back. Its a way to help folk feel better about the fact the people they voted for, are hanging people like us out to dry.

The only thing is, don’t pretend these days are to help us. They are not. They’re to help the good folk at RUOK make money off my back. They raise an awful lot of money, do you know how much of that money I see? Not one single cent.

The only practical and useful thing this campaign does from my perspective, is help the people around me feel better. And I am so totally on board with that. Really, I am. I want to help people feel better, just as much as you do.

And I seriously, genuinely don’t begrudge you your need to feel better. I’m happy to spend a week or so feeling alienated and marginalized and re-traumatized, to help others’ less fortunate than me feel better.

The fact that people with poor mental health are being left to rot, is terrible. And I understand how you feel bad about it.

So from all of us who are on our own to the RUOK people, you’re welcome.

Although I wish you’d make the posters a little less in your face. It isn’t really necessary to re-traumatize us that emphatically. Maybe consider doing your thing a little more discretely.

And maybe be cautious about giving these people money, cause I can tell you first hand. They don’t do shit for me. I don’t know where the money goes, but I know it gets nowhere near me.

And it certainly gets nowhere near the people with mental health issues living on the street.

They get moved on. They get park benches specifically designed so you can’t sleep on them. They get bus shelters designed to be useless to the homeless. And if they’re lucky, they get locked up for a night.

At least a holding cell keeps you relatively warm and dry.

The city I live in has a huge homelessness crisis, and people with mental health issues represent a significant demographic, in this marginalized and abandoned community. And I don’t see any people in yellow t-shirts handing out tents, blankets, clothing or food and clean drinking water.

I don’t see it today, I didn’t see it yesterday, and I’ve never seen it on R U OK? day. Is it different anywhere else in the world? I’d love to believe I’m way off base on all this. I can only speak for what I see around me.

I sincerely hope it’s different where you live.

Maybe this R U OK? day, you could make some sandwiches and give them to the nearest homeless person. Chances are they ended up on the street, because they have mental health issues and no support. Maybe clean out your closet and find an old coat or blanket to give them.

But don’t ask them, hey are you okay? Cause they aint.

 

Peace.

Love, Whippoorwill XO

 

*DISCLAIMER: R U OK? may very well not be a shower of shitheels making money of the backs of people with mental health issues. And I’m sure the people working for them are on board with true and loving hearts. I’m just suspicious because there’s a big disconnect between what they’re doing, and what people like us actually need.

 

 

Pacioretty from Habs to Vegas. Good for Patches. Good for VGK.

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