In Case You Were Wondering

Yes, you.

There used to be a blog here. What remains are the public things… posts that are in some way attached to the rest of this blogosphere. Memes and photos and contests and words that I wrote in hopes of connecting with this community. What remains are the things I think he loved the best, that I couldn’t bear to take down. What remains is the beginning, and the end.

If you’d like to keep in touch, I’ll still be checking my blog email, the new one, for some time. And I will still read you all, my darlings. I made such good friends here. This chapter of my life, this blog that I never thought anyone else would ever see, is over. But a tiger cannot change its stripes just because it would like spots. Just as a writer can never truly stop writing.

Fatal is gone. The woman remains.

FatalSyndrome@mail.com

“Here We Are, You and Me, on the Last Page.”

I knew that one day I would be writing this. Every good story has an end, does it not? I’ve told Sir that I intend to -one day- publish a novel about us, about this… journey, this large part of my life. I crack jokes all the time about how I could do E.L. James one better, but I have yet to put my money where my mouth is. I tell him too that the only way my book would be a commercial success is if I wrote in a sappy, happy, kinky ending for Sir and Fatal.

Real life does not always have happy endings, but if I could write one for Sir and Fatal it would go a little something like this:

 

Afters years of dancing around one another, after intimate moments and heartbreaking confessions, after tears and bruises and promises kept and unmade and hollow words and pained smiles, after misunderstandings and miscommunications, after finally learning to read one another and to speak with one another, openly, honestly, permissively, after the great sex and the clarity, and the real emotions, after all the talks and the sappy movies and struggle snuggles, Fatal and Sir buy a house somewhere lovely, close to a large city, but far enough away not to be bothered, somewhere that Sir can feel the grass between his toes and Fatal can bike down to the shore to hear the waves any night she pleases.

They outfit their bedroom with hooks and restraints and Sir’s favorite spanking chair. They hang their favorite implements in places of honor and they shop for sheets together. They both work, they both have hobbies, they both have friends. Inside of their house, their nest, Fatal wears her collar, always. She cooks dinner and keeps the house and wears retro pinup clothing and defers to Daddy about everything. It is her kinky 50s dream in living color.

They take baths in the large, clawfooted bath tub, and they cuddle to watch black and white movies on an overstuffed couch. She drinks wine and occasionally dips a finger in his scotch, just to taste.  He reads to her and she sings to him. They play hide and go seek and they see operas and ballets and shows together. They attend nerdy conventions together and get excited about the latest technology on the market. She has a clothing addiction and they both collect figurines and other trinkets. They travel together, whenever they can. They make inappropriate jokes to one another, they share secret smiles and have codewords for annoying situations. He tolerates her love of snow and she understands his need of warmth.

He thinks she drives like a mad woman. She thinks he worries too much. They bicker occasionally. They make up with sweet kisses and hot sex. She reads his tarot cards and he acts like it isn’t malarkey. She sits in his lap while he plays video games. He writes and she paints. They sleep on the beach in the sand. They nurse each other back to health when they are sick. She cries on his shoulder, and he collapses in her arms. There are back rubs and shoulder rubs and foot rubs. She shaves his face for him. He brushes her hair. He kisses her tattoos, she hugs him from behind. They hold hands. They slow dance in an empty room on a silent night.

They grow old together.
They have no regrets.

 

And with that… I have said all I will ever need to say.

And so, long time readers, new readers, dear and treasured friends…from the last page… good bye. For now.

xoxo
Fatal

I Think it’s Good to Remember…

That what you read here is half of my half of the story.
You read what I choose to share.
From my perspective.
You’ve never heard Sir’s side of the story about our interactions.
You read me.
Sometimes in the midst of an emotional turmoil.
Sometimes it is raw and the feelings are still with me.
Sometimes I embellish.
Sometimes I edit.
Oftentimes, I omit.

You read a product.
An account of my interactions,
In and out of order,
With a person whose identity I seek to protect,
Even above my own. 
This is a serialized telling of my life with him.
I leave you with half chapters.
And some of you… some of you
who I’ve never even interacted with
choose to believe you’ve read the whole book.

And in your heads, you paint him the villain
you paint me the villain
You make assumptions about our identities.
About why I stay anonymous.
About the realities of our situation.
About me.
About him.
And this is good.
I want you to wonder.
I want you to make up stories in your head.
To fill in the gaps.
To think of Fatal and Sir as what they are:
characters.
Characterizations of two real, flesh and blood people.

But if you think that your filler
makes for good fodder
to feed into my sensitive heart…
If you are an asshole who is seeking to hurt me
I want you to know
that I don’t give a fuck about you,
or your assumptions.
That my heart is sensitive for people that I care about.
But I am dead inside
for those who try to cross me.
That’s not an embellishment.
Nor is it a warning.
It is a statement of fact.

I grow weary of PSAs.
And I feel like I shouldn’t even waste my time with them.
The people who email me their opinions don’t even have the balls to say them in an open forum.
So why do I give them the head space or the blog space?
Because it’s my blog.
And I do as I damn well please.
That’s why.

My new email is FatalSyndrome@mail.com
Please take note.

There is Power in Words

I remember the first time I heard your voice. It was like no other voice I’d ever heard. You might think it cut through me clean and surgical, tearing me asunder, rocking my world, touching me in ways unknown. But it did not. No. Your beautiful voice, with its lovely cadence, its deep timbre, its raw honesty and feeling… it could have never cut through me so perfectly.

Your voice was a ragged blade, tearing through the skin and muscle and marrow, leaving rivulets of blood blossoming from jagged edges. Your voice became a deep wound within me, unable to heal–every scab, no matter how newly formed, ripped fresh from the gash to let me bleed again. I feel you distinctly, an unending scar cut into the fabric of my soul. You are like a tattoo that only I can see, something living and breathing, a constant reminder of all that is you.

And like a tattoo, you are an addiction. I want a fresh needle, a raw wound, new blood. I ache for the sound in my ear as much as I ache for you, your body, your mind, the feel of your hands on me, the feel of my hands on you.

I thought about the first time I heard your voice, and the way it sent me spinning, reeling, flying into every moment that has passed between us since.

Who knew it would lead us here.

The Way This Man Writes

How to Scare Friends and Alienate People: Or, Why I am in the Dungeon

If you’re not following Mrs Fever’s blog, you should be.

That picture is a link. Click it. Follow. She is sexy. She is philosophical. She is a little educational(!). She is very real.

And she has graciously hosted a guest blogger series on several different topics over the last couple of years, a few of which I have taken part in. She is currently hosting a series on “Coming Out”–on being your authentic self.

There are already posts up from this week that are well worth reading and commenting on. And today, my post is up. You can read this HERE.

I Have Weak Ankles

sustained from an old injury. They only flare up every once and again. Enough to make me fall head over heels on occasion.

My hair grows like a weed. I cut off six inches two or three weeks ago and now, I can barely tell a difference.

I grow my fingernails long and smooth and rounded. I used to file them into sharp little points once upon a time, but I’ve grown out of that phase.

I keep my feet in pedicures… they’re one of the few luxuries I really, really indulge in.

I have a soft heart and it makes me cry easily for animals, small children, the suffering of others, and the beautiful agony that is my own suffering.

I have a strong will that lets me struggle and strive.

I have an unhealthy relationship with food and consequently, my body, that my personal trainer is trying to break me of; instead of seeing food as sustenance, which is all it is, I see it as both the enemy and comfort, depending on my mood.

My favorite parts of my body are all the little bony places: my wrists and ankles, my collarbones and hipbones, the tiny points where my ribs poke out beneath my breasts.

I want, more than anything, to travel, penniless, through the world, making my way the only way I know how.

But that thought frightens me too, because I know the terrible, squeezing grip of poverty well, the way it makes you unable to breathe, the anxiety it gives you, the scars it leaves… and I never want to know it so intimately, ever again.

They say people who drink whiskey straight are real alcoholics. I prefer to think of myself as a connoisseur.

My compartmentalizing skills are legendary: they are how I survive but also have the propensity to ruin me utterly.

The bottom part of the year is my favorite. Autumn is passing into Winter, and the cold air soothes my spirit. I’ve been listening to Christmas music like I need it to live, and I’ve had a roaring fireplace every night for a week… warranted, by the way.

I want something dangerous and exciting and new to happen to me very soon.

I Struggle With Body Issues, But…

then he says things like:

“My cock is hard because of how beautiful you are, baby. Every inch of you is beauty to me. Every inch of you is gorgeous. I love your body, Fatal. You are what brings me pleasure. You’re everything that makes me so fucking hard. I want you to know how much I need your body. I want you to love that knowledge.”

And I can feel it all chipping away slowly, like it was never there to begin with.

It’s not gone, not by half. But he worries at it like a dog at a bone. Never letting me feel like I am less than, like I am not beautiful and worthy and anything short of a goddess.

And though his words do not negate the years of inner torment that I have faced at my own hands, they make me feel… for moments, in those moments, that I am those things that he says: beautiful, gorgeous, desirable.

That I am worth… being wanted, pursued, loved.

Like Playing Two Truths and a Lie

I get them so rarely–comparatively, given the life of the blog, but my favorite emails are ones in which readers think they have spotted Sir and I out and about in public. If they don’t provide descriptions, I always email back and ask, because I find these both interesting and telling.

Some recent favorites:

Short redhead and tall, well-built man at a grocery store in (my city). She was wearing this retro pin-up dress and heels and a collar and the man kept patting her ass affectionately and tugging on her D-ring. Pretty sure it was you two out shopping for dinner!

Two hipster looking youths–early to mid twenties, both covered in tattoos, the man with an air of something hyper masculine about him. The girl, short and coquettish with glasses with no lenses.

Two professional looking types, early thirties, at an airport. The woman is a short redhead in high heels, and the man a brassy blonde in a well-cut suit. They are leaving on different planes and both carry suitcases. They are unafraid of PDA and share a passionate kiss before they part ways.

I swear I saw you at (name of local fetish/sex club). You look just the way you describe in your blog, and I’d know those full, pouted lips anywhere. He was spanking you in a crowd of people and you were wearing a bustier. There was a pseudo gang bang that you found yourselves in the middle of. I respect a man who can pull off leather pants.

 

I’ve been very lax in mentioning the city I live in on the blog, because it’s a huge city and giant tourist destination, so I’ve felt comfortable and anonymous even though everyone knows the name. Consequently, these don’t make me uncomfortable, but I marvel at the little things that people have right, and the large things that they have wrong. I like to peek over your shoulder and know what you think of Sir and I… the kinds of people you think we are, the every day bodies we inhabit outside of Fatal and Sir.

Kinky people are among us… and truly, you might find us in any of these scenarios, because we are normal people. I’ve never been approached by someone who reads my blog in person–I imagine this is because I don’t put many pictures up and the ones I do put up are not very revealing, but I wonder how I’d react. Probably deny, deny, deny, to be honest, but the tiny exhibitionist in me might say: “well… perhaps,” and blush, coquettishly, as one person described me. And maybe the arm of the man beside me would wrap protectively around my waist and he’d pat my ass affectionately, and smirk.

I don’t know about the leather pants though. *snort*

Milestones and Misconceptions

WordPress tells me that yesterday (8/16) is the five-year anniversary of my blog. It’s only actively been in this incarnation since around… January of 2012, but I have been writing here since 2009. WordPress is also telling me that I’m nearing my 500th post on this blog (that includes private posts). I’m thinking of some way to mark the passing of the blogiversary and the 500 posts, but I’m not sure how yet? This is part of my rather intense need to mark every milestone in some way–I can’t let birthdays, anniversaries, holidays pass without some fanfare. Being my friend or lover is dangerous business around your birthday! Ask Sir. =P