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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Sunday, 21 February 2010


One of the curious things about keeping this diary is how what I'm going to write about changes in the space between my actions and when I get to a computer. I try to keep this time to the minimum, but practicalities and politeness tend to ensure that a while is whiled away betwixt kink and keyboard. This can mean that my sometimes my original thoughts have cooled a little, sometimes they have improved with the brewing and sometimes they have been replaced by something completely different. Take this morning. I should be writing about the eight-woman-in-a-dungeon-romp. But I'm not going to, not today, because I don't have the correct attitude on. Instead, I have drop.

Drop is a funny little thing, widely acknowledged, but not really given a lot of serious attention in the mainstream of BDSM writing (no article on it on wipipedia, for example - though there is a one line description of "a really bad feeling like a drug come-down" in the advice to submissives section) but there is plenty to be found online in more personal, anecdotal accounts. Of which this is another, of course. We all know it's there, but we're not really talking about it? Perhaps. But then again I am not in the most logical frame of mind right now, so I'm going to save that thought for a rainy day.

What is drop? I've only had a few instances of it, although more recently, which is probably indicative of emotional background noise. I can't speak to how it feels for others, just for me. I wake up and know something is wrong straight away: that anxious feeling when you don't want to leave your bed because the day is waiting for you and you are not sure you can handle it. Some of this is just straightforward loneliness, and not uncommon for me on a Sunday morning. I can tackle it well enough, usually, with application of gym sessions, Eggs Benedict, being somewhere else with someone else or masturbating until I can fall back asleep and wake up better. Not today.

I know what it is and what causes it, but that doesn't really help in the way that knowing the twelve pints you drank last night caused your hangover doesn't make the headache recede. I know that I'm tired, that I've got the knock-on effects of the euphoria and adrenaline from yesterday. Not just the absence of those feelings, but something else, a further absence. I feel quite, quite empty and very sorry for myself, which gives the whole thing an air of self-pitying indulgence and that doesn't make me feel much better. There's the serious lack of someone to help me through this, and that is hard. For me, these days, drop is that awful realisation - after sex or after play, when you've gone home and it's all done - that really you are just by yourself, alone.

So here I am, with all my personal flotsam and jetsam washed up on the shore after the crashing waves have long since departed. Which is a lot how like how it feels - during play things come to the surface and most of the time this is good, because you can push them out, get rid of them. But sometimes when you wake up the next day they are still there, clinging to you like old ghosts, weighing you down and making you feel just plain sad.

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