My adventures are not all fun and games. As some of you may already know, I was recently diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder (Type II, sometimes called "baby bipolar" as it is less intense than Type I). My tendency to take things to the extreme, things like drugs and sex, stems largely from this condition, though perhaps I was always destined to take things too far. Perhaps, in the words of my therapist, the diagnosis doesn't really matter, and this is just "who I am." But a major symptom of the manic and hypomanic states characteristic of bipolar is a dangerous disregard for one's own personal safety...
I have always been self-destructive, but recently, during and following the end of a long relationship, my self-immolating nature has come out with frightening intensity. Cocaine nearly killed me, and I spent all my savings keeping my nose full and my heart racing. I have fucked far more people in the past month than most people will fuck in their entire lives.
I have been reckless, not using protection (I'm still clean, thank god,) not screening or vetting my partners, not meeting them before simply arriving at their houses, with only the knowledge that my poor, innocent, beleaguered sister has their address in her phone to protect me from the very real possible fates of kidnapping, rape, and murder. And after 19 new partners, nerve damage, and several close calls with stalkerish doms, my recklessness finally bit me in the ass. Consider the following a cautionary tale. If I'm going to share my adventures here, I should not hold back the more unfortunate details, there could be some poor reckless soul out there that might benefit from it. So I begin sharing my stories with one that got a bit weird, and ended in fear, both for myself and my family.
I reached out to a dom on a fetish site a little over a month ago, telling him I found his profile intriguing, and would like the chance to casually sub for him for a little while, despite the fact that I could tell he was looking for something longer term than I was. His pictures were beautiful, he was obviously ex-military and looked delightfully strong. I'm a sucker for blond-haired guys as well, so I just about lost it when I found him. His handle contained the word "brutal," and there is nothing I love better than a dominant who can physically destroy me. He replied a week later, with nothing but a phone number and a command: "be obedient." I texted him, knowing him only as "sir" for the first week.
He called me one morning on my way to work, his voice was deep and cold, with an air of sociopathic detachment that excited me far more than I care to admit. He asked me where I was. I told him I was in my car on the interstate, stuck in rush hour traffic. He ordered me to touch myself as I drove, letting him listen. I did as I was told, moaning into the phone with the windows down as dozens of cars sailed past. I came twice, listening to him stroke himself. After he came, he told me that "pleasure sounds beautiful" on me, and that we would meet soon enough...
One evening, as I am wont to do, I took a nap. Oftentimes my naps result in waking up the following morning, wondering what the hell happened. One such morning I woke up to discover a string of texts from him, making it clear that he did not appreciate my lack of response. He called me, and that perfectly deep voice told me I would be coming to see him early, the following evening, that I would spend the night, and that a punishment would be waiting for me. He sent his address, it was a small trailer two hours drive from me deep in the woods of a rural county where he lived alone, with no close neighbors. "You can scream as loud as you want and no one will hear you," he said. The GPS would only get me so far; he would have to meet me and I would follow him back to the house. In short, it was the perfect recipe for a Dateline-style murder.
While preparing for my rapidly approaching possible demise, I learned more about him. His name was Michael. He said he had served two tours in Iraq, that he had severe PTSD and was a sociopath with very few emotions to speak of, though he could easily manipulate and sense the emotions of others. This gave me pause, but how could I judge? I have had emotional stunted partners with PTSD before, and I myself am a seething cauldron of addictions and mental disorders. I thought of the fear the word "bipolar" strikes into people, and of how I consider myself to be reasonably normal, if a little wild. So I ignored all these red flags with disturbing ease.
The day arrived, and he sent instructions on how I was to dress. "Like a sorority slut" were his exact words, and he sent me a screenshot of one of my old glamour shots from high school as an example of how I was to do my hair and makeup. Straightening my thick, naturally curly hair is no easy feat, but I followed instructions, and after two hours of preparations I was as ready as I was going to get. I wore a southwest patterned tank top and shorts with my favorite fishnet garters and corset underneath, and knee length boots. I figured that a sorority slut might dress like this for spring break, but in hindsight it was a little much. I was very careful to make sure my parents did not see my outfit as I left the house. As I pulled out of the driveway I sent my sister the address, knowing that as soon as she received it and realized how far away I was driving, alone and in the darkness and rain, she would panic, so I waited to do so until she couldn't talk me out of it. The amount of mental gymnastics I had to perform to trick my brain into thinking any of this was ok was incredible.
I somehow managed not to get lost and after two hours of driving I was "as far as the GPS would take me," on a dirt road in the middle of scenic nowhere. I called him, and hearing his voice damn near pushed me over the edge. He said he was coming to get me, and I cheerfully replied:
"Ok, thanks! See ya soon!"
*pause*
