On Self Doubt

I monitor myself to the point of making a vice of it.

That self-watching sparks many of my entries.

With her gone I’ve been striving to apprehend what I’m capable of. She has adventures she wants to explore; correspondingly there are imagined episodes I hope to bring to life.

My masochism is seemingly insatiable. I’ve exasperated her by never begging for mercy. My life has been haunted by images of physical cruelty that took me to tears then transcendence. Inwardness often leads to self-doubt: am I really capable of going down that path?

Confining me in such a way that my reality would be only glimpses of, perhaps being allowed to lick her boots inspires both of us. A man in a box at floor level. Often I’ve felt inflamed - horny if you will - for stringent confinement: bars, walls limiting my world. Do I have the psychological strength to endure this? Probably.

I’m more afraid of boredom than pain. Not the boredom of intentional neglect. A worry that as we explore duration there will be a distraction or annoyance that will throw me out of the slave trance.

Not that I’m fretting about it all the time. It is more an occasional loss of confidence in my ability to please her.

Writing here gives me a chance to test myself. Some entries are “thought experiments” as a physicist might say.

We have too many affinities for it to be a deep worry. And I know that if one of our performances of “behavioral art” fail there’ll be tomorrow. One failure won’t close the theater.

Thought you might like to know why I write so compulsively. (And with my spine out of whack I can’t do anything more physical.)

Thursday, she’ll be here. Happy, happy joy.