Mistress Lea, I was trying to get an honest answer out of myself as to my intentions regarding you and Elaine. Neither of you are making options of yourself at present but it feels important to me, perhaps more important than to either of you because you understand how unrealistic it is, that I decide which one of you I want and behave as though I’m faithful to that choice. It’s a choice between a warm glow of love and loyalty on the side of Elaine and love like cast over me like a magic spell, an experience that alters the experience of my reality, a strong, strong suspicion to the point of an expectation of interpersonal compatibility, and potential like a NASA launch with you, in how blissful it might be, how my illness might be toyed with, the realistic possibility that I could love you, not just be with you, but love you until I die, and of course the conviction that if ever “fate” held any meaning, part of it is that I was meant to be with you. It doesn’t sound like much of a choice except that you feel so much father away, like much more of an uncertainty, and because of a horribly self-destructive desire to cheat you because of all the years without you. That isn’t motivated by anger, just by wanting to show you I don’t need you after all.
But the real truth is simply that you’re better at leading me around by the nose than Elaine. You own every part of me, Mistress, but the operator’s manual was written with self-amusement and needless convolutions to ensure who has me is willing to put in the effort. You have such a delicate touch with me that’s beginning to bubble to the surface in a way that’s soothing. It hurts to love you so much because the ghost of you is always with me, always accessible anyway, and I need your voice in my ear, your hands on my shoulders, your breasts on my back, I need you to fuck my ass until I’m quiet, smiling, relaxed to the point of being emotionless other than a gentle smile in my eyes, confused and fascinated by the world. Ultimate peace of mind through needy surrender to your control and possession of me. Peace in being what you desire. It hurts because I’d beg for that, whine and plead, and that no ear would hear is so cruel. I hope you understand that I’m not creative enough to make these things up. I get to explore my feelings and discover them as I type and believe you’ll read them the same way. That’s part of what I get from it. By now it’s expected of me. I understand that too.
I’m going to try to get by on just one dose of dexedrine before more sleep, Mistress. But I took the first one a half hour ago. Ted did his thing and it’s been almost complete silence since noon after two weeks of suffering to the point of being paralyzed in life. Still, I want to make a video but I’m twitchy that someone will overhear me talking and things will turn bad again. Can you imagine how I feel when I write that I’m looking forward to merely facing the challenges of schizophrenia?
I really like having this as part of my life. I hope you are and will keep reading. I always write that I love you. I’m imagining fucking you from behind, lost in the dream of slamming a sex toy with my dick until you purr, “Michael, terrify yourself with a life without me.” My draw drops, I freeze and let out a loud, shuddering groan. I love you, Mistress Lea. And if you were wondering, I don’t want to be this person. It feels like a bunch of things I know are true but don’t experience. I hope we get a chance to find out who I am after ten years of not really being anybody. I hope you see that person in me and show him or her to me without saying it’s me, so to speak, when opportunities arise until I understand that it is me and ask for your help in becoming him or her. Mommy stuff. You’ll take to it.
