I soar when I play.
As I am flogged or caned or worked over with hands or paddles, I take flight. I wiggle. I giggle. I laugh. I moan.
I don’t get internal. I don’t do subspace. I do space. I launch with a feeling that is explosive and leaves me floaty and glassy eyed. But full of energy, but calm.
Coming down is the hardest part. That night, coming down is easy. It’s like I’m drifting back to earth. The floaty feeling is great – and my biggest problem is getting rid of enough energy so that I can sleep. Alcohol helps that one. So does just letting myself wind down.
The next day is lazy. I relax. I poke bruises and examine them. I savor the soreness. I feel loved by the one who gave me the main bruises. His energy is flowing through me. The connection is still there. I still feel floaty, but it’s all good.
The day after is when I hit earth – with a thud. And it hurts. The connection feels gone. The bruises bring a smile, but I need something. I need someone. I need cuddles and all. And while I have G to give me these things – the fact he’s disconnected from the experience makes it not quite the same.
I know that this isn’t a woe-is-me thing. I know there are people – like SB who have no one in the house to give them the cuddles and aftercare when they splat on the ground. I think I have discovered that it is felt more when you care about the person you are with – when you are energetically connected – when you have emotional investment. To go back to “real life” is a splat instead of maybe a hard landing with a parachute.
I don’t know. I’m babbling. I’m rambling. I’m falling quickly to earth. I know how it’s going to feel tomorrow and the next day – before I have that chance to reconnect with my dear SB, my Daddy – before that energetic reboot happens.
And I’m realizing that coming down sucks ass.
No matter what the situation.
Love is love – and a crash is a crash.
There are no airbags.