Bend Over Jessica

I’m feeling somewhat thoughtful about life, the universe and more specifically, me this week, so I’m afraid my posts are a bit introspective. Sorry all. I’ll return to kink next week, promise!

I’m dieting again. It’s not going very well. I had a review meeting with The Lover last week and he described it as a ‘disappointing start’. Is there any worse combination of words in the English language? Apart from the phrase ‘I’m disappointed in you’.

I’m not very good at doing things on my own, even if I really want to, so I really appreciate a mentoring aspect. Other friends have talked about the difficulties of mixing pleasurable punishment that has an erotic charge and unpleasant punishment that is meant to hurt, the submissive doesn’t enjoy and frankly, the dom doesn’t either.

In my life, I’ve been thin and I’ve been fat. I’ve been overweight and underweight. I’ve even been just right – for about three weeks after birth. Although I love food, I don’t love how it makes me look a lot of the time and I envy some of my lucky friends who by lucky genetics or proper eating habits (or a combination thereof) can eat whatever the hell they like and maintain an amazing figure.

I’ve long given up on asking HWMBO to help me conquer my life-long poor relationship with food. He won’t do it – because it’s hard work and very unrewarding as I become snappy, grumpy and cross. He doesn’t have the patience or really understand my torturous journey with what I put in my mouth. He dislikes telling me not to eat something or forbidding me from doing something, something I’ve always found ironic in a dom. He wants me to make my own choices, to regulate myself. Except that I can’t. I am weak.

The Lover, poor fool, therefore offered to step into the breach. At first, it went well, he monitored me every day by text, walloped me when I misbehaved, put up with me screaming abuse at him when I couldn’t have what I wanted. He quickly came to the conclusion that HWMBO did, that unless I do it myself, nothing works, not thrashing, not telling-off, not talking. So he gave up on the thrashing and now he merely counsels me in a sad voice, making me feel like I am the most useless and idiotic person on the planet and causing me to despise myself even more as the following day, I eat forbidden things again.

So why do I do it? Apart from the obvious temptation that is? Because a tiny part of me says, it’s because neither of them care. If they cared, they would be on my back all the time, snatching Bavarian Smoked cheese from my fingers if needs be, scoring an angry line of pain across exposed thighs, checking, checking, checking. But they don’t. They can’t be arsed with that level of commitment. And if they can’t be arsed why should I be?

My problem is, as I put on weight and feel worse, so eat more and put on more weight and feel worse so eat more – is that I know when they will be arsed. They will be arsed when suddenly, I am so overweight that they can’t help to notice it and suddenly, they don’t fancy me anymore. The process is already happening, like a speeding train rushing towards the inevitable barrier over the abyss. And that’s when I will care – when I watch them lust after others and know that they don’t lust after me – and that’s when it will hurt more than any cane strokes can possibly do.

I suffer from lack of will. But will comes from inside. And somehow, what you need to do, inside the poisonous inner wellspring of hatred and poor body image and corrosive guilt and jealously of the younger thinner ones and anger, anger at your own being – you find your will. Then you do it all by yourself. You don’t need anyone else. Because all those things that held you down drive you on.

It just goes to show really that relying on anyone other than yourself is futile and will lead to your eventual unhappiness. You can only count on you. Believe me on this one.