Excuse Me, Sir, Your Discipline Has Slipped Into Your Y-Fronts

A dominant once disciplined me as part of an ordinary scene, locking me inside a power differential I didn’t feel I could escape until the scene ended. I don’t participate in power exchange for the life lessons, but if I did, I would be damned careful that my dominant could live well himself. This top could not. The chaos of his existence muddied every aspect of his life from the career he’d never got around to nurturing to the crack house of a home he shared.

My life used to be almost as chaotic. One day, I had enough, so I arranged help and put every enth of my power into recovery. It took years to internalise the lessons I learned, and even more time to find a permanent balance. Chronic illness alone demands that I pay close attention to my body if I’m to maintain quality of life. I’m beyond PTSD, but one wrong step can bring relapse. Maintaining my happiness requires a ton of thoughtfulness, so no, you’re not qualified to “help” me life well. Your discipline will only soothe your own self-esteem, and that’s not the kind of motivation I look for in a mentor.


I have a doctorate in my own health, and if you’re trying to adjust it using your preschool education and ego boner, please do not pass go. Do not collect $200. If your motives are in your Y-fronts, you can’t do me an enth of good.

Even if your existence is a grand success, you cannot know what living well means for me. If you want to be my life coach, please produce the appropriate paperwork and stop fucking me. Psychologists don’t have sexual relationships with those they treat for excellent reasons, and I prefer to carry that ethic into my sex *own* life.

Discipline isn’t part of my BDSM acronym. It makes me feel inferior and silly. If I lived by it, it would also throw me all the way back to 2009 when I was too ill to eke out a productive existence. No, I don’t trust you with that. It was never my kink anyway.

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