Rescue Me... Again.

Thursday morning found me in no better condition. I hated myself during times when I was in emotional turmoil with no real logical or rational reason for it. It makes me feel stupid, worthless, and most of all, guilty. What did I have to be miserable about? Nonetheless, there I was, with a heavy heart, watching BabyMan getting dressed as though I were invisible. He had left me alone last night when he had to have known how much I needed him. After all, he calls himself a Sugarologist, an expert in the study and science of Sugar. He knows me better than anyone in the world, and has learned what it takes to bring me out of these bouts of profound sadness and despair. And he left me there. Alone. And he was doing it again.

When he grabbed his briefcase and his gym bag, I knew he was on his way out the door. He leaned down to kiss me goodbye, and I turned my head away from him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you kidding me?

“Just go,” I snapped.

“Wait a minute, I don’t understand”

“You’re damned right you don’t understand. So just get out!”

“Come on, baby, talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. You left me last night. I needed you and you ignored me and fell asleep on the couch. JUST GO!”

I finally turned my eyes to catch his. He looked genuinely confused. I couldn’t understand why he had no idea what I was talking about. We had been through this before. Sure, I could spend hundreds of dollars and hours talking to a therapist, I could start taking a serotonin re-uptake again… but he has learned how to take the place of all that. Whether it was holding me, or making love to me or spanking me, or tickling me, or feeding me, or praying with me… he always found a way to rescue me.

And last night… he left me.

“I can’t leave you like this,” he said.

“Funny, you didn’t have that problem last night.”

Exasperated, he left the room. I assumed he was leaving, but didn’t hear the door. I got up and padded my way into the living room where I found him sitting in silence. “Why don’t you get the hell outta here? You’re going to be late," I said.

Now he was making me nervous. He was just sitting there, saying nothing. My nerves were on edge, and I was about to explode. I turned and went to the island that separates the kitchen from the living room where there sat a bottle of wine. I popped the cork and poured myself a glass, something I’ve never done at 7:30 am. Before I could get the cork back in the bottle, BabyMan had jumped up, grabbed my glass and violently dumped it in the sink, splashing my nightgown in the process. “That’s not the answer,” he said. He slammed the glass on the counter, and went back to his chair. I turned and stomped back to the bedroom, and pulled the covers over my head and waited for him to do something. About 15 minutes later, I heard the door open and close. He was gone.

“PUSSY!” I yelled after him. This is not a word I normally use, (I actually hate this word) but I was spitting mad, and I knew this would hurt him. It’s a word that BabyMan reserves for someone without a backbone. Fortunately, he didn’t hear me.

I cried myself to sleep again, and when I awoke 4 hours later, I got up, dressed, got in my car and took off.

I was out for more than seven hours, walking around malls, eating greasy food, picking a fight with my own mother, driving in strange neighborhoods, getting into a road rage altercation (I was the enraged one). By 5:00 pm I was exhausted, guilt ridden, and emotionally beaten. The anger had been eroded from the size of a boulder to the size of a pebble. Now all that was left was a sadness that left me defeated and broken.

When I walked in the house, he approached me, arms folded across his chest, eyes, intimidating and probing. “This place looks like you haven’t been home all day. Where have you been?”

I couldn’t look at him. His tone of voice made me nervous. “Out,” I said timidly.

As he towered over me, staring at me, I began to feel about 3 feet tall. I turned and sat down on the living room couch, and trembled as I watched him take a seat in the easy chair. We stared at each other, waiting for someone to break the silence.

Finally he said, “What should I have done?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But you had a world of possibilities, and you chose none of them. Even now, you sit in that chair on the other side of the room, and you don’t even have the nerve to touch me.”

Suddenly he rose from his chair, crossed the room and pushed his body into mine until I was lying down and he was on top of me. The healing warmth of his body penetrated my nerve endings and sent a jolt of electricity through me that brought cathartic tears streaming down my face. We held each other for several minutes while my body convulsed in gut wrenching sobs.

Less than 30 minutes later we were on the road to recovery. We were smiling and talking again like the events of the last 36 hours were of no consequence. I offered to make him dinner, and he asked for a salad. When I brought it to him in his easy chair, he instructed me to leave it on the coffee table, and kneel in front of him. I did.

“I’m going to eat my salad,” he said. “and you’re going to go get the paddle, the bath brush and the mineral oil. Wait for me in the den"

I didn’t hesitate the way I normally do while searching my brain for a way out. I knew I deserved this, and I had no more fight left in me. I got the implements, went to the den and curled up in a ball in the corner of the couch wearing just my panties and my shirt.

When he came in 20 minutes later, he had the handcuffs with him. I knew this wasn’t going to be an easy ride.

As he sat on the couch I was told to kneel between his legs and put the cuffs on. He then guided me over his left knee, a position he has grown quite fond of in the last month or so. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. The spanking with the paddle wasn’t so intense and painful that I couldn’t hear and understand everything he said to me, and I was even able to hold off the tears. “I’m not always going to be perfect as the HOH around here, but you WILL NOT TREAT ME like a PUSSY!” (WHAP!)

Pussy? Oh, God, did he hear me through the door this morning?

“Do you believe I’m a pussy?” he demanded. (WHAP!)

“No…no I don’t!” I was trembling and sweating, grateful for the paddle because it wasn’t the brush. Apparently he hadn’t heard me this morning when I called him that awful word. But he sure knew that I had to be thinking it.

“Do you think I deserved a phone call from you today letting me know where you were? That you were safe?” (WHAP!)

“Ow! Yes, I should have called! Baby, I’m sorry. Listen, I…” WHAP! “Aaahh!”

The paddle took on a horrible rhythm, and I began to squirm and strain against the cuffs. It was beginning to become unbearable, and he hadn’t even picked up the bath brush yet.

When he finally did, the talking was over. The brush did most of the communicating, and I answered by shrieking into a pillow and kicking my legs. BabyMan closed his legs, and I was clamped in as though caught in a massive bear trap. I could feel my sit spots begin to swell with searing heat, and all I could do was scream and declare how sorry I was over and over again.

When he finally stopped, the pillow was sopping wet from sweat and tears, the cuff marks around my wrists were chafing, and I was sapped of enough energy that I could barely move. As he rubbed me with mineral oil, he explained a few things to me, the most important of which was how much he loves me and isn't always sure of the right thing to do in these situations. He took a chance to leave me to my own devices, and that was a mistake, one that he’ll try never to make again. Regardless of his action or inaction, I am not to cross the line into disrespect.

So I get it. I’m going to have to stop expecting him to be perfect in this area of our lives, and I’m going to have to step up the communication when he needs it. Meanwhile, he’ll always be there to get me a cool, damp towel to put out the fire.

That I can always count on.