Sub-Space in Relation to Drug Use…

So, keep in mind as you read this, that I have no idea how true any of it is.  I am very educated in drug use and addiction (from textbooks, professional trainings, and straws and mirrors), so that stuff is all legit, but the other, well, someday soon I’ll research it, but just don’t have the time tonight and this was on my mind.  Deal with it.  Or don’t.

Anyway, today I was sitting on the back porch and thinking about flying, and not the Delta Air kind.  I was thinking of what it’s like to be in sub-space, how it feels.  It’s not something I can verbalize, even to myself.  Fuck, actually, it’s hard for me to even think of how it feels, if that makes any sense.  I can describe the come-down; the feelings after flying.  It’s calming, sort of peaceful, with very little thought, just feelings of elation.  Contentment.  Like someone could tell me the house was on fire, and I’d be like, “Oh, okay.  That’s good.”  (Sort of how you feel if you take to many benzos…  You just go with the flow, no matter where that flow takes you).

Dopamine Pathways. In the brain, dopamine plays an important role in the regulation of reward and movement. As part of the reward pathway, dopamine is manufactured in nerve cell bodies located within the ventral tegmental area (VTA) and is released in the nucleus accumbens and the prefrontal cortex. Its motor functions are linked to a separate pathway, with cell bodies in the substantia nigra that manufacture and release dopamine into the striatum. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So this thought process led me to think that the closest thing that I could even come close to comparing flying to was using drugs (more on this in a minute).  And I started thinking about brain chemistry and the VTA (which stands for ventral tegmental area, an area in the midbrain that begins the mesolimbic pathway, and tends to be referred to as the reward circuit) and the release of endorphins increasing the dopamine output in the nucleus accumbens and it’s no fucking wonder I like it so damn much!  (Sorry about all the nerd stuff… but the brain is REALLY fucking cool.)

And then I start thinking about not being able to describe sub-space is kind of like not being able to describe tripping on acid.  You can remember what happened, you can remember what you did (sometimes), but you can’t quite get a clear picture of what you were feeling or where your mind was or what it was like.  And, fuck, to even try to describe tripping to someone who has never dosed, don’t even attempt it.  They will not get it.  But if you have, maybe you can get what I’m saying here.  Well, flying is sort of like that.  I know what happens, I can (sometimes) remember what I did, but I can’t get a clear picture of inside my head, of where I was and what I was feeling, or pull in that memory of what it’s like.  No matter how hard I try, I’m at a loss.

For instance, the strongest experience that I’ve had flying was mentioned the other day in a comment on The Dom Next Door‘s Torn series.  A quick description of the events, as this is not what this post is about.  It was right after (and I mean right after, think Off The Gridtimeframe) M and I started this D/s venture, and it was our first experience with fisting.  We had been playing for hours (and hours).  My ankles were secured together with a pretty pair of panties twisted between them.  M’s fist was fully inserted in my pussy (after a LOT of time getting it there).  His other hand was tight (very tight) around my neck.  I was very close to safewording, the closest I’d ever been.  I was not only in physical sensory overload, but I was fighting my own demons in my head.  Did I truly trust him enough?  Would he take this too far?  Etc, etc, etc.  I was struggling NOT to safeword, when all of a sudden it hit me…  Pure euphoria.  And I was flying.  And crying.  And I don’t even know how long I was gone.  And I say gone, because truly, I was no longer there, I was in some distant pleasure induced space…  Sub-space.

A BDSM-style collar that buckles in the back. This was a featured picture of Lady Byron (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

And I can remember it feeling good.  And I can remember coming down.  M’s hand on my cheek (no longer around my throat, but the other was still buried deep in my pussy, because, in case you’ve never been involved in fisting, it’s almost as hard to get out as it is to get in), him talking softly to me.  Telling I was okay.  And, fuck, I KNEW things were okay at that point.  Things were fucking fantastic.  My heart was overjoyed.  I felt wonderful.  There was nothing wrong in the universe.  (Anyone out there ever roll?  Because that is sort of how ecstasy makes you feel…  Absolutely fantastic and happy and every nerve is sending happy, pleasurable impulses to your brain.)

So I can remember all of that, but damn if I can’t get into my head at that moment.  What was I thinking?  What was I feeling, emotionally?  No fucking clue, but I guarantee it was good.  Perhaps I wasn’t thinking.  Perhaps it IS non-thought.  This also happens to me a lot when I cum…  I lose touch for a few moments, but when I’m flying, it’s more than just a few moments.  Sometimes it feels like an eternity.  An endless ocean of endless heights.  (Anyone ever lose themselves, dancing at a Rave, high as a kite, just losing yourself in the moment, the music, the dance?  Yeah, sort of, kind of like that.)

I don’t know.  I’m rolling up on a thousand words, and I don’t really know if I’ve said what I sat down to say.  I don’t think so, but truly, I don’t remember what the original point was.  (Anyone want to sit down and smoke another joint?).  Maybe, the point is that sub-space is almost like a drug.  It gets you high.  Well, let me speak from the “I” standpoint.  When I’m flying, there is no doubt in my mind that I’m high.  I don’t know if it’s the endorphins.  I don’t know if it’s the dopamine.  I don’t know if it’s everything rolled into one.  But, fuck, am I ever high.  And coming down, it, too, is like coming down from some drugs.  Okay, my jaw doesn’t hurt from clenching, unless I’ve had my bit in, and my nose isn’t raw, but sometimes as I cuddle up next to M, I’m twitchy.  Having small uncontrollable movements.  I don’t want to talk, almost can’t talk, which is the what happens when I eat mushrooms.  I want to just Be.  Relish the moment.  (I’ve never done heroin, but I imagine this is the what that moment is like.  I’ve smoked my fair share of opium, and when the high rolls over you, your whole body feels it and relaxes into it, and, well, it’s heaven.)

Anyway, I’m wrapping this up.  Just some random thoughts thrown out there at ya…

And the song of the day…

A Rant on Being Hyper-Sexual

Today life got in the way of life.  I don’t know if that makes sense to anyone, unless you’ve experienced it.  It way a day that makes me want to cozy up in sweat pants (check), pour a glass of wine (check), smoke a joint (damn, all out!), fuck (check), and go to bed (I can hear it calling). 

After dinner and dishes, getting the kids bathed (thank you M) and in bed, I sit down with my laptop to proceed with my blogging obligations…  (On a completely different track, it’s been 3 1/2 weeks, 25 posts, and as of sometime between 2 am and 7 am, I reached 1000 total views – it may not be much, but I’m excited).  M, who knows I blog and probably figures, since he knows me as well as he does, that it’s about sex, picks up my leather-bound journal that’s sitting beside me on the couch.  I carry it with me everywhere I go.  Not for journaling perse, but for writing:  post ideas, sexy things I come across during the day, beginning of posts I write while waiting on a client, etc.  He asks what it is and I say that it’s stuff for my blog.  He begins flipping through it while I read emails. 

“What the fuck are you writing about?”  —  “What do you mean?” I ask.  —  “You know what I mean.”— “Sex,” I say, wondering if he stumbled upon something on masturbation or something more personal or one of the erotic stories I’ve been playing around with.  M just kind of shakes his head, “Humph” and doesn’t say anything else.

Fast forward thirty minutes.  My phone starts to ring.  M starts to bitch.  “That’s my wife.  With her fucking embarrassing ringtone.”  My ringtone is Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch.”  Not necessarily because I am a Buckcherry fan (although I am), but because it’s a great song about having great sex (…you fuck so good I’m top of it.  When I dream, I’m doing you all night, scratches all down my back…).  Okay.  I understand that it is not the most appropriate ringtone.  Afterall, I’m a professional.  I’m a mom.  I’m a fucking Girl Scout leader.  But you know what, that’s why they make vibration settings on phones. 

Earlier in the day, I went to lunch with a co-worker, a cute girl, but a good girl.  I happened to mention my lack of sleep as of late, and she asked why.  I say that I’ve been writing.  “Really,” she asks, “about what?” – “I blog” — “What’s it about?” — “Well,” I stall.  “It’s probably inappropriate to be talking about with someone I work with.”  She gives me a look.  “It’s mainly focused on keeping things exciting in long-term relationships.” — “Like sex and stuff?”  — ”Yeah…  And stuff.” — She giggles and the subject changes…

Ok.  Finally getting to my point.  I’m sexual.  Very sexual.  I like sex.  A lot.  Fuck, my first tattoo, which was my birthday present to myself at 22, means ”sex” (everyone always said not to get something you will hate when you’re 80).

Probably the only real picture of me that you'll see...

Sometimes, I’ll find myself touching my pussy while on my way to work.  But so what?  Why is it a big deal to enjoy sex?  I’m not ashamed.  I’m not embarrassed.  Anyone who knows me, knows that I like sex.  I was the girl in high school that other girls, girls I wasn’t even friends with, would come up to, asking questions about sex.  Hell, the night before Thanksgiving, I was out at the bar with my bff (hi babe) and talking to a guy I haven’t seen since 10th grade.  I said something about my five-year-old being kind of promiscuous.  He looked at me, laughed, and said, “I wonder where she gets that from.”  But you know what?  Fuck you all.  I’m not a slut (and really, who cares if I am).  You can all hide behind your bedroom doors, beating off to your own little kinks.  I embrace mine.  I hug them, I kiss them, I fuck them.  And you want to guess whose happier, whose more fulfilled?  Nine times out of ten it’s me.  So what if I like to suck cock.  Yeah, I like it in the ass.  Tie me to the bed and pull out a paddle, and I’ll be cumming all over the place.  So what!?!  (*Focus, LSAM, Focus*)

Merriam-Webster dictionary defines hypersexual as “ exhibiting unusual or excessive concern with or indulgence in sexual activity.”  Again, I need to ask, why is it so wrong to like to indulge in sexual activity?  I tend to think it’s unhealthy to not want to indulge in sex.  And I’m not saying that everyone needs to be preoccupied with sex, or think about it as much as I do.  But you know what – you should like it.  A lot.  We’re designed to like it.  If you don’t like sex, then I think is a problem.  Go see a doctor.  Go see a therapist.  Sex is one of the greatest things on Earth.  Fuck, perhaps it IS the greatest thing on Earth. 

I understand that there is sexual deviance.  I’m not supportive of sexual deviance.  But if I like sex more than the normal girl, good for me!  People have called me a sex addict.  And I’m not saying there aren’t sex addicts out there.  Maybe I am one, I don’t know.  But let me tell you, I’ve been working with addicts (drugs and alcohol) for years.  Sex does not inhibit on my daily functioning.  I may be preoccupied with it, I may even plan my day around obtaining it (both signs of addiction), but I am a productive, responsible member of society.  I go to work everyday (although I may pull over a time or to to rub one down).  I pay taxes.  I do not cause harm.  I am not supporting illegal trafficking.  What am I doing?  I’m fucking the shit out of my husband.  When he’s not willing, I masturbate.  I write about it.  I think about it.  I read about it. 

Does all of this make me a bad person?  A deviant?  A pervert?  An addict?  I don’t know.  I can tell you what it does make me.  A sexy girl who will fuck your brains out.  A woman who will suck your cock like there is no tomorrow.  A lover who will try just about anything.  A fuck that you will remember for years to come.