March 19th,

Dear Diary,

I've begun to lack empathy. Especially for the men that I toss myself between. I give no sympathy for their plights against hurting me. I hear their complaints and reservations, their pleading voices begging to show me something more, but I do not listen. Their instructions are always the same - do as I say, or get out.

Some of them walk out with the intention of never returning, but most of them don't, and the ones that do - always reappear eventually. I suppose they are intrigued by the prospect of beating me before furiously stabbing their manhood inside my body and it brings them crawling back with acceptence of what I want to be done. Even if it sickens them to do some of the acts that I wish.

Sometimes I get curious to know what makes them so enticed by wrapping their hands around my throat as they penetrate me, to find what distinguishes these men from those who aren't so....differnet. But, just as the interest springs forth, it quickly dissipates by the lack of desire to know anything beyond the physical strength and endurance that they possess.

I've developed a checklist for each of the men I take to bed. A strict set of standards that have become sacred and imperative in order to maintain my self-imposed "lessons." Each partner must have the physical power to bring about the most pain, and have enough tolerance and virility to maintain long periods of terrifying foreplay before finally sating their own urges.

I am not sure how or when I became a slave to sexual pain, but it's now more a drug for me than anything else. It brings about a high, as well as serving a much greater purpose to me. Each slash of the whip on my skin or jolt of pain across my cheek have become almost...euphoric. I feel closer to reality than I ever have, the anguish providing a sense of stability - something real to cling to that keeps me grounded.

I've encountered more freedom than I have ever known with the torment and yet, I am chained to it like a prisoner with a weight around its foot. I am a thrall to my symbolic routine. I worship it so intensely that it has now replaced any hope or faith I had prior.

The fact that I am, no doubt, creating turmoil inside the minds of most of these decent men makes no never mind to me. Every new man is a new experience with new smells, touches, and tastes that most women would probably relish in for the rest of their lives if given half a chance, but to me - they all still remain nothing more than a carefully chosen sacrifice in the ritual to harden my shattered, hollow heart.

I do not need anything from them apart from pain. The pleasure they can give pales in comparison to the suffering I now crave in order to curve the even more painful memories of false intimacy that I have endured. Each strike across my body and the distinctive taste of copper in my mouth all serve as reminders that intimacy is nothing but a myth that we tell ourselves we need. An emotion that traps us more so than any of the rest.

We can't experience true freedom with the silly notion of love or happiness - we will never know how it feels to be released from bondage through those "butterflies" in our stomachs or the skipping of our heartbeat. But, if you hold onto something real, a thing - such as pain or pleasure - you can feel through physical touch and that can be self-inflicted as you see fit then our emotions no longer have to matter and can no longer hurt us.

Melinda Chevalier