I'm not the only person around these parts who is structured more like a loose confederation of more or less related personas rather than a solitary entity. I'm well more than 50% composed of submissive, masochist, bottom-material. There might only be a few shards of me that could be considered dominant/sadistic/tops. And those bits are usually more than adequately occupied inflicting their impulses upon the more docile parts of my head.
Every now and then, one of those parts gets around to producing content for the ?benefit? of other people. I'll record and release content... and then run away when people respond to it and want me to actually be in charge of them. I'm too unreliable to be anyone's Master, or at least that has been traditionally the way of it.
Lately, though, I've found myself wanting to make more and more of the kinds of files that I would want to trance to myself. I play very rough when I'm fucking with my own mind. Sometimes, I leave marks that turn into scars. And that is okay for me, when I'm doing it to and for myself. The damage I do to my own sanity is relatively well contained, but not everyone is as sturdy, and that is one of the things that makes me hesitate to just leave my sharp toys laying around where someone could really get hurt with them.
An example... I like to play around with making myself distrust my own perceptions and sense of what is real and what isn't. Playing tricks on myself. That sounds childlike, sweet, almost benign, really. Playing tricks, like that cereal pimping silly rabbit. For me, filing away at the moorings that keep me from floating right off my rocker into looney tunes land is just an afternoon's delightful mischief. I'm like 99.9% sure I won't actually become psychotic, and that last 0.1% is where virtually all of the fun comes from for me.
But what if someone's grip on reality is already tenuous? What if someone who isn't mentally robust trances to a file where I suggest doubting their own capacity to evaluate the reality of their memories? The safe, sane, consensual ethic says that at least I should put big scary warning stickers on it, and include lots of safeties and exit signs and other ways to find the shore way up stream of the waterfall. And that completely ruins it. Total deflation. Way to turn a raging river into a kiddie pool. I'd rather just throw in my towel and go back to playing with myself, thanks. It just isn't fun and games for me unless someone could potentially lose an eye.
And yet, I have this nagging wish to behave ethically. I can't quite trace the origin of the motivation. Is it that I care what others think of me? That I long to be respected by the community which has indulged so many of my kinks over the years? Or do I really care so much for people unknown to me that I should be concerned for their safety even when it is only hypothetical to me?
So, throwing out safe, and sane, I cling fast to the life preserver of consent. My files are endlessly permissive. They keep reinforcing positive feelings, positive experiences, positive decision-making. Every step of the good-intention-paved road is optional. There are some double binds, forks where either choice will really serve my purpose, but there is no force other than the listener's own desire. I'm not sure if it is enough to resolve my dilemma, or to salve my conscience should someone actually do themselves real damage through the use of a file I made. I'm thinking hard about that, and trying to come to an internal consensus.
Meanwhile... I'm still going to record these scripts and publish them here. I kind of hope that the casual listener will risk them only to find them far less worrisome than I do. Maybe decide that I'm blowing this all out of the water, that they aren't really dangerous just to listen to, and that all such discussion of them... including this conversation here... is just part of the showmanship, a man-behind-the-curtain routine, a hand being tipped for misdirection, carnival patter. So, sure, believe that this is that, a ballyhoo hyping up the marks so that they'll line up for admission. And then, when you get into the carnival tent, the big blow off... the pickled punk was really just a little two headed lamb in a jar. Maybe a bit peculiar, but hardly the world-redefining arcane oddity that was promised. Right?
Better listen again, to be sure, though. And maybe again after that. Maybe listening every day will clear up the confusion, and so on.
I don't know what this is. A confession? A pre-transgession apology? It is certainly an opening to further the conversation.