Misunderstandings and miscalculations can come with disastrous consequences.

The past few days have seen a variety of changes. Some fun and exciting, others, not so much.

The first was the launch of The Court Of Queen Elena. It feels good to give my Dominant side — my fun-loving Dominant side — a little bit of room to breathe, and to allow her to exist in the light again. Maybe my Dominant counterparts always knew she was there and I was only lying to myself, afraid that letting her back into the light would see my submissive fantasies diminished completely. It’s good to finally accept that both can be parts of me.

Next to that, I left Slowly again.

I know, I know! I know I said I left Slowly once before, but after I managed to get my to-do list under control, I decided to try it again.

It was still too much labour for me, so this time I sent a farewell letter to all of my penpals, uninstalled the app and everything. This time I went nuclear.

It wasn’t something that I wanted to do, it was something that I felt I had to do. For me.

I was getting letters back almost as soon as I was sending them, and I was getting more and more matches from people telling me that they loved my profile, liked the sound of my work, how generally fun and interesting I sounded, etc. Slowly was recommending me as a match for people on the front page, too, which meant even more people were discovering my profile. Sure, I was open to making new friends, but not that bloody many!

It’s lovely and great, really it is, I really appreciate all of those kind comments and letters. It’s also great that Slowly thinks my profile is awesome enough to recommend me to people all over the world.

But do you realize how much extra work it is, writing a 700+ word letter per person you want to reply and at about 5-7 replies, three times per week? That’s about four extra posts’ worth of words, every couple of days!

So I had to step away. Like I say, it’s not that I don’t love connecting with people, I absolutely do, and some of my penpals have even added me on Fetlife. It’s not that I don’t want friends, it’s that I had become far too popular for my own bloody good!

I want to sidetrack real quick here, because I remember writing a blog post once called “Accidentally Popular” and, rather ironically, it also became unintentionally popular! It was about how my secondary school taxi was a white 1996 stretch Mercedes E Class limousine, and how all of the kids thought I might be famous, or have celebrity parents. It was also about how my nickname at school was “limo girl” because of it, how fights were fought over who got to carry my bags because of it, and how my “armed” driver, Dave, was actually only armed with a roll of Werther’s Original.

It was a taxi, my dears, but kids really will believe absolutely anything you tell them – including that it’s got a swimming pool and a cinema inside 😉

The not so good part of last week was that Sunday, the Admiral and I broke up. It was my decision, and it was a decision born out of love. We’re still good friends and we’ve said that we will still work together, but our relationship is over.

I want to say here — and I wish to be abundantly clear — that there was never any abuse in our relationship. The Admiral and I still love one another, very deeply in fact, but I felt as though we both wanted different things from our relationship. I felt as though the Admiral’s vision for us, sadly, may not be compatible with mine.

It was an “incompatibility” thing, more than a “bad guy” thing. Not every break-up story has to have a villain in it.

But if I thought ending our seemingly-doomed relationship would be easy, I was sorely mistaken.

It was supposed to feel easier once I’d said it, yet I felt like a tonne of shit. I felt cold, tired, emotional, confused, angry, scared, emotional again. It was also perhaps the first time in my life that I’d cried whilst hunched over a pile of fucking mashed potatoes.

Holding it together was hard. Levi doesn’t do well around tears — he tends to want to fix the problem.

And Levi wanting to fix the problem meant I had to “fix” the problem for him, by putting on a brave face around him. At least until I could fall apart alone.

So when I went down the garden to move some rubble for an hour before sunset, I allowed myself some time. I leant against our shed, out of sight of the flat. There, I finally let myself go.

I questioned myself over and over: was breaking up what I really wanted to do? Couldn’t a conversation have saved us both from this heartache? Wasn’t communication the very thing I’d normally fucking suggest?

I hated that I was probably right, and I hated that over and over again, I’d warned the Admiral against making “miscalculations” of me. Yet, here I was, and I felt like perhaps I’d made the biggest “miscalculation” of all.

I hated B — again — because, I realised, it was because of him trying to cheat on me that I am the way I am now. Even if I’d “won” our break-up by being the only one to find a new partner since our relationship, he’d “won” it by making it exceptionally hard for me to trust him.

For those who don’t know, B and I were close kinky friends for several years — who both blogged about kink and disability — and who started our relationship in about 2024. I found out about the attempted betrayal after B bragged about making arrangements to meet and play with someone else in a blog post. An arrangement his primary partner apparently got to have a say in, but I didn’t, and despite us supposedly being in a closed quad polycule.

I was absolutely crushed. I loved B, and I was always a bit confused when he didn’t say he loved me back. Maybe he just needed some time?

After the betrayal, B wanted me to act like nothing happened because the other person didn’t actually show up, but I couldn’t. In fact, I was so hurt by his behaviour that I knew I couldn’t ever bring myself to trust him again. We haven’t spoken since.

So at the first signs of trouble, I now panic and flee. I, I’ve realised, now have a fear of betrayal, largely caused by B’s infidelity.

Sunday night was hard, filled with broken sleep. Words played through my mind: Daddie, Admiral, Cadet, Kitty. Assimilation, Admiral Snookiebear, Mister Valkyries.

I remembered “simpatico”, and that somehow only made it a thousand times worse.

What happened to simpatico?!

I remembered that “resistance is futile” too, and then I felt frumpy all over again.

It’s not futile, maybe, but it’s certainly fucking hard.

I played Taylor Swift & ZAYN’s “I Don’t Wanna Live Forever” through my earphones, loud and on repeat. Because that’s possibly the only way to tame an earworm at 3AM.

Wondering if I’ve dodged a bullet or just lost the love of my life?

Well how fucking apt that is.

Fuck Kinky Fuckery Science — it’s fun and all, but that isn’t the core of “us”.

No, I wanted nothing more than to be back “on deck” with the Admiral; back under his care and command. I hated this feeling and it’s not what I wanted, I wanted to be safe in the Admiral’s arms.

My Admiral, my “Addie”. My big bad teddy bear.

Then the tears fell again when I remembered.

Come Monday, we’re almost back to our old ways again. Not sex, but flirting, or “not-flirting” as the case may be.

Flirting, but trying (and failing) not to.

Neither of us, it seems, really knows how to be just friends.

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