Word of the Week Wednesday

dissolute (ˈdi-sə-ˌlüt, -lət) adj. :
indifferent to moral restraints; given to immoral or improper conduct; licentious; dissipated.

Examples of DISSOLUTE

  • These excesses made the commission an easy political target, giving rise to myths of its wanton, almost dissolute ways.
  • As a teenaged boarding school student, he had earned a reputation as a dissolute, violent bully.


Middle English, from Latin dissolutus, from past participle of dissolvereto loosen, dissolve

First Known Use: 14th century

Related to DISSOLUTE


I should be writing. The problem is, is that the things I want to write about are gone. In spite of spending a few hours writing several pages of notes last week, it’s still gone. I sit and look at my notes and it’s as if someone else has written 80% of them. I don’t even know what most of them are referring to.

Worst of all, I’ve lost His face again. I love him to the point of pain and I cannot call his face to mind. It tears me up. I need a picture of him. I know how he feels. I will not ask.

Lack of memory used to be an annoyance. It used to be frustrating. Now, I’m losing Him. I’m losing what he looks like, losing what we’ve done together, losing the amazing things he says. Now it is intolerable.

This is not something that can be fixed by setting alarms or taking notes or making lists. It cannot be fixed at all.

I cannot remember His face. I am being ripped apart one lost memory at time.


You floored me last night. You suggested I might be thinking about no longer being with you.

We have been through so many near misses. It frightens me how close we have come to losing each other and how often it has happened. I tell myself this is how it is; the push and pull of a new relationship. Make no mistake, it is new, though I feel as if you have been with me for years.

Each and every time I have nearly lost you because of some random thing that has come to light, I have gotten a preview of how it would feel. I know only that it is unbearable. My body may go on living but my heart and spirit will not. I will be a dried husk of a person pantomiming my way through life.

I wear your collar. The collar you locked on my neck means so much to me. It is the closest I will ever come to wearing a wedding ring from you. The gravity of its significance is the same as a band of gold. If you believe that something as minor as sharing our experience with your mate would cause me to leave you, perhaps you do not grasp the level of my commitment to you. Yes, it caught me off guard. Yes, it hurt. No, I will not, can not, leave you.

We are joined – entwined – at the soul. You are the embodiment of hope. You saved me. You know me. You love me for all of who I am. We feed each other as no one else on the planet can. When I feel that there is something very wrong with me because of what I need to be happy, you are there beside me, with me, in it, enjoying yourself just as much as I am. We are safe and warm, side by side, snuggled together under the blanket of our shared proclivities.

Leave you? Decide I no longer want to be with you? Can I decide I no longer need the breath in my lungs? The blood in my veins? The marrow in my bones?

The Hood part II

Sometime later I feel you putting some sort of cover over my legs. I’m distracted from breathing. I consider if this covering is a type of body bag or sleep sack. I’m frightened. I don’t have enough knowledge to confirm or deny. The comforting feel of you ministering to me is at war with my terror that whatever you are doing might close over my head in a few moments. I feel how much fabric is there. The bulk of it scares me. There is too much for my frame. What are you doing?

You have me stand and you pull the fabric up over my hips and to my waist. I hear you giggle. It is not your sadistic giggle. It is your silly giggle. In that moment I know I’m ok. I push aside the fear and work on keeping the panic at a reasonable level. I stand there tacitly, no longer concerned with what it is that you are doing. I feel you manipulating my body. You enclose the fabric around my ankles with straps leaving my feet bare. It occurs to me that you’ve put me into a pair of pants. The question of whose they are flashes on and off just once. I breathe. You are a comfort not a fear.

At some point, you move me to the table. I’m so happy to be supine. I no longer need to concern myself with keeping my torso upright. I can let go now. I can disappear. And I do. Almost immediately. It is dark. It is almost silent except for the sound of my breathing and the small noises you make moving about.

I feel you strapping me down. I smile. I am elated. I want to talk to you, to tell you how happy you make me, to tell you how well you know me, to thank you for knowing exactly what I need. I want to dance because I am ridiculously happy. Knowing the sound of my voice inside the hood will be painful and it will incite panic, I settle for doing these things in my mind.  I feel another strap, this one across my hips, you make it so very tight. I’m thrilled. I wait for the one across my chest. I wait with giddy anticipation. I want it.  I realize it’s not coming. I’m certain this is not arbitrary. You are never arbitrary. I think for a moment or two. I realize you do not want to restrict my ability to breathe anymore than it already is. I mentally stomp my foot. I want to argue with you that I can take it, that I have my big girl panties on. I argue with myself instead. I make the statement for the umpteenth time that you are far more experienced than I am, that you know exactly what to do. I roll my eyes and agree, mentally pouting at this unwelcome bit of wisdom stating, again, that I’ve got this.

I do not know how long I have been laying here. Panic comes around once in a while. I yoga/vocal breathe, sometimes more than once, and it passes. I am mellow. I am still. You are with me. I am safe. I am loved. I feel you at my feet but it is too much trouble to figure out what you are up to. I hear you muttering. I let it go. I am cherished. Nothing else matters.

Time is fluid. I become complacent. I make a mistake. I move my arms. I realize they are restricted. I have somehow forgotten this fact. Instantly, this is not ok. I breathe. It helps but not much. I try again. No improvement. I remind myself that I love this straightjacket. That it belongs to my Master. That I am privileged to be using it. That I adore being bound. My body exercises a will of its own, struggling. I try to breathe but cannot remember the proper counts. It occurs to me that I’m not going to win this one.

Before I can decide to safeword you are there asking me if I need to get out. I decide that I do and you free my head. Before I can feel as if I have failed, you hold me and tell me I was in that hood for four minutes shy of an hour. You tell me how proud you are.

I am lit from within.