R is for Real

Dear diary,

What is real? The dark shadow hanging over me or the white sand of the beach?  The clear baby blue sky that reflects in the still turquoise of the warm ocean? The myriads of small islands on the horizon, covered with greenery, as seen only in this part of the world? I choose real. I have to choose real, if I want to make it.

It's so similar and different from Ibiza. Same crowds of tourists, though more families with children here, maybe because I'm not on the partying island. Better for me, less chance to run into someone I know. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but sometimes I wonder how small the world actually is, an oversized village. No matter to which bubble you belong, you're bound to bump into your peeps. Not interested.

I bought a couple of long summer dresses. It's not unheard of here, and no one bats an eye at someone covered head to toe on the beach, in jarring contrast with the bikini-clad or thong-only crowd. My new tan lines will be on my ankles, and so be it. The long dress with the sleeves solves so many problems at once. No one will stare at my old scar on the left arm that runs from the wrist to the inside of the elbow. No one will see the bruises on my thighs and my butt cheeks, which I replenish regularly with the help of my faithful bath brush. No one will take a second look at the woman in such a dress, wide-brimmed hat, and big sunglasses. Perfect, I don't want to be seen.

I spend most of my time on the beach, my happy place, doing real things. I alternate between writing in my diary and drawing in the sketch book. Yes, I went back to drawing and doodling and calligraphy. I have nowhere to cook here, and why to bother? Food is cheap, tasty, and plentiful. I can't dance, I have no space and no desire. Dancing got shoved onto the farthest back burner. So, it's me versus paper. Blank pages never scared me, I could always find words and images to fill them with.

Like now, I'm filling the page with my top recurring fantasy, a portrait of a man, who looks suspiciously like Nick, in navy whites, taking his aviator sunglasses off. Full disclosure, I do not like men in uniform. That confession got me in trouble once, but that's a different story. But navy whites, there is something about them. Before Nick , there were three candidates who wore them best. First, the original officer and the gentleman, Richard Gere. Then, that dude from JAG, I watched a few reruns, kind of like the X Files, but instead of chasing UFOs, they were a couple of lawyers in the navy, with plenty of opportunities to wear navy whites. And the third but definitely not last one is Tom Ellis himself in Miranda, a British comedy most Americans have never heard of, unless they are Lucifer fans. I think he was impersonating the original officer and the gentleman, but who cares, such eye candy. 

You would probably wonder, how in the time like this I can talk about eye candies. Quite a whiplash, right? In my last entry I wrote that I can't imagine anyone ever touching me again, and now this. I will try to be my own shrink and make some sense out of it. When something bad happens to me, I cocoon and hide from the real world. This time I deliberately make the real world my cocoon and invite this one fantasy into it, as my anchor. 

In the absence of real shrinks, I became an expert in deciphering and psychoanalyzing my own dreams and fantasies. Of course, the man in navy whites is a stand-in for the knight in the shining armour to rescue the damsel in distress, me. And the white limo represents the white horse. Right? Wrong. Limo, because we need enough space and privacy to put me over his knee, flip my summer dress up, and… Hmm, if Nick wears those white gloves, his hand will hurt less, good point. Now, no more interrupting.

He will only spank me, no touching. One step at a time. He will go slow over my sheer white panties. Not much of a protection, but I don't make the rules. No, first he will unbutton that white jacket, too formal and not too comfortable especially with a squirming woman over his knees. Because I will squirm and make ungodly sounds after a couple of dozen swats. Then he will slide off my panties and put them in my mouth, despite all my protests. Again, I don't make the rules. He will say that even with the partition up, the driver can hear me, and we can't have that, do we? He will spank me long and hard, while holding me tight, my hand on the small of my back covered with his. He will rub my butt and whisper, good girl, I got you, everything will be alright. He will take me back to my hotel, tuck me in bed, and sit with me until I fall asleep, which won't take long. And when I will wake up, everything will be a little bit better. For real.

The picture is of Tom Ellis from Miranda TV show.