How can compatible be so incompatible?

I woke at 7AM on Wednesday, to another cold January morning. I had a fence post to fix, finally, but it was still dark outside. I’d have to do some inside things while I wait.

I grabbed a blanket to keep me warm while I planned my day… then promptly passed out for another four hours. 

By 12PM it was very much light outside, so I grabbed the fence post repair kit, my new drill and some just-in-case wood screws, then I headed for the back garden. I retrieved the rubber mallet from the garden storage, too, since I’d need that to whack the spike part into the ground. 

With our patio table laid out like a surgeon’s table, I set to work. 

The first step was to remove the old support that Mr C had installed — a simple piece of angled wood to prop the fence post up.  I tried the screw, it didn’t bite. I tried different screwdriver bits and my (later retrieved) electric screwdriver, still nothing. Perplexed but determined, I wondered if I could wiggle it loose somehow?

I gave the support a turn, and the screw wobbled in its hole — it was only held by a few millimetres of screw. I shook my head and rolled my eyes in disapproval. 

Post now exposed, the first step was to hit the spike of the repair kit into the ground, parallel to the damaged post. I grabbed my mallet and got to work.

The spike only went in by a few inches, so I pulled it out, cleared the gravel around it and tried again. The same thing. 

Frustrated and defeated, I added the fixing bracket, screwed it to the post and hoped. It is what it is, I suppose.

And that was when I heard the side gate click open, and Mr C appeared. 

“Alright? I heard you out here, tip-tapping away” he says. I raise an eyebrow at him. 

“Tip-tapping?! I’ll give you bloody tip-tap” I say. The boy has some gall. 

“What are you whacking anyway?” He asks. I point to the support, proudly stood in defiance of me. 

“Oh right” he says, “want me to have a go?” 

“Knock yourself out. Drill’s there, screwdriver’s there, mallet’s there” I say, pointing to my laid-out tools. 

“That ain’t the drill I gave you?” he asks, pointing to my new drill. Ah. 

“The chuck seized” I say matter-of-factly. Mr C offers to try and remedy it for me, once he’s hammered in the spike.

I unscrew my handiwork and Mr C fetches a hammer, which he insists is heavier than my mallet. He hammers the spike, denting into it the pattern from the head of his hammer. 

I check his progress. The spike hasn’t moved an inch. 

Mr C hadn’t knocked the spike into the ground, he’d just… embossed it instead. 

He, too, gives in.

So I have decided now that the new support kind of deserves to be decorated; it deserves to become a feature of my garden. It did exactly what I do when confronted by an egotistical male: it stood firm and it refused to move. I’m actually quite proud of it. 

Later Wednesday, I wound up “talking keys” with Valkyries — I was ready to hand over my submission to him, if he wanted it. 

Valkyries, for his part, is like a kid in a candy shop — his enthusiasm is adorable. 

He says we’ll talk about it more in the morning. 

I saw my Mum and brother again on Thursday, who are both well. I sense a maturing in my brother now, after Mum’s operation: gone is the wolf onesie, now he’s all fleece jackets and jeans. My little brother has grown up, finally. 

“I have a bone to pick with you, sis” he says of me. I cock my head at him. 

“What didn’t I do this time?”

“Those crocs you got me for Christmas… I’m finding it very hard not to like them” he admits. Mum and I burst out laughing. 

“We told you they’re comfy!” I say. 

Valkyries and I did wind up “talking keys” on Thursday, and about our reservations on the idea. I admittedly wondered for a time whether I’d made a mistake — not because there is anything wrong with Valkyries, but because of some seeming differences in our flavours of BDSM. 

Valkyries talks about collars and leashes and woodland walks, and I was thinking of a more “everyday” BDSM, like what I have with Master Levi. Valkyries and I (and Master Levi, for that) are quite private people; I didn’t think he’d want a more public BDSM! 

And the more I thought about those differences, the more I spiralled. Nobody was at fault here, we were just… different. Different styles. Different hopes. Different dreams. 

And I really, really fucking hated that that had happened. How can “simpatico” be so incompatible all of a sudden? That doesn’t even make sense!

Have you spoken to Valkyries about how you feel? Master asked in a text. I admitted that I hadn’t — I’d spent the past two hours ruminating and catastrophizing (and feeling thoroughly fed up because of it) instead. For whatever reason, communication just… hadn’t occurred to me.

In the end, I did heed Master Levi’s advice: I asked to The more I thought about our differences and different stances, the more I spiralled. Nobody was at fault here, we were just… different. Different wants. Different hopes. Different dreams.

So in the end, I did heed Master Levi’s advice: I asked Valkyries if we could “talk keys” again, and I admitted that I was worried we were too different to make this work. Valkyries, the absolute sweetheart that he is, did what he could to allay my fears: he told me that he was just joking about collars and leashes in woodland spaces, and far from spankings on camera or orgasm control, we talked apps and lifestyles and titles instead. Not the glamorous, sexy stuff that most people associate with long-distance BDSM, but the boring bits that make a dynamic work. 

And this? This is why they have my “yes”. Not because of what they can do with a crop or a flogger, but because of what they do first with my heart and mind. 

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Until next time!

Stay safe & have fun,

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