I fucking live in Manistan. No. Manistan is my bedroom. Sure, it’s all soft and cozy and beautiful. But FUCK. It is Manistan.
Have I ever been raped? No. Have I ever been hit, slapped, tugged, pulled, or bitten? Nope, not really. But here’s the thing. Even if I wanted it, even if I begged Mark to do even the slightest thing to me, to use me somehow – I mean, even to HICKEY me — he would not be able to. I don’t know why.
I am a perfect fucking china doll in Manistan.
I can’t talk. I can’t be too loud. I can’t be too wet. I can’t show too much enthusiasm for what he’s doing to me, or what I’m doing to him. There are too many rules to count.
When I break one? All bets are off. Does he try to make it up to me somehow? Not usually. He shuts down and tells me it’s all about him. Not what about him, though. That would be too hard.
Out of the bedroom, things are completely different. We are best friends. We have fun, we laugh all the time. I can do or say whatever I want. We give each other space to do our own things, we enjoy doing a lot of things together. No one we know would believe that you need a passport to get into our bedroom.
Now, I love him a lot. But I just can’t sleep in Manistan anymore.