You don’t bring me flowers – and stick them up my bum – anymore.

I can’t do this.

I’m sorry, but I just can’t go shopping for turkey bacon with my Dungeon Master. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you’re watching your nitrates and all, but grocery shopping? What’s next, holding hands?

What’s happened to us? We’ve become so… everyday. I can’t even remember the last time you paddled me. I actually think I’m regaining some feeling back there. It’s weird.

Last Thursday night, we sat around watching slides from your trip to Altoona and the Model Railroaders Memorial Museum? I didn’t even know you liked trains. (And really didn’t want to.) Then yesterday you come home and actually notice my new haircut? It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.

I guess I blame myself. I should’ve seen the signs. Maybe it was a little strange when you got me that Franklin Mint Commemorative Civil War Chess Set last Christmas. (Silly me, I thought the whole bishop-and-pawn thing was something else entirely.) But then last week you send me a Valentine’s card? Ziggy? Really?

I’m sorry, Sir, but I won’t let you not-hurt me anymore. I need to find someone who doesn’t respect me… someone who wants an unhealthy relationship based solely on physical repulsion.

I’m returning your cock ring.

- The Gimp

P.S., I want you to know that I’ll always treasure our time together. Though mostly just the time alone in my cage.