It's been 7 years since S died. There isn't much I can say but yet, I feel there are pages and pages to be written about him and the way he made me feel. I suppose I could call us friends, if I had been lucky enough for him to consider me the same when he was alive.

When S died it was during a time in my life when I was having a lot of problems. I was depressed and had a tendency to abuse prescription pain killers with the intent to harm my body. I think most women go through a phase where they doubt themselves and the life they're living, I'm not perfect and I don't think I ever will be but in recent years I've come a lot closer to the person I want to be.

I didn't know he was dead until 3 days after the fact, people tried to call me, a friend even stopped over but I didn't want to be disturbed. I was in my own little world and didn't bother to go to classes over the next few days. When I decided to finally show up to one class there were pictures of Sean everywhere. I thought maybe they were about to have a birthday party for him or some other asinine thing, what I learned instead was that he died and it was put rather rudely to me by some bitch that I can no longer remember the name of.

I remember I ran to the first bathrooms I could find and just sat in the stall and cried. A professor came and held me, she was so tiny and my 5'7" frame dwarfed her in comparison, a few minutes later an actual counselor at the campus came and she held me too. I was distraught, I actually felt that panic and fear that hangs heavy in the pit of your stomach and makes you want to vomit. I stayed until I could pull myself together and then left for my next class.

I left that class after about 3 minutes and instead opted to hang out with new acquaintances I had met that year, they were wonderful- full of hugs and kind words. Little did they know how much I really enjoyed their consolation. I was moody and brooding but to this day I'm still grateful.

S was living with his mother at the time. She found him with a plastic bag over his head, apparently he had been there for a little over 12 hours. I feel sorry for her, truly sorry. S liked to experiment in breath play- he implemented plastic bags and had a thing for women choking him to the point before he would pass out. I knew he had taken it too far and that he had intended to do so, other people didn't share my opinion as it was a very unpopular one, they didn't want to believe he had killed himself with the intent to do so. He was going through a rough patch as well as I, and so very surprising as his dark and INSANELY handsome black Irish/Italian mixed features masked the things he did and the person he was underneath that beautiful shell.

I can't even describe how good looking this guy was, he took my breath away on a few occasions and actually made me weak in the knees whenever he smiled. He wrote poetry too but not a lot of people knew that, they didn't see him the way I did- I saw more than the potential to be a strong, masculine example of the male specimen. He was intelligent and handsome and the world is a truly unfortunate place to not have him be part of it. But S didn't reveal a lot of himself to the outside world, he just let them see the exterior.

As my husband and I bridge the gap from vanilla to twist I wonder how far we'll push things- If we'll ever use our play as a way of inflicting pain that is no longer pleasurable but as a means to harm ourselves or each other. The thought petrifies me and as we further indulge our BDSM appetites, we have to preserve our sanity and I have to be able to reevaluate the situation and the play we're involved in so that we never cross any lines. S used his love of breath play- both the high and ecstasy- as a way to no longer whet his appetite but end his life. He let death trumpet over life and become the only sound he heard. I can't, I have to keep my ears open and be aware of all things at all times, because at first it's just an innocent grasp of the neck and the next... well....