I woke Saturday morning to a text from Sir, proclaiming that he wanted me. Of course, as I am predisposed to with these gentlemen, I thought he was being sweet.
I was wrong.
Purely for sexual gratification, he says. I roll my eyes. To think that a sadist could ever be, you know, nice?
There has been a subtle change in us lately, I think, in the way that we are around one another. We text more, our conversations are deeper and they are longer, sometimes even more meaningful. I think I impress Sir sometimes wth my quick wit, my grit and my more pragamatic way of being. I’m not affronted by Sir’s less than pretty side either, I know that we are all human, humans have feelings and sometimes the ugly feelings leak out to the surface. I don’t see this as an attack on me (unless I’ve done something gloriously stupid), I see it as a feeling of others.
That doesn’t mean to say that I will be anyone’s whipping post, however.
I am struggling with some things in my submissive experience at the moment, names perhaps that came up and are bothering me far more than they should. It all started on Sunday, I was organising my wardrobe and Matt asked if, if one jumps into my wardrobe, would it take them to Narnia? Me being me and the quick-witted little fucker that I can be (and yes, my mouth sure gets me into trouble sometimes, but then it’s plenty good at getting me out of trouble too 😉 ), I responded:
“Dunno, but if you jump into my bed I’ll take you to heaven instead?”
Yes, I was slightly proud of myself in that moment. So then I told Bill about it – because it is a thing we sometimes do, but also because humour is a thing meant to be shared.
Bill admits that he has names he wants to call me in the moment, names ‘outside limits’ he says, and I know immediately which ones. I almost don’t need them to be said for me to fall into myself though.
I struggle horrendously with “slut” and “whore”, I know I do, they do absolutely nothing for me in a D/s context and probably never will. “Whore” I just find horrendous through and through, I find it repulsive and it makes me shudder to even think about it. “Slut” I find shaming, and not in a good, consensually degrading way, it presses some part of me that I don’t like. Maybe it was because of being told in my youth that women don’t enjoy sex, then discovering that I do, and the guilt and shame I felt to discover that I am a woman who actually does like sex! I’m a red-blooded woman; I like sex. There is really nothing wrong to feel about that.
I’ve been called a slut by my own mother before now as well, at least twice and as a way to shame my sex-having ways. That, most likely, is the biggest reason for it.
But then I go deeper, and I feel more vulnerable, my submission feels more vulnerable, insecure. I feel finicky, like too much hard work because maybe I am too much work. I was told I would struggle to find love at one time, after all.
Which then puts me at a stand-off with the BDSM community, I feel. I see submissives bending and buckling around me and I know that I won’t submit so readily, I know my worth. I fall deeper still: perhaps I don’t belong here, then? Perhaps I’m not really a submissive? Maybe I should bow out now.
I know that my Dominant’s pride means everything to me, and I will jump through hoops to get it. I’m a people-pleaser, I know I am, it’s just that I’ve got some limits as well. I need them! We all do, it’s important. If I don’t love myself first, who will?
Yesterday I visited my family for a roast dinner. We were supposed to gather on Sunday but I had a home goods delivery so I had to rearrange, fortunately Mum and Matt were both off work for the Bank Holiday Monday so that was possible anyway. Before heading out I made sure to get myself dressed in more than “what is clean and comfortable?” – a part of my newfound self-respect. I opted for a stretchy purple knitted jumper with jeans, black suede boots and diamanté ear studs, in pawprint shapes, a subtle known (among my Sirs and I) nod to my “pet” status.
While Mum cooked dinner, my brother asked me what I thought of a poem he wrote on Facebook. It was okay, supposed to be a funny take on King Charles III’s coronation, but it was lost on me.
“If I have to be honest bro, then coming from a writer, to a writer, your paragraph structure is just terrible” I smile. “Where are they?”
Apparently they weren’t needed, or something. My Mum loves it, and she and my brother even both shared it on their Facebook walls. The fact that nobody else liked, loved or shared it though, I feel, speaks volumes.
I mention my own piece on machine dominance and offer up a brief (though far less sexualised) explanation, drawing upon examples of a BMW car (which my mother loves) or a Harley Davidson motorcycle. My mother finds machine dominance an interesting topic, though not really one she cares to engage in discussing. My brother, on the other hand, jumps into talk about cultures and social conditioning. He’d almost lose me, had I not studied sociology myself.
But when he talks about BMW he brings Nazi Germany into the mix, which then takes things on a completely different tangent. I need to bting him back to the original topic: why do some machines make us feel powerless in their presence?
“Okay, I understand where you’re going with this. So, going on a like-for-like basis, and using national manufacturers instead here, what about Rolls Royce or Jaguar? Rolls Royce make jet engines” I offer with a slight got-you-now smile. My new argument has him stymied.
At another point in our conversation I feel that that my brother is going off track again and I raise my hand to try to interject him, only to be shot down with a “hold on let me finish”. I apologise and let him finish, of course, it’s only polite.
Later on in our conversation he interrupts me and I speak up with a “can I finish, please?”. He allows me to continue but he smiles and I reflect his smile. This is who I am, this is how I do things. He knows that I’ve covertly corrected his ways and without ever once callling him out. Manners maketh the man.
Over dinner my brother tries for a joke, and without thinking I respond very dryly with a nonchalant “obviously”, to which he recoils into his chair. He thought I didn’t understand his joke, but the truth was I was laughing with him and being dry with my humour. Perhaps, you know, even a little too dry for comfort.
So then I have to apologise and explain that I actually got his joke, but that my humour sometimes is so dry that those who are telling the joke don’t know when I’m laughing with them, causing them to feel like I don’t understand and rendering me the unintentional (and ultimate) comedienne. I also told my family about the “that sounds like a you problem” phrase that Will taught me, and that I have to fight myself from using now. Suiprisingly, my mother actually quite likes it, and even my brother smiles approvingly and nods.
“When I finally perform on stage, you’re not invited!” my brother says, pointing at me in jest.
“Oh, thanks for considering me but I couldn’t make it to your school talent show anyway. I’ll be on tour then” I reply with a wink.
More whoops, hollers and applause ensue. My brother stares at me in silence and I smile back. For once in my life, my beloved “come at me, bro” has never felt more fitting.
The guy who likes roast battles, roasted. Ironically, by the girl who loathes roast battles most of all.
