CW: this post describes disturbing feelings and harm-related imagery. Please, if that will distress you, don’t read any further. Always take care of yourselves and each other.
I had a difficult end to my day. Things got away from me. I panicked.
Panic, for me, manifests as anger. In fact, most disturbances to my emotional stability become anger at some point, whether as waypoint or destination. I’ve learned to recognise it for what it, although getting a grip on it still eludes me.
See that sweet spot right there in the middle? I never used to believe it existed. It’s such a small, low-probability intersection, considering my limited capacity to differentiate between romantic love and naive infatuation. I stopped believing in ‘happy ever after’ a long time ago. I don’t miss my illusions. They got me into all sorts of trouble.
I dislike the term ‘foreplay’ with its insinuation that penetration is the main event; and as though anything non-penetrative is trivial and frivolous compared to the Real Business of sticking something somewhere.
But even if I were to use that term as shorthand for ‘the introductory stages of sexual activity for the purpose of stimulating arousal’, I’d still have issues with the ‘play’ part. I like my getting-revved-up activity to be serious. Not necessarily solemn, but with focus, intent and dedication. No messing about here, I want to see hunger and need in your eyes. That turns me on, more than any caress.
Submission is not masochism, although you know she becomes aroused by pain, you’ve seen and heard how she shudders and gasps at the sting of the paddle. You’ve twisted her nipples and felt her response in the flood of wetness from her cunt. You’ve held her throat while driving yourself hard and fast into her, watching her eyes glaze with pleasure, feeling her tighten and spasm around you. It’s pain as physical pleasure, sure – but it’s more than that. It’s tangible surrender, the marks you leave are badges of her trust in you, symbols of faith and belief.
Today, I desperately want to be dominated. I thought I was just horny but even after a wank featuring a beaded glass dildo and much fantasising about rough gangs and rope, I still feel a deep yearning inside me which I know from experience can only be fulfilled by willing obedience to the will of another. To have the burden of decision-making – even for something as banal as ‘shall I have a cup of tea now?’ not just lifted from my shoulders but held high over my bowed head, is something my whole body and mind cry out for right now.
All week, I have been out of sorts – irritable and uncharitable, my blood full of sharp burrs and my mind skittering from one grievance to the next. An evening of tequila shots with my lover in a London pub…
In the house of my psyche, she resides below ground level. Down in the deepest cellar, in her soft-furnished boudoir she sprawls across a four-poster bed, naked and tousle-haired and ready for mischief. Across her skin are scrawled the scars of a hundred lessons imperfectly-learned; crossed-out names and instructions ignored. She’ll flaunt them with insouciance, they are a challenge and a come-on. “Can’t catch me” they mock silently; and “is that all you’ve got?”.
I love a man in a suit. Well, I love the idea of a man in a suit anyway – sadly many actual men who habitually wear suits are dickheads.
So, hello unknown Men In Suits. Do you know what the sight of you does to me? Can you tell what’s going on in my head when I catch sight of you?
A well-fitted suit speaks to me of power, authority and responsibility. I want to submit to that power, feel that authority. I yearn to break through that professional detachment and make you forget your responsibilities until you can see only me, feel only me, want only what I can offer you.