I started my non-mainstream sexual explorations as a submissive, and have morphed into a switch-leaning-dominant. This week, I invested a tremendous amount of energy and passion in my femdom identity, defending and celebrating male submissives not only on my blog, but also on comments on other blogs that were apparently intelligent enough to be requoted.
So what was the perhaps inevitable response of the universe to ensure my life remains in balance? I had one of the craziest, most intense whirlwinds ever with … wait for it … a new dominant male caller.
Everyone who saw that coming, raise your hand. Hmmm, everybody, huh? In retrospect, the only surprise is that I was surprised.
The day we met, he called me twice, for a total of (never remind ‘em how much they’ve spent on you) minutes. He greeted me warmly enough, but when his voice changed to tell me what to do, I felt my Inner Submissive shove her way to the front of the bus to drive, giggling and clapping like a lunatic.
He asked me if I can come without touching myself. When I groaned and laughed a little, he asked what I meant by that, clearly intrigued.
Me: Because if I tell you I can, you’ll make me do that, but I really want to be touching myself already, but I haven’t because I know you haven’t told me to, but you probably won’t let me shove this vibrator inside myself if I tell you I can come touchless…
Him: And what gets you over that edge?
Me: Ohgod that’s not fair. (he laughs) Don’t laugh at me. (we both laugh) It’s… ummm… the command, you telling me to, the intensity of it, the intention behind it, if it has enough energy behind it… if I’m there in my mind…
Him: Well. That’s a pretty red flag for you to wave for me, isn’t it? How long do you think I’ll wait before I give you that command? Will I make you beg to have an orgasm like a bitch in heat?
My Entire Inner Cast: OH FUCK.
He had me stand in front of the mirror, wearing only my panties, hands behind my head, appraising my own flesh, when he gave the command to climax, and ordered at me to keep my eyes open and watch myself come. It didn’t feel like a script, it felt like something he was inspired to do by my responses.
It only got more intense from there.
I went to bed exhausted and dizzy, but happy.
We spoke again early the next afternoon, soon after I woke up. His first words, obviously full of genuine concern, “I read your blog. Be honest. Did I make you dizzy last night?”
My Entire Inner Cast: Awwwwww /sniffle
During that call, I hoped sincerely he had read this blog post about Love, The English Language, And Not Completely Pretending, and this one about the ways sometimes words tumble out of my mouth If I Call You “Love” because at one point he asked me how I felt, and I mumbled the crazy answer that was bouncing around in my head…
“When you call me a whore, it sounds like you’re telling me you love me…”
Seriously. I said that to him. We had been talking for less than 24 hours. Fucking insane.
Thankfully, he seems to be a version of lunacy which is compatible with mine, because his response was to tell me say it again. Louder. And again, even louder. And again. Louder, you fucking whore, again. Each time, I grew more horrified and embarrassed at the ridiculous words I was shoving out of my throat, and simultaneously, more thoroughly convinced that the sentiment was true. I paused, my voice ragged, shaking to hear his response.
“Listen to yourself. A brainy sub trying to get a single sentence out, forced to enunciate it clearer and louder even as the sentence grabs your pussy and your heart and squeezes for all it’s worth? How could I not love you?”
It wasn’t a commitment to a future together, to any traditional use of the word love, or to anything at all other than a mutual appreciation of a really fantastic connection at a truly amazing moment in time.
Well, no, that’s probably not true. There probably was a commitment, just a bizarre one: that both of us will probably always remember the way we were able to crash into each others’ desires and feel delightfully alive in the wreckage we somehow created in each other.
I wrote him afterward, telling him the rest of the story I only partially told this blog post about my first BDSM lover, I Know Why:
… but what that entry doesn’t explain is that moment when I was tied to a door frame, flogged bright red across my ass and back, with a vibrating egg trapped in my panties to ensure I was being properly conditioned to associate pain and pleasure, when he pressed himself against me, my entire backside on fire from the touch of his skin after the flogging, slid one hand around to my breast, and with the other hand, held my head up in a bit of a choke so I could feel him whisper-growl into my ear as his fingers pinched electricity through me,
… and I felt the world go black and I felt a wave of power, of certainty, of pride. I knew I could take it, more than I knew I could stand, and more. Much more. I knew I was strong. I knew I was adventuresome. I knew I was sexy. And I felt huge, as if I had grown, and I wanted more with a hunger that made me feel like I could eat the world.
… and that was the moment I knew that I would be okay, no matter what.
His response was to tell me to find a publisher. Isn’t that sweet? Wait, how can I associate the word sweet with anything at all in this fucked-up blog post? Oh, I know, I can call this sweet, where he quoted a paragraph from that blog post:
I had worked so hard in therapy to take responsibility for my feelings and my actions. I had worked so hard professionally to teach myself technically and be in a position of leadership. I had worked so hard socially to choose friends who gave as much as they took, and treated me with respect. And I had worked so hard personally to admit to myself that I needed to leave the man I thought I’d be with for the rest of my life.
And he told me “This Galiana that you created shows your work.”
I totally didn’t cry when I read that. I mean, it’s not like I had been fucked loony for hours on end or anything, so why would that make me cry?
He only plays with phone sex every once a while, in little bursts like this, then he disappears. For weeks. Or months. When he told me he was going away, probably for a good, long time, it made absolute sense to me.
It was the perfect end-of-summer fling: passionate, intense, a lovely stroll down the sensory memory lane of my submissive roots, and cut short by logistical limitations before we ran out of the juice to sustain it and started disappointing each other. (That’s totally where it would have gone, right? I mean, I’m not just being cynical here, am I? Don’t crazy intense firestorms always end that way? Can I tell myself that anyway, even if it’s not true? Thanks.)
There are times I appreciate my life so much that I ache with joy.