Wednesday, September 13, 2006

On What I Get

There are many reasons why this relationship is to the benefit of my personal growth.

I’ve already illustrated how a very real part of me needs to be needed, and will default to a maternal role of protector and shelter, of taking on my other’s baggage as my own, above my own even. To be in a relationship where I feel needed—but not primarily for what I can do for someone else in my typical pattern—it’s already half of the solution. Daddy needs me, but differently than other people have needed me. If I tried to take control of his life, subtle or otherwise, he would not have it. We reflect each other, that is truth, but my reflection is something new for me. I am grateful to be vulnerable and open and dependent on him.

I have needed the kink my whole life. Every relationship was missing this. I looked for it; I looked for what I thought it was in my adolescence, and I ended up with men willing to take advantage of control, of my confused sexuality, users and abuse. I kept thinking there was something wrong with me. There is something wrong with me. Well, maybe not wrong, but different surely.

My mother never talked about sex with me, not when it counted. Much later and to the effect of encouraging me not to get pregnant. But pregnancy was not in the front of my mind when I was nine, when I obsessed over spanking and imaginary fantasies of being controlled, used, forced. I can’t ask my mom about this even now. She won’t even watch the action scenes on CSI. And here I was, fucking disturbed. I would dog-ear pages in books with spanking vignettes, classic Daddy images, teachers, Masters, uncles, wicked stepmothers, loving grandfathers, lessons taught, incidents of abuse. It was all the same in my head. Please someone tell me why I wanted to know what serial killers were capable of? Why I read compulsively about the debauchery in witch craft, the Mafia and the Holocaust (yes, I know how fucked up it is to draw a parallel to this sort of thing, and I promise not everyone in the kink is like this, to any vanilla readers)?

I felt dirty and wicked. Ultimately dirty and wicked for going to the classics and the Bible for my filth. The olden world held much more potential for my twisted appetite. I wanted it, all of it. The sex, the sadism, the pain and violence, the submission of will. My fantasies of spanking became inappropriate displays of sexuality, from a loving punishment from Daddy to a disturbing scene of degradation, humiliation and exploited sexuality. Daddy touching me between my legs after a particularly vigorous thrashing, unable to control his lust for his sweet, young baby, untainted, innocent, frightened.

And to move jarringly into a place that no kinko wants to go, but every vanilla is now entirely keyed into—no, I was never raped or abused as a child. I was never handled harshly or in a sexual manner. My parents were married until my mother was widowed and my father was a good man. I am not a pedophile, and I don’t approve or condone pedophilic behavior; I find it disgusting and repugnant. Though there are some silmilar-looking traits, these are not the same things. Bottom line is still consent. And I consent. Boy, do I ever.

In short, I need this, have always needed this, and will continue to need it until I don’t anymore, which, as of now, will be the day I die. And so, where does Daddy fit in to this? Well, mostly, he has been able to tap into that place in me more comprehensively and more acutely than anyone I have ever known. He has accepted and welcomed the fantasies of bondage and submission that I have been open about, but he has pushed past this to my under-levels, ideas like cumslut, puppybitch, worthless object, venue for exploitation, harsher, grittier, angrier, more twisted, baby doll, toilet, slave, and the most hidden of all hidden: Daddy's little girl.

It is not in me to want that, to need that. I am autonomous. I am strong. I have been for everyone their everything. Rock, pillar, hollow, without feeling. I don’t need; I am needed. And to be a little girl, his little girl...simply, I need. I am dependent and inconvenient and loud and obnoxious. But I am safe and bound, beholden and heard. He knows all of this, all of this real. I am real, and he still loves me and wants me. It’s okay for me to want, to need, to be cuddled and coddled and pampered. And it’s okay to push and feel something push back. I don’t have to "do it myself or it won’t get done." I don't have to be lonely and solitary and responsible; I can be a burden. He can see me in a way that I believed, not only that no one could see, but that there was nothing to see. I have worth to him.

Worth is a valuable thing.

Arrogance. Despite my attempts to be courteous and humble, I am arrogant. If even in my head, I am. Perhaps on paper or in words, too. Perhaps you're thinking that now. It's a funny thing to think so little of yourself and simultaneously, so much of yourself. It's a joke, isn't it? But in any case, who is going to challenge that? Especially in someone who can feel so threatening, can appear so confident and composed and able. Who would say, you’re not so brilliant, you’re not so talented? No one has. Hardly anyone has. Except Daddy. And often. No, you’re wrong. Even when its right in his face that I am not, I am. Because he says I am. Have you any idea how infuriating that is? Have you any idea what it’s like to be bested by an equal? Moreover, to have no chance at equality, moreover, to have equality meaningless? It is humbling because it is meant to be. Bested. Full stop. Because he says so.

I am what the says I am: right, wrong, backward, forward, obedient, disobedient, pretty, ugly, grammatically incorrect, mouthy, silent, stupid, useless. And it doesn’t matter what I think, or even if I think, because it’s not my job. It’s not my right, nor my privilege. I need that from him. It makes me a better person to be humbled and wrong and useless. He says it all the time: We already know that there is no equality; You do what you're told because you're told. Perhaps not so eloquently, but then, it makes no difference. Profound lecturing about my position and relevance is on par with more directly: Shut up now, cunt.

Belonging. I have never felt the dog on the leash, but the tethered stake in the ground. I was the source and the rock, and so they all belonged to me. And I opened my arms to them and shaded them from all of life’s misery. I forfeited my will and whims for theirs. And this is somehow different; we are different. In that I still submit regularly, I am the dog and this is the leash, and he is the source. (And yes, it is all very homosexual and flowery, and really rather Buddhist.) I belong to him; I have a place and that place is his and I know that I can return to it, am grateful to return, to kneel and accept anything he chooses to give—pain, pleasure, water, piss.

Servant. Child. Slave. Owned. I belong. I have never belonged. Not once. To anything. To anyone. Sure, I have been loved, but I have loved in return like a shepard or a mother, removed but vigilant. And I love this way, because I do not know any other, most fundamentally—but then, I love anew, as underfoot and mindlessly devoted. And I find strength here. I find hope and power and I can carve out what I want and need from this source. I can ask, expect, dream, want. I am alive with it.

Silence. Mindlessness. I can be obsessive in my interpersonal relationships; I want to understand and adapt and please and mirror. I want to be what the other needs, because in reflection, there is beauty found. We are said to love ourselves most of all. It is something else for me. I have struggled with knowing myself, and I have sought to know myself through others. The difference with him has been that in a bigger way, more subtle than even I could have foreseen, he has reflected me in return. And to do so, he has seen me.

And I am quiet as a result of this. I don’t always feel tense and anticipatory. It can be hard, as these things are always hard, but sometimes, I can turn it all off and listen to the spaces between. These things are so intangible and I am trying to catch butterflies with a lawn mower, so to speak. Forgive this butchery. But there are times, between his, as he calls it, waffle, where I have nothing to say. I think so many things about how I love this, I want this, I could discuss it forever, but I have no words. I can just feel it like a sunny window. And when we talk again, I’ll want that silence forever. I want to keep it. I want to have it. And it is hard to have now at this distance, but it is so fucking precious. I wait for it. It’s that high before the high. It’s pure existence.

There is so much more. But it is all so vague. I will always know how very special this is. I will want his name on my skin forever; proof that it happens, has happened. Fate alive.

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