Posted by: littlegirlyone | March 6, 2012

Rage and D/s and Me, part 2

I really thought, posting that last little rant of mine, that nobody would read it. Actually, I figured some people would read it, and that one person, maybe two, would understand what I was talking about. I assumed the rest would leave shaking their heads wondering what ever happened to the sweet littlegirlyone, thinking that I’d gone mad.

How wonderful and refreshing it was to get so many comments, and all of them in the vein of I understand; I get it; I have felt this, been there, done that; I support you; and importantly: You are not crazy.

I should know better than to underestimate you all by now.

I want to first say thank you. Thank you, thank you for reading me here, for hearing me, for understanding me, and for witnessing my struggle to become something, someone, new.

It’s terrifying here, knowing that I can’t go backward and that I don’t know how to move forward because I don’t know what I want to be instead. I feel confident that eventually, this is going to be an improvement, and lead me to a more authentic self. But right now, it is mostly hard and frightening to be sure of what I don’t want and have no idea what I desire.

As a few of you pointed out, I’m not a little girl any more. I’m going to need a new handle, and a new blog and a new tumblr. I’m going to need to start again, and I’m not ready to make those decisions yet. So I’ll stay here for now. But  I’m ready to make space for her– the one I don’t know yet. I’m ready to meet her when she comes.

It’s funny, because I never thought I’d grow out of being little. I was sure that this little girl thing was innate. I used to worry about what would happen if I ever had children, if they were girls, if my husband became someone’s biological “Daddy.” I thought I’d struggle with this for the rest of my life, and I pictured myself, sometimes full of loathing,  unable to get off without being someone’s little girl. Most of the time, that future made me feel sad. It just seemed so limited and unfair.

I shook free of that vision of myself. I don’t think I’ve eviscerated the littlegirly-ness of me entirely. I don’t think I even want to do that. I just don’t think it’s as deep, as limiting, all-encompassing, and sexuality-defining as I used to. I am relieved; I am also sad and scared and as lost as I’ve ever felt. But I don’t feel little. And while that’s a bit strange, it’s a nice piece of growth. I feel 30 years old, and full of promise. I feel like soon, very soon, I will be a lady. Maybe even a woman. Fascinating to me that these words still flow awkwardly out the tips of my fingers. Me. Lady. Woman. Adult. I still can’t believe that I get to be that.

I used to run into that Anais Nin quote all over the blogosphere. You know the one: And the time came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. I think I first encountered that quote as a  a teenager. I thought that it was sweet, and assumed it spoke to people who didn’t know much about their sexual identity, and who eventually, one day, realized that maybe they were kinky or queer or some other alternative sexuality. I didn’t think that was my path; I thought I knew who I was, and what I wanted. I’d accepted that I was kinky and bisexual and a whole slew of alternative things. I grew up in San Francisco — I thought I was born blossomed.

That quote has returned to me, only this time, I relate to it. It’s funny how I thought I had blossomed, and really, I was in the tightest, smallest, closest little bud imaginable. I wanted someone to tell me who I was, what to want, what to wear, what to eat, how to live. No, I needed it. And that wasn’t fake; that’s actually who I was. That was as authentic and honest and vulnerable as I knew how to be.

I don’t think the rosebud knows that it’s restrained; the rosebud only knows that it’s grown from a seed to this, and that this is growth. I couldn’t conceive of a bigger space, taking up more room, when this tiny space had worked just fine, and it was the biggest space I knew.

And now that place feels impossibly cramped and small and broken. I feel like I pushed the first petals out of my green pod, and I’m going to end up blossomed and full — some color that I don’t even know the name of yet. And I can’t go backwards. I mean, you can’t unblossom. But blossoming into the unknown is terrifying. The pod was home. This? This is I don’t know where.

This is the place where I get to define who I am, what I want, what I wear and eat and how I love and what my sex looks like. I’ve shoved all of the things I thought I liked out of the “who I am box”, as David put it in his comments. Now I have, pardon the pun, an empty box. I don’t know what I like anymore. I don’t know what gets me off. I feel strangely virginal and alien to myself. I guess because my sexuality is something I need to figure out. I mean, it’s not necessarily urgent, but I do feel the vacuum around that place in me, and I miss having things there.

I tried to get off last night before bed. For the first time in weeks, I tried to masturbate. For a long time, for most of my adult life, this was a habit, almost nightly, and the orgasms came as easily as my sleep did afterward. Effortless. Last night was work. I was determined to get myself off. I lay against the Hitachi and flipped through every possible image, thought, story, idea, anything I’ve found remotely sexy lately. None of them worked. I tried all my old fantasies, and none of them worked either. I felt angry again. Fury built inside me, along with frustration. I let everyone else tell me what this was, how I did this, what it meant. And God, I was so pissed about that. This is my body. This is my orgasm. This is fucking mine.

And just like that, I came. And it was sweet, like a wave breaking. Familiar and relaxing. My old friend. But I came speaking aloud to the empty bedroom, saying something like: this is fucking mine. No stories, no pictures, no overtly sexual part of it. Just that: my pleasure is mine. Fucking mine.

So that’s the beginning, I guess. That’s what’s left in my empty box: me. And maybe that’s appropriate, considering I’ve allowed myself to live unseen for so long. Maybe it’s enough right now for me to know that this is my body, my pleasure, my life to live. This is my heart, my breaking, my one chance to live this day. And I am scared. And I am angry. And I am really, deeply grateful.

And I am crying.

Posted by: littlegirlyone | February 29, 2012

Rage and D/s and Me

Good Leap Year.

I miss writing here. So much. I have been writing writing writing, but not online. And even though I am part of a fabulous writers’ group that gives feedback and inspires me, it’s not the same gratification I get when I write here.

You are all missed.

I posted this image in earlier February, which I think is really beautiful. But it was the commentary more than the image that really struck a chord with me. I appreciated the way the author acknowledged some of the things that I have struggled with in my forays with dominance.

Sometimes I find that a certain thought or analytical line of thinking, gets inside me and stays there. It circulates, round and round and round in my brain, comes up at the randomest times, sometimes shaking my concentration loose from where ever it is. Sometimes making me burst into tears. Sometimes making me smile.

My thoughts on dominance, or maybe more accurately, my journey with D/s altogether, have been like that in the last few months. These thoughts have become a giant pot of analysis and wonderings, and the pot is definitely getting full. I think it’s time to empty it a bit, spilling some brain juice onto the page here. The great thing about blogging is that I get to do that, at will, and be assured that somewhere, someone is going to actually read what I’ve written. And that feels powerful. Validating. Good.

In the past 10 days, I have been struggling, really struggling, with Rage. That’s a capital R because in my life, in my world, in my older versions of myself, Rage didn’t exist. Or if it did, I went out of my way to avoid, assuage, and if all else was lost, dissociate myself from it. Mostly I was afraid of other people’s. I’ve never been a fan of conflict. But underneath my conscious distancing from other people’s anger, there’s been this: I’ve been subconsciously running from my own fury.

Well, I’m fucking furious. And it isn’t the kind of explosive, dish-throwing, booming anger that I might have expected. It’s more like a series of quiet tornadoes. The anger wells up, and it just sweeps through me, silently. And the tornadoes keep coming. (I realize that, having never been in a tornado, I’m probably choosing an inappropriate metaphor, but whatever. I don’t give a fuck right now.)

That. There. See that last sentence? I don’t give a fuck right now. It’s one of the only times in my life where I’ve been able to write something like that and feel, completely, that it is true. I’m in this new place in myself — this place where I no longer need anyone’s permission or validation or desire to make me feel real and worthy and safe. I’m in this place where I don’t want to contort myself anymore. This place where I’m sick and tired and really importantly, ANGRY about pleasing people and trying to fit into their fantasies, and trying to make myself into someone else’s desires. Right now, I don’t give a fuck if I ever please anyone again.

This does not bode well for my submissive side. To be sure, the thought, right now, of allowing anyone to tell me what to do, or to call me names, or to hurt me, or to fuck me in a way that isn’t 100% of my choosing? Makes me fucking furious. Makes me want to kick that person in the teeth. Makes me want to scream no fucking way, asshole, and storm out of the room. I know this because lately, when Mark or my Daddy have initiated sexual interactions with even the hintiest hint of their dominance (which the old me used to long for all the time), I want to divorce one, and break up with the other. Because fuck that shit, assholes. I’m not interested.

It’s strange. For so many years, for maybe all of my sexual years, I’ve identified with wanting to be wanted. Needing to be perfect, and have someone desire me to feel loved and seen and whole. And for some reason, I’m fucking angry about that. Because why wasn’t I good enough? Why did I have to fit myself into everyone else’s fantasies? Why couldn’t anyone just meet me where I was, and deal with what was there?

I’ve fit myself to other people so many times. The only truly authentic piece of my sexuality that I can claim is using the word “Daddy.” Everything else, everything else, feels like a fantasy that someone spoon fed to me, that I adopted because I had to. That I made mine because to reject their fantasy would make me difficult and who wants to be with a difficult girl? I’ve developed this incredible pansexuality, and yet, right now, it all feels like hollow promises made to others: Oh sure, you want to watch 10 men throat fuck me? That’s hot. You want to rape my ass? Sexy. You want to beat me til I cry? Yes, please. And sitting here right now, today, after years and years of piling those fantasies inside myself, adopting them as my own, feeding them with my imagination, and grooming them with my time and effort and energy, god fucking damnit, I don’t want any of that. Any. It all sounds fine for someone else. But none for me, thank you very much. I want none of it.

The scary thing is that I’m not sure what I want instead. I know I’ve spent the better part of a year trying to be someone else’s version of femdom, but I can’t tell you what, if any of it, is my own. I’ve spent all this time trying to understand someone else’s fantasies, and to be the domme he dreamed up in his head, and failing. Over and over and over again. Because, frankly, nobody can be the dominant in someone else’s head. It’s impossible, and even if it were possible, it is the polar opposite of dominance. It’s submission, contorted into topping. And I’m fucking tired of it. I’m going to figure out what I want, and get that. With or without anyone else’s permission.

I’m so tired of working so hard to be what someone else wants.

I want to be wanted for who I am, even if that means figuring out, super slowly, just what exactly I even like anymore. I can tell you this: I want to fuck and be fucked. I’m just not sure, exactly, how. And I deserve someone’s patience with me while I figure that shit out. And I’m not sure if anyone will want to fuck with that, with me in this state. And best of all? I don’t give a fuck.

This post may be entirely too meta for anyone to find interesting. I don’t care. I’m posting it, and if you have something you’d like to ask or say or contribute, you all know where to get at me.

I’m grinning as I hit publish. Grinning. Not anxious or worried or scared, which are the usual feelings I have when I post something. Nu-uh. Today, I’m fucking grinning.

Posted by: littlegirlyone | November 30, 2011

Littlegirlyone and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I used to read this book as a child. Loved it. And so I stole my title from it today.

If you didn’t catch that, I had a terrible day.

It started last night, really. It wasn’t anything in particular, but Daddy was distracted and didn’t want to hang out with me. It’s not a huge deal, but I’d just gotten home from therapy, and I have been exploring some new places. Point is, I was feeling a little insecure and then he didn’t want to be there with me, and that made me feel even more insecure. Somehow this translated into these crazy vivid dreams about him leaving me (abandonment issues anyone?) that woke me up at 3:30 in the morning, set me crying and unable to fall back asleep until 10 minutes before my alarm went off.

Of course.

When I caught up with Daddy online this morning it turned out we’d miscommunicated our schedules, and he’d planned to hang with me during a time that I wasn’t available. Again, not a huge thing, but a bummer. And then while he had planned to hang out with me and I couldn’t be there, he told me he was going to talk with this new girl he’s been getting to know on chat. There’s nothing wrong with that – I knew they were talking on and off, but I guess I felt sad that the time I was supposed to get was going to some other girl, even if it wasn’t like he was choosing to hang out with her over me.

Then my car got hit while it was parked at work. Go figure, it’s totally fucked up. And the driver didn’t leave a note, but managed to ruin the entire side of my car and take off one of my sidemirrors. Then I had to drive home like that, and it was scary because I didn’t have the proper mirrors in place, and I was sad because of things not clicking with Daddy, and him hanging out with someone new. And I started thinking how she was going to be more interesting because he doesn’t know her. And he knows everything about me, and I’m probably annoying and boring by now. And I can’t ever be new to him anymore. And I started feeling really lame and inadequate and replaceable, and before I knew it, I was full on sobbing/hyperventilating while trying to drive.

Then I got two phone calls that I didn’t want, and was stuck on the phone with insurance people. All this by about 1pm.

Finally, I just laid on the couch on my belly in my pajamas and cried until I didn’t have anymore tears in me. Then I drank a glass of water, and then I emailed Daddy and asked that if he could please make some time for me, I could really use a little. He squeezed me in for like, 10 minutes, and I started to feel better. But then he had to run, and I felt almost ok, but not quite there.

I tried to be productive after he left (and I wrote some of this post while I was at it). And then I started thinking about why I was so sad about this new girl. Daddy and I have been really switchy for the last few months, and a lot of that time, I’ve been the dom. But in the past week or so, Daddy has been more dommy. And I thought about how subbing really freaks me out sometimes. It’s all wound up in so much of my childhood insecurity and vulnerability. I honestly don’t understand how I subbed for so many years because lately, when I do it, I end up feeling emotional and needy and wrecked and scared and it’s really draining.

So it occurred to me that maybe it was a bad idea to be subbing for Daddy while he was having fun with this new girl. Because  when I can be confident in my radness and what I bring to the table in our relationship, I don’t feel jealous or worried or anything. Then it’s just fun letting Daddy be Daddy: flirty and adorable and seductive the way he was when I first met him. But my super confidence goes away when I get all subby. So I thought I should tell him that maybe while he’s playing with this new girl, I shouldn’t sub.

I did tell him that. And we kinda talked for a minute about it, and god bless him, he was really patient with me, and hung on for a good while. And then I think both of us were frustrated by the over-analyzing, meta level conversation. And all I wanted was to escape my horrible day with him to someplace sexy. And he said he felt gunshy, and didn’t know how to proceed or what would be best, given what I’d just said about subbing.

So, I pushed for a while, trying to tell him that I wanted him to be him. That I’d tell him if he got too close to the scary stuff, and he didn’t have to worry. But he didn’t feel comfortable, and finally, in a last ditch effort to salvage the time we had, we curled up on the couch together. No analyzing. Nothing meta. Barely any words. Just touch and smell and taste and sound and love.

And I swear to god, by the end of that, I felt like my whole day had turned around. I even decided to go running, and I did. And now I’m just home from this beautiful run at sunset at the beach and through Golden Gate Park, and I feel like the luckiest, happiest, confidentest, most peaceful girl in the whole world.

And even though today was rotten, I learned a very important lesson about Daddy and myself. And I wanted to share it because, well, who knows? One of you might have a use for it. But also, because I don’t want to forget: sometimes thinking too much about sex makes the sex go poof. I know that sounds obvious, but we’re both such analytical people that we can easily get caught up in the discussion about sex, and not get to the sexy part. Sometimes we just need to touch and taste and smell and hear and be in love. And that’s what I’m going to try to remember the next time that Daddy and I get off track. Less meta. More fucking.

Less meta. More fucking.

And I love you, Daddy. With all my heart.

Posted by: littlegirlyone | November 17, 2011

sexual violence and violent sex, part 2

I’d like to thank everyone that commented and emailed me about my prior post. Naturally, I expected some reaction to it, since it was dark and touchy subject matter. But, I expected to get more judgment and wrath, and I’m very grateful for the lack of it. It’s been a while, but it’s great to remember that my readers are really a smart, thinking, sophisticated bunch (and good looking, too).

I’ve been paying attention when I get myself off at night, trying to pin down what, exactly, I’m fantasizing about. Here’s what I’ve noticed: I generally don’t fantasize about D/s. What I mean is that in my head, I don’t imagine daddy as my consenting adult partner. I don’t imagine myself as his 30 year old consenting adult partner. I think about another me — the child me who really existed once, but doesn’t anymore except in my head — and another version of my daddy who has actually raised me. (Here comes a little tangent.) But what’s interesting/odd is that it’s not the taboo of incest that makes that detail important. It’s the feeling of being completely, 100% known, made, broken, used, abused, loved, kept and created, by and for him. (It’s kinda different when I fantasize about topping – more on that another time.) It’s an impossible relationship in real life (and obviously, the things we do in my fantasies would be child abuse) but that’s what makes it so much fun to fantasize about. In my fantasies, daddy is my god. It’s this magical dynamic that I don’t have, not even with my (awesome, sexy, bestest-ever) daddy. Because the daddy in my head is really just me – he always says the right things, touches me right, whispers exactly the thing that makes me come. And that’s because he’s not real, he’s like a robot that I control. And I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I actually top myself when I get off. For example, I whisper things that I want to hear. Things like “take it, piglet because it’s all your fault. You made me hard, now you’re going to have to lay there and fucking take it.” I literally say these things to myself aloud. So really, I’m sort of topping and bottoming at the same time. And no real person could really engage with me the way I do with myself, and that’s fine. That’s why it’s fantasy. (Ok, end of tangent.)

Returning to the topic at hand, when I fantasize about violence (being hit, hurt, belted, choked, slapped across the mouth, left with a bloody lip, etc.) I likewise don’t fantasize about D/s. Aside from the times that I actually get off remembering something daddy and I have done (which I wouldn’t even call a ‘fantasy’), I get off imagining that violence is actually happening to me.

For example, I keep having this fantasy where my daddy is teaching me that hurting is sex, and he’s teaching me to love it the same way I love sex. He lays me across his lap and spanks me over and over and over with his belt. And when I’m crying and begging him to stop, he talks to me and runs his hands over my hot, pink welts and tells me that this is sex, too. Just like all the other things he does to me. For certain I’m not fantasizing about being beaten as a ‘scene’ in the D/s sense of the word. There’s no safe word, no limits, I have no power to stop it. He owns me. He decides if I live, how I live, where I live. It is absolutely abusive. Absolutely, if our relationship was the way I see it. And it wouldn’t be all that different from what I saw in that video, really. It would be a very real father beating his very real little girl. And that’s the way I want it to be in my fantasies.

Of course when my daddy actually hits me, it’s not abusive. Of course, what we do is D/s and it’s between adults and we’re not related, and we’ve both agreed to do these things together. But it also comes straight out of our fantasies  about real abuse. And when I think about it that way, it makes sense to me that the video caused such a conflicting, sexual reaction. In many ways, it was like the fantasy reel in my head being played back to me. I think that the fact that it’s a video adds to that sense of watching a fantasy. And although I’ve never seen anyone beaten like that in real life, I’m sure I wouldn’t be aroused watching it if it were playing out in front of me between a real father and his daughter, as many of my readers pointed out. I’m sure I would be upset, disturbed, angry, and I would try to stop it. So even though it is a real video of a real life event, the fact that I’m one step removed from the real life violence makes that video more like a fantasy, and less like reality. Which makes sense, and makes me feel better. At least as far as my arousal is concerned.

And I think – no, I’m sure – that I’m ok with it now. So thank you all for letting me sort through this here, and for weighing in with all of your thoughts. It was beyond helpful, and this conversation has alleviated my guilt quite a bit. You all are wonderful, and I’m so lucky to have you here with me.

Posted by: littlegirlyone | November 11, 2011

sexual violence and violent sex

I’m nervous about writing this post. In fact, I’ve considered not writing it. Or putting under password protection. Or maybe just emailing it to my daddy and a select few readers. But I try very hard to be honest, willing to analyze myself, and brave enough to share . So, I’m writing it.

It began when my daddy sent me a link to the (WARNING: graphic, triggering, disturbing) video of Texas Judge William Adams beating his daughter with a belt. (Side note: yes, that’s a Fox News link, and yes I hate them, but YouTube keeps removing the footage and Fox seems to have a working link.) If you haven’t watched it, or don’t want to watch it, I’ll sum it up for you briefly.

The video was shot in 2004, by the daughter. She hid the video camera so she could capture her father on tape. She just posted it online in early November, and it started a whole debate about what constitutes legitimate child discipline and what differentiates that from child abuse. The tape is about 8 minutes of her father beating her with a doubled-over belt. When she won’t lay on her stomach to take the spanking, he swings it, wildly and with a full arm, at her legs, her thighs, her stomach (she’s dressed) and at one point, he threatens to spank her face if she doesn’t turn over. When she eventually does, the girl’s mother administers one hard slap of the belt to her behind, and then the father starts in again, claiming that he hadn’t gotten his “lick” in. At this point, she is crying hysterically, slides to the floor, and he continues to swing the belt at her for not laying on her stomach for him, claiming he’s going to beat her into submission. When he’s done, he threatens to “wear her ass out with his belt” if she so much as looks at him wrong, and tells her she doesn’t deserve to live in his house.

Unquestioningly, I felt that I was watching abuse on that tape, not legitimate parental discipline. His complete lack of physical or emotional control is what cemented my opinion. I was never spanked as a child (with one awful exception). I don’t believe that I would spank my (nonexistent) children. But I recognize that in some families, there is a place for corporal punishment, and I cannot impose my opinions on others. If, however, an adult is administering physical discipline, it seems to me it should be delivered calmly and in a controlled manner, not in the heat of rage, but rather with level emotions and a didactic undertone.

What I see in that tape is fury, uncontrolled. What I see in that tape is violence, and of  course, it’s nonconsensual violence. I don’t like what I see, and I know it’s horrible and wrong. And yet I am immensely, horribly, shamefully aroused by it.

I watched the video with my mouth agape. And when it was over, I cried. And while I was crying, I masturbated thinking about the way that man swung that belt at her, and then I cried even harder because I felt like the world’s worst, most fucked up human being. And then I told my daddy what I had done, and his response was something along the lines of “of course you did.” He’d known how I’d react when he sent it because he knows me and my erotic imagination inside and out. And so, I’m left with this disturbing pile of emotions.

I think that man is awful, and I don’t agree with what he did. And, let me be clear, there is NOTHING D/s about it. What he did was nonconsensual, abusive, wrong. And I have to admit those are the things that arouse me most about the whole damn video. It was real. Really real. And even though I know that kind of violence is out there, I’ve never experienced it so intimately or so explicitly.

So that’s my confession. And yet, I can’t help but wonder what about this particular masturbatory fantasy makes me feel so badly. I mean, I write online about a lot of crazy, nonconsensual, kinky, taboo, button-pushing fantasies. But I don’t know if I’ve ever written about the way I’ve eroticized pure violence and victimization. And that’s where I’m going with this series of posts. Essentially, violence and sex are intertwined in my mind. And probably in many of your minds. And obviously, in our culture. But why do I feel so much guiltier about sexualizing this particular video than I have about, say, sexualizing a real life rape account? Why am I so much more comfortable with violent sex than I am with sexual violence? Why does violence arouse me at all? How did those wires get crossed, and am I really so unusual for crossing them?

I hope you’ll bear with me as I sort through this, and please, feel free to contribute to the discussion publicly in the comments, or privately via email. You can find mine in the link at the top of the right hand column.

Posted by: littlegirlyone | November 5, 2011

An agenda

Posted by: littlegirlyone | May 27, 2011

in contrast: dominance

About a year ago, he betrayed my trust profoundly, and I was angry. I wasn’t sure if I could trust him, and I certainly couldn’t allow myself to be vulnerable to him. At that point, we decided I should take control of our relationship, so I could feel secure in it again. To the extent that we label ourselves, we both identify as switches, so me being “in charge” wasn’t as strange as it might sound. I’d been in charge (meaning, the top) in our relationship before, but it had been in smaller doses (read: a day, a few hours, a scene). This time, I was going to be the top for as long as I wanted to be.

Those first months were really hard in some ways. I wasn’t sure I knew how to top anyone, let alone the person who’d just spent 6 months dominating me. (Although I identify as a switch, 99% of my D/s experience was as a sub. And he’s the opposite, having been the dominant partner for the majority of his D/s past.) He gave me lots of advice, but it took time and patience and really learning to trust myself. And eventually, I did find things that I wanted, liked, and felt I could demand. But, my feeling that he “deserved” this, made topping him a little easier.

Of course, I eventually forgave him. My anger got washed away by his sweetness and dedication. I lost that righteous feeling, and had to learn to top him from a place of love instead. And I did. And I grew. And now, our dynamic has morphed from one with a very clear hierarchy into one without. Some days, I want to be in control, and some days I don’t. Some days, I want to just be sweet and in love, and I don’t want anyone topping. And of course, his moods change, too. He enjoys bottoming, but we’ve learned that his craving for it has triggers and limits. And I’ve learned to be flexible and to stand on my own two feet. I don’t need him to tell me what to eat or how to be every day of my life to feel connected; I am confident that we are.

All this flexibility and switching helped me notice the emotional difference, for me, between being on top and being on the bottom. Submission, as I pointed out in my prior post, pushes on the places where I’m bruised. Dominance, on the other hand, seems to bring out my inner superstar badass. Where submission makes me cry, dominance makes me strut. (And I don’t mean I put-on a strut. I mean that when I’m all the way in domme space, I notice myself walking around with this other rhythm and posture. I don’t know how else to describe it.) If submission makes me feel empty, dominance fills me up. When I settle in there, it’s some kind of magic. I float through my day with this solid sense of inner kickassness that doesn’t falter. Except, that is, when our dynamic does.

Once again, the solution seems obvious: I should just stay in domme space. It makes me feel good about myself, and it’s helping me build a genuine sense of confidence that I’ve needed. But of course, it isn’t that simple. I think there are three big reasons why we haven’t settled into a permanent F/m dynamic: my lapses in confidence, his fluctuating desire, and the history we have as an M/f couple. Plus, we both genuinely enjoy switching.

Sometimes, in the middle of my topping streak, I lose my confidence. We haven’t figured out why yet, although I wrote about some of my struggles recently, and I got some wonderful advice. (Seriously, if you haven’t read the comments, you should.) But of course, I’m not perfect and I continue to overthink things (who, me?) and question my instincts, and just generally spiral myself into a tizzy of “oh noes, what should I do?” And once I start down that road of doubting my decisions, I tend to keep going.

His desire is a separate issue. Obviously, this is a two person dynamic. He has to be a willing, enthusiastic partner for anything to work (that’s true for any couple, no matter what). And just like I sometimes lose my topping confidence, he sometimes loses his bottoming desire. We’re pretty sure about what triggers it (orgasms) but it’s not an option for him to live completely chastely. And it isn’t every orgasm, every time. But when he loses his desire, it causes chaos that our dynamic sometimes recovers from, and sometimes doesn’t. Of course, if you know me, you know I kink on non-consent and forced submission. But actually forcing him back where I want him isn’t easy; most of the time it’s impossible. (I should note that even my “forcing” him is truly consensual.) I’m not sure how else to explain it except that when he loses his desire, I feel like I’m being asked to move a giant boulder. And I just can’t. Or maybe I just don’t want to. Boulder-moving doesn’t seem to turn me on or make me happy. And he’s stubborn and heavy as hell when he wants to be.

That brings me to my last point. We both have so much experience in a M/f dynamic. Our relationship started that way, and it suits us sexually so well. It is easy for both of us to slip there when other places get hard. We’re comfortable; it fits like a favorite pair of jeans. But it takes an emotional toll.

And so, I’m left without a real sense of what’s best for me, for him, for us. I know that as we keep playing with it, the F/m dynamic gets stronger and more comfortable. On one hand, it’s a rather silly sounding problem with a simple solution: it’s only sex, and we should do what’s fun. And so far that’s been our solution. On the other hand, neither of us are sure that my submission is healthy for me, even though we both enjoy it. So even if it’s fun, we’re not sure we should play with it. But we can’t seem to keep me permanently on top. And neither of us wants to give up D/s entirely.

I’m looking for a perfect solution but maybe there isn’t one.

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