A ‘more’ current version of this post can be found HERE.
So much has happened over the last few months that it’s strange to read this post now. I was in a lot of pain and very lonely around this time.
Deleting this or revising it feels wrong. Instead, I’m creating and updated version to reflect recent events. Anyway – if you happen across this post, just realize there has been a significant change in my life since this was written.
I’ve been involved in BDSM since I was fifteen. My first significant experience was being seduced by a dominant woman in her thirties. This experience rocked me to the core and shaped a big part my sexuality. Over the years, I’ve occupied various roles in BDSM relationships. As a submissive, I had a number of half-starts, a few terrible experiences as well as a few good ones. But I didn’t feel the ache and want in the marrow of my bones like I did the first time. That is until I met an amazing dominant.
A few years ago, I was privileged to be collared and owned by a sexy, intelligent, and loving dominant woman. Then life happened. I had to move, she had to stay, and the relationship, effectively, ended.
I wish I could say, it ended well, but it didn’t. That it ended so poorly is partly my fault and partly just how things go. I take comfort in the fact we’re still friends and love one another. While she’ll always own a piece of me, the facts of distance and time cannot be ignored.
It is my fondest wish that time will heal the wound between us.
But I’m here, and she’s not. And I want – oh man do I want – but having a dose of the real thing, being owned, loved, and used hard has left me unwilling to settle for anything less. Frankly, I doubt I’ll meet another woman as intelligent, compassionate, and kinky as her. I often wonder if I’ll ever submit to another.
Of course, I’m an unrepentant slut, which has nothing to do with submission. Absent a top in my life to focus on and be loyal to, I scratch itches as they occur. But the idea of ‘playing’ at submission for the night is laughable. Also I find I’m picker these days than ever. So maybe a more accurate description is that I still have a slutty mind, but my willingness to pursue random fucks and flings has diminished.
A picky slut? How droll.
This blog is a shameless masturbatory exercise. I won’t pretend it’s anything different.
Because I’m lonely. So writing about all the love, intimacy, vulnerability, and the secure feeling of being owned, provides a kind of release. Using these emotions, impulses, and experience to inform my fiction feels right. And maybe I can work through all this with fictionalized fragments of memories without it degenerating into ‘mere’ therapeutic writing. That said, I’m compelled to dig into memories. Because defining what I had, how it worked, and how it didn’t may just help me figure some things out. Also, getting the details of my favorite moments down helps to keep them fresh and alive.
So that’s part of my history. If you care to read more, stick around.