Submission for all the wrong reasons

I can’t remember the last time I have been alone.  The past weeks, days, have blurred into months, and I realise that what I used to do all the time, is not what I have been doing of late.  I used to thrive on alone time…happily spending days on my own, or with only occasional and minimal interaction with others.

This “luxury” was part of who I was.  It was also made sustainable by the certainty of a wife.  Even if not there, she was never out of mind.  The certainty of that provided a wonderful base to contentment.  

So many things have changed of late.  Of late.  Over the past few years.  The fundamental needs of my personality have changed.  I am still all me, still the same person.  But as the layers have fallen away, my introvert shell has been torn loose and exposed for what it was, just a shell.  This is a curious by-product of ADD as I have come to understand it.  We are recluses out of a need to moderate our emotions.  Being an extrovert, drawing our energy from human interaction, means being more vulnerable, and being vulnerable is what ADD people excel it…which is why there are such elaborate defence mechanisms: rudeness, distractedness, hiding of our feelings.

Female me started coming to the surface well before hormones kicked in.  She was restless inside of me, and it was she who picked up the “phone” to ex-Mistress and asked her to beat it out of me.  What I have come to understand is that the she in me needed the whipping, the stripping, the submission, to crack the shell.  Is it by chance that the trans community refers to this process as cracking the egg?

The greatest gift of that process was the discovery of my love languages, quite literally, as ex-Mistress introduced me to the book of the same name, but more importantly, one day put her hand on my neck and for the first time I didn’t jump away like a wild animal that had never been touched before.  It took a Mistress, and that powerful, calm energy, to put the right kind of energetic hand on me—the only kind I could have accepted.

Since then, this has morphed into a recognition that I crave human touch…is it any wonder that this might be true after a lifetime of never being comfortable with it.  That trust was so hard for me, and that without complete trust in someone, I couldn’t bear to be touched by them.  Surprised?  I’m not, because touch for me since I was a child was laced with mental abuse.  And men were definitely no better, and continue to be the advance party for unwanted touch.

And you would be right to ask me if I am asking for trouble changing sex, dressing as beautifully as I possibly can, and being totally and utterly as free as I can.  That provokes envy, sometimes hate, sometimes a desire to touch…but it is only men who take advantage…at least so far.

Along with touch has come a desire for human company.  Just being with sweet and delicious people, spiritual people, gentle people.  Friends.  New and old.  And it seems that I have been with company at all moments for a stretch of time I can’t ever remember experiencing.

And what happens?  Today was the first day that I was without someone by my side and I just felt like crying.  Felt overwhelmed.  Sad.  Depressed.  Lonely.  Wondering how I will make it the four days that I have to wait until I am with friends again.

What else is weird?  I found myself craving the touch of an SW.  I don’t really do this so often, but there it was, and there is something so special, so uncomplicated, so just raw, simply about touching, that cannot be replaced by touching a civilian.  There can be a total absence of thought, just feeling, eyes closed, no complications, no need to cultivate friendships, just this feeling, this ability to conjure up a lifelong intimacy and friendship, that one person in particular has gifted me.  We could talk, yes, for hours, for days, we share many common and obscure interests…but here is one person who shifts without question to touch, and it is pure dreamscape.

I don’t wonder whether I will ever be able to experience this with a partner.  Right now I don’t care.  That’s a kind of growth that will come when the time is ready.  With the right person.  When that is the kind of work that is needed.

The other thing I found myself craving is little space.  How strange.  Here I am blogging away about having let go of fetishism and then here comes little space and all of the comfort it represents jogging back to me, wagging its tale, like some long lost best friend…and I welcome it back with open arms.  Only it is different.  The arousal is gone (well, not quite).  Now it is just comfortable, deeply so, like the perfect follow-on to a warm bath, a kind of spiritual equivalent of snuggling in front of the fire.

Enter submission.  I am exploring slave feelings with a number of friends, of intimate friends, and of course with a consummate professional.  Frankly, I don’t understand a thing.  The submission of male me was intense, insistent, acute, and arousing.  It has been replaced with a gut-rumbling feeling that emanates from my belly and tells me about my response and feelings. But it is never as urgent. It feels more natural, organic, just there.

I have been coming out as a slave.  But this day of loneliness I am experiencing today has told me that being submissive, being a slave, is very risky for me.  I realise that being a slave is about being emotionally raw.  I don’t know if I can afford to be submissive.  It may just be too dangerous.  Emotionally. I fear that it is not safe to do this. I wonder if being a switch, for those who are, becomes a way to self-regulate this danger place.

And as I walked the streets of a foreign capital, brooding on this as I window-shopped, I found myself musing about whipping men.  Realising that I would enjoy it, and wondering if there was something wrong with me for wanting to do that.  

Of course, I remember the admonition that to be a domme you have to learn to submit, and that you should never do something to a sub that you haven’t experienced yourself, but this feels very different.  My sub/slave nature was not some homework assignment, something I did to walk on the wild side, to experience the lash from the other side…but it is/was a part of who I am.  Even if I become the holder of the whip, what then, will this go away?  No.  Of course not.

I will be a whip-wielding slave disguised as a dominatrix, as a Mistress.  And I wonder how phoney that is?  Perhaps not at all.  Maybe there are many dominatrixes out there who turn to the whip in hand as a way to control their own need for being held.  Because that is what it is.  An insatiable need to be held in a container by someone else.

Ex-Mistress diagnosed this need in me, but I haven’t figured out how to make it go away.  And I thought it had healed, but based on my musings today, it certainly hasn’t.  The emptiness that is left by the absence of friends is something that I don’t seem to just automatically fill with myself.  And that is where submission comes in.

I submit because I need to feel uncomplicated love.  To be “forced” to let go, and to accept and to feel.  To be held, contained.  And my experience with ex-Mistress, which provided this to me in ways that I could have never dreamed of, also taught me of its fragility, as this container was withdrawn.  Anyone can call me a fool for wishing it to be permanent, for thinking it could, for aspiring for a pro-client relationship to actually develop, but I don’t hold that against me…nor do I consider myself a fool.  It was definitely worth a try.  But what I learned is that this path is very, very dangerous for me.

And so, becoming a dominatrix may be my easy way out.  I don’t know.  What do you think?  And boys, I have had my first man ask me for a “date”…I don’t know how he will react to my terms, but I won’t be with him one minute unless he is on his knees.

With love.

P.S. Being submissive is emotionally dangerous, requiring of tremendous trust. If you are “clean” and have truly unselfish motives, are expressing who you naturally are, the risk of toxicity from the domme is no different. We retain our responsibility for the self. And that is the hardest part. To let go without letting go? Is it even possible? Is what I am saying actually another way of saying I am fake submissive? Hmm.