Everyday Stranger

Sado-Masochism, or Will You Dominate Me Please?

Got your attention, I am sure.

I have had a very strange and fucked up relationship history. This is not a "poor Helen" tag. It simply is. It's safe to say that I dated a whole parade of losers (4) before I ever had my first orgasm (Kim, of course). And he was just via oral sex. It took several more in the parade of losers (8) before I had my first penetrative orgasm (Mr. Y). And Mr. Y wasn't just my first penetrative orgasm. He was my first orgasm without even being touched down there.

That's right. Go ahead and be impressed. I sure as hell was.

A bit of history-I have had a rough time with men. I have had one or two that might have done some damage. And I have something about me which seems to drive men to want to hit me (so they say) as I have been hit a few times, which is a topic for another day. (And the next guy that tries to hit me will benefit from some of my boxing training. I kid you not.)

Anyway, one lover from my past, in particular, did some damage. His name was Michael. He and I and another guy lived together as roommates during college, in what basically boils down to a flat full of crack dens and cockroaches (hey-we were in college. Who has money for nice places then?) and he and I became more than roommates. The people in the flat below us were gang members, and sometimes fights occurred in the parking lot. They never bothered us, we never bothered them, and life went on.

Michael was terrible in bed (but although that's wildly humorous, let's not focus on that just now). Anyway, one night in bed we were rough-housing. Then we started to argue. Then, he did what no man should ever do.

He slapped me.
Hard.
Across the face.

And then he threw me out of flat, and locked me out.
And I was naked.
Locked out of the flat.
In our gang-infested apartment complex.

I flipped out. I started screaming and hitting the door. Then I started crying and pounding the door. Then I started whimpering and kneeling by the door. Until finally, Michael came and opened the door and let me back in.

We split up later after I cheated on him. Sorry, but I don't feel too bad about that.

I couldn't sleep naked again after that. I just felt my skin crawl when it touched the sheets, I felt an icy panic come over me, I felt a thousand fears that I was going to be locked out of the flat. I would have sex with my partners and then promptly put on my tank top and boxer shorts, despite their protests, and go to sleep.

Now, I am one seriously independent woman. I don't like being told what to do, what to think, or what to say. No one can tell me what to do ever, and if you try to force me, I will tear your balls off with my teeth and enjoy while you bleed to death. (Er...again, remember that I have a bit of an anger control problem.)

But then someone we'll call Mr. Y came into my life, and all bets were off.

Have you seen that movie "The Secretary", where the secretary is dominated by her boss (a very creepy James Spader)? Yeah. That movie spoke to me on so many levels it's unbelievable. It brought my memories and yearning back for Mr Y to a level of intensity that almost crippled me.

And it all came down to him putting one hand on the side of my face, on the very first night we hooked up. He massaged my cheek, looked me in the eyes, and said softly: "I would never harm you. Ever."

I think I loved him then.

The first night Mr. Y and I were really together he made it clear he was in charge. He let me orgasm when he wanted me to. He wouldn't kiss me unless he wanted me to. He decided what happened in bed.

Sometimes it would be rough and I would play the part of the whore.
Sometimes he made worshipful love to every inch of my body.
Sometimes he would spank me.
Sometimes the tenderness made me melt into a hot smoldering scorch mark in the bed.
Sometimes we fantasized about fucking other people, knowingly, and taunted each other with the visions of it.

One evening he took a pillowcase and put it over my head, leaving it very, very loose, rucked up mostly over my eyes. With this iron strong hands he held my arms above my head, and he would move the pillowcase to just where he wanted to kiss. He would ease the hem of it up and mutilate my neck with fiery kisses, leaving me gasping. He would further ease the pillowcase up and make me squirm as he teased my ears. Then he would lower the pillowcase and move down to focus his face on my perfectly trimmed minge, stopping just before I reached a screaming orgasm. Finally, he worked his way back up to my neck, easing the pillowcase up, and as his lips graced my goose-bumped flesh and his teeth gently tugged on red and yearning skin, I had a ripping orgasm that tore through me and came out in ragged gasps.

And he wasn't even inside me then.

One day, after a long bed session, he turned to me, and took my chin in his hand. He met my gaze evenly, and said softly:

"You are not going to wear pajamas in bed with me ever again."

And I didn't. I simply obeyed. It didn't occur to me not to.

And his gaze travelled down to the scars on my left arm, and he rasied his eyes and met my gaze again.

"And you aren't going to hurt yourself anymore. And if you feel the need to, you are going to tell me first."

And I didn't hurt myself anymore (remember, I have had a bit of a troubled life. I had been injuring myself, on the left arm, for many years, which was something I never told anyone. Don't worry-I have toned down the crazy dial since then). I didn't seem to feel the need to any longer. Some little whimpering, tortured, broken part inside of my simply vanished, and all my past, present, and future were laid on the line for him. He was simply crazy about me, and I was simply crazy about him. I was in no way degraded, held hostage, or reduced to something less than I was. He simply tried to strip me of any fears and neurosis.

I couldn't believe it, but once he said those things, I was mostly cured. I slept naked in bed, my body smoothed flat against the cold white goodness of the linens, my breasts and hips religious in their devotion to the sheets. Clothes were a burden to me, a hair-shirt in bed that I couldn't bear to feel. He set me free from the iron cage of my own neurosis, and where anyone else would have been told to Fox Trot Oscar had they tried to tell me to do something, his words unlocked a long-rusted padlock that centered in the middle of my brain.

I was free.

It was that relationship where I learned that all sense of control is an illusion in a relationship. That for years, all of the bars and bells and traps I had set for men and for myself were just a way of my trying to keep everyone at arms' length. That Michael was just a pathetic excuse for the male race, but that there were plenty of men out there who would help me lovingly wipe his memory away.

And it was with Mr. Y that I learned that although I am one independent woman, I also need to be dominated from time to time. Sometimes, my control needs to be taken away from me and handed to someone else. And sometimes, you just need to trust someone enough to let them.

-H.

Posted by Everydaystranger at November 4, 2003 08:57 AM | TrackBack