What hurts me the most, really, is knowing that I have been replaceable all along. That I may as well have been a number, a tick mark on a chart of victorious pursuits. That the trust, loyalty, and integrity I believed in, defended, and protected, was an illusion. That I see no sign of remorse or regret.
Because I regret, greatly, a certain loss. His loss, not mine. I regret this, because I have so much to give, so much willingness, so deep a devotion; because I am endlessly eager to give of myself to the ones I love. I want nothing more than to open completely, encompass another’s soul, treasure his existence, and be allowed to show affection I have never before felt able to.
I did not believe, before now, that “love” could be a word so easily abused, but that is because I grew up in a family that did not speak of it openly. There was affection, there was familial honor and devotion, and there was pride; but we did not kiss cheeks and exchange “I love you”s before bed, or end phone calls with it before hanging up, as many of my childhood friends did.
Of course we loved each other; it was just never mentioned openly. I think there is, at least in my family, if not many Asian families, an aversion to such mention of affection; a kind of embarrassment, or need to “keep face,” prevents it.
Which is why I say I felt prevented from showing affection myself. It seemed too private, too personal, and slightly embarrassing, to show overt emotions of any kind.
I can count on one hand the number of people who have seen me cry.
I have often wondered, but especially lately, if I am not mistaken in my pursuits. I have wondered if I am merely chasing a fantasy, trying to escape an inability to cope with reality by finding that Dominant who will Solve Everything. A panacea for my social awkwardness, for those little holes and niches that I do not fill adequately in the world. Someone who will lift me up because I cannot, myself.
Sometimes I wonder.
I think (because, as my friend adamantly said, we Think, not Feel) my own submission cannot be denied. It seems an intrinsic aspect of my personality, and to ignore it would be pretending to be what I’m not. I’ve read numerous times the defense of submissive natures, but I’ve seen as many times, if not more, how people mistake submissiveness for weakness and powerlessness.
I think my obsessiveness in other aspects of my life lends itself quite nicely to the release I feel in giving over control to the Other. I think that exchange makes me a more satisfied, complete person, and allows me to let go. I think, with the right person, in the right relationship, at the right time, it is completely healthy and betters me as a human being.
I think my submission is a beautiful thing, something I give completely, deeply, richly, from the soul, and that I have so much, so much to give.
But what do I know?
With a low buzz. Barely above a bee’s whisper; emanating from between my fingers, from between my pressed thighs. I press down harder, feeling the vibrations, massaging tender flesh, exciting a second heartbeat, stirring the latent warmth in my loins.
I turn the dial slowly, feeling the heat build, feeling the vibrations quicken. The buzzing increases, but it’s still soft. Soft enough not to overpower, intense enough to lock my attention and focus. I feel it start. The waves. Undulating waves, rising and falling, each wave riding the one before, rising a little higher than the one before, the friction deepening and filling me.
I press down harder, feeling the vibrations resonating through, down into the depths of my vagina, into my center, feeling the aching, yearning, the need to be filled.
Turned the dial again, slightly slightly more, teasingly and tortuously slowly. The buzzing rising in pitch echoes the rising heat waves, and I can see/feel it, shimmering mirage-like, that shining point. The point of no return.
There is no more hope. I turn the dial all the way, and my world becomes unfocused, pivoting wildly and centering at the vertex, the source of the crashing waves. My eyes roll, the vibrations shoot through and up my splayed body, my vocal cords vibrate in response and a guttural ululation tears out between my dry panting mouth.
It’s there, the apex, and I abandon myself to embrace the cresting sensations. It’s glorious, I want it to last forever and I want it to end, my spasming lips already too sensitized. It builds neverendingly, and as I come it feels like something is torn out of my groin, something lifted up and out from between my thighs and carried above the waves.
It is beautiful and pure, and ends all too soon, and I gasp at the harsh buzzing vibrations against swollen flesh. I turn the dial back down until it is a bee’s hum again, and sigh with bliss.
I’ve clocked over 40 hours of sleep since Tuesday night. And given our family’s aversion to turkey, that can’t be blamed on any tryptophan-induced comas.
Granted, I barely slept over 4 hours a night the weekend before break started, but it’s still amazing how hard I crashed once I got home.
My lack of energy is depressing. I’m very tired even when I am awake, and I take frequent naps throughout the day. It doesn’t make for a very productive schedule, and I do have a lot of work for classes. I’m heading back up to school tomorrow to shoot my animation, and I need to have all the drawings done.
The lack of energy also has consequences elsewhere – namely, the lack of orgasms. Between sleep, helping prepare for Thanksgiving dinner (the most non-traditional one we’ve had yet), and the little drawing I have done, sexual satisfaction has definitely taken a backseat.
It’s also that time of month.
Which is just the cherry on top of a rather sucky week…
I can’t deny that I miss the sex, kink, and play. I’ve had almost nonstop visuals of begin taken forcefully; of hair pulled back, of greedy lips and teeth and hands; of wordless possession. I’m bombarded by the memories of our last couple sessions. How ironic that it was during that last meeting, which I knew would be the last, that I felt I submitted the most…gave of myself completely, and felt complete.
It feels wrong, but I can’t help it.
The lust is the problem. Only now do I realize how dangerously addicting lust is. I try to fight it, to forget the need I felt in his grasping hands and in his lips, and how that need fueled my own…it is a vicious cycle.
And I also remember the sage advice I received once, from a complete stranger no less, to “go with [my] gut, not with [my] heart, or brain, or the part that thinks, ‘I need a man.'”
That is all I can think right now. I need a man.
Sometimes, I don’t know why I make myself so vulnerable here. Writing posts has become a push and pull of wills, emotions, and reasoning lately.