I would be lying if I told you that I am your average woman. I’m not consumed with thoughts of some future wedding. I am not desperate for a ten carat engagement ring.
Unlike so many women I know, my desire to belong to someone manifests its self in a much more primal fashion.
I have battled with this side of me for a great many years, and in all honesty, I am still struggling with it. How am I to navigate the world along side women so completely different from me?
The 22 year old that I work with spent all of last year planning and executing an elaborate wedding, she was so obsessed by this I struggled to feign interest. Desperate to out shine her sister, her friends and her cousins in everything from the size and sparkle of her rings (because an engagement ring and wedding band were not enough, she is also wearing the 5 year anniversary ring), to the place settings and venue, she would never be able to fathom what I seek out of a partnership.
Her white gold rings glitter and sparkle, a visible, well known sign of the position she holds in this life; while the silver and amber amulet that hangs around my neck can never be known for the meaning it holds. Mine is no less significant, to me it means so much more; this is a symbol that I have given my body, mind, soul and will to another. Every day we function knowing that we must trust, care for, and work to keep our place in life, because one word from eiother of us could be the end, because of this we value it, and don’t take the relationship for granted.
So when some one leans in to exclaim,”What a beautiful necklace,” I smile with fond memories and reply with a somewhat flushed, “Thank you, it is very special to me.”
When my Doms daughter asks from her place in the back seat with my dog, “I wonder what it’s like to wear a collar,” I am forced to choke back my embarrassment as I reply demurely, “I think it would be a lot like wearing a necklace all the time,” as I finger the weight around my neck, and avoid his knowing smile.
When most women are sharing their stories of babies and honeymoons, my fingers reach up to brush across the nearly unrecognizable bite marks on my forearms, shoulders, or the back of my neck and I shiver in excitement.
When the women I know giggle and whisper about long, soft, lingering lovemaking, I smile and nod; silently praying that tonight will be the night he ties me down and marks my ass with his cane. They talk of feathers and chocolate dipped strawberries while I dream of long lengths of rope and dark purple bruises.
Am I crazy for loving the heat that is left behind when his leather belt dances across my ass? Is the fact that I get so much pleasure from feeling that lingering pain when he leaves bruises on my backside? Would most people cringe at the secret name I call him in the heat of my passion?
To me a critical part my submission is knowing my Dom does not judge me for being a little, or very different. The difficulty is finding the balance between my masochism and his desire never to abuse me.
It’s important to me that I am accepted for who I am, however fucked up the world might find me. I’d like to think that I won’t be judged, but lets face it, that wicked beast called human nature won’t let us let go of what we label as, the norm.
So to the subs, slaves, littles, pets, sadists, masochists and any other twisted blend of being; others may label us sick, perverted, deviant or weird, but I say God, in whatever form he/she takes, just wired us a little differently.