“Don’t be gentle,” you begged,
“Use your palms. Be rough.”
I thought, “I can’t.
You’re made of glass
And you’ll break
Under my fingertips.”
–
I bit into your flesh
And sucked purple blossoms
Along the canvas of your back
It reminded me of that steam-filled room
When I growled possessively
Into the crook of your neck
I had only touched
I should’ve tasted
–
You pulled me into your breast
Cutting off my air supply
And I realized it was my favorite way
You ever rendered me breathless
Your enthusiastic groan
Echoed around your torso
Like a roar in a cave
–
My arms shook like breaking glass
And your arms held strong
Like a marble statue
I only touched
Part of the problem comes when seek to put limits on things that may go beyond our understanding, or ability to understand. Love might be one of these things. It’s so hard to understand what love is, what love is not, and the word itself is practically an invitation to confusion.
I think love and how we love says as much about us as the one we love. The person rushing into one deep love after another is certainly seeking to fill a void; the person who cannot love has some hurt that has hardened her in some way; the person who loves even when it is hard to love has some beauty and kindness in her heart.
Love changes. I think if there’s one huge misconception about love, it’s the Hollywood idea of love eternal and undying. Nothing in our experience is unchanging, and, if there is something unchanging, then our understanding of the thing and our relationship to that thing changes throughout our lives. We are always changing, and our loves will change. You will not feel the same, all the time. I think there is a kind of love that calls for action and commitment, and, in this kind of love, you cannot trust your feelings. Love, in a very real sense, is commitment, and perhaps there is not such a difference between how we love a dear friend, a child, a pet, or a lover.
Maybe we confuse love with lust, and perhaps it would be better if we could tease those apart. Much of the drama of our lives comes from this misunderstanding, but this is more a problem in English than in some other languages. Imagine the reaction of someone first encountering the language: “You don’t have a different word for how you really like food, how a parent feels about a child, and you use the same word to describe how you feel about someone you would like to have touch your genitals?“ That person could be forgiven if she thought us very poor and badly in need of some additional words. Meaning is a problem.
Love hurts. It requires vulnerability and trust, and you will sometimes find, looking back, that trust was not wisely given. You will love someone who hurts you. Love will change you, and not always in good ways. You will love someone who crushes you, but love you must. The alternative is a seasonless shadow-world.
Yes, love is real and it is worthy of your pain and suffering. It is probably not what you think it is, and a significant portion of the rest of your days will probably be devoted to seeking an understanding of love.
We are human. We love. It is what we do, and it is what we are.
Pin me down and gently drag your lips and fingertips all over my skin. Put your mouth on my neck and use your teeth to send chills down my spine. Climb on top of me. Look deep into my eyes. Press that cunning smile against my wanting lips. Bite my lip. Make me whimper. Pull my hair. Help me let out some sweet little moans for you. Whisper in my ear everything you could do to me, everything you want to do to me…then don’t. Make me want it. Make my body beg for it.
Our hosts are getting drinks from the kitchen. After placing my hands on your knees, I hold your gaze and push your knees open slowly. One inch… two inches… then my hands withdraw as I relax, an innocent grin sweeping my face.
Eeeeeep. Your caption made my stomach do a barrel roll. I am like swimming in sub space this morning (technically afternoon, but I’m still in bed) :3
I’m often asked something like “how can you tell, in public, that a girl has submissive tendencies? Are there any clues or signs?” I think the answer is usually no, you can’t. There’s no secret handshake or secret society jewelry that gives it all away, but sometimes, in some cases you can tell. Here’s a little something that happened tonight. Now, I don’t do this often—in fact, I probably have an interaction with a stranger like this less than once a year, but, so far, I don’t think I’ve ever been wrong. You don’t just go around oozing DOMINANCE all over every object and every person. No, I don’t think that’s the way to do it: you try to be kind and gentle, but when something clicks, something interesting happens. I think there’s a lot of communication that goes on just under the surface—body language, a certain smile, and maybe certain turns of language that might hold extra meaning. Anyway, here’s one way you can tell.
I was with some friends in a slightly pretentious bar tonight. You know the kind of place: $20+ cocktails that are good, almost worth the price, but not quite. Décor and attitude just a little over the top. Our waitress… hmmmm… if I have a “type” of girl she is probably it. Eastern European or maybe French (turned out, when she spoke, accent was clearly French), a figure that can best be described as lithe, a little dress that probably revealed a bit too much skin around her shoulders and neck, very pretty face, sharp cheekbones, fine, light skin, eyes as dark and liquid as a pool of India ink held in the palm of your hand and hair to match. She came to our table to make small talk and I asked where she was from. She said Lyon, and then, after a moment, clarified that it was in France… in Europe. I laughed and told her I knew exactly where it was and we discussed food and wine and great restaurants for a moment. Finally she said, “can I take your order?”
I looked at her and laughed a bit and said, “I’m a little doubtful whether you can or not…” and gave her a smile that showed I knew I was being a little bit silly. (I think not taking yourself too seriously is very important!)
She feigned frustration and said, “May I please take your order, Sir?” and loaded it with attitude: a little cock of her hip, toss of her hair, and her eyes flashed with challenge.
I said, immediately and without hesitation, the only thing that came to mind, clearly crossing a line, “Good girl. Maybe we will work on the attitude next.” At which point this girl did not stereotypically bite her bottom lip. No, she bit her bottom lip and rolled it through her teeth, then her top lip, and then sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and held it there for a few moments. Now, something had just transpired between the two of us, but, critically, everyone else at the table was unaware of it. That’s something that has surprised me in the past—people who are not in tune to the power exchange element might see the flirting, but they will miss so much.
So we drank and ate mediocre food for a while. In clearing the table she did seem to be very much in my personal space, nearly lying across my lap at one point to reach across the table. (That was unnecessary, but, I admit, appreciated.) At one point she came back and said to me, “Is my attitude acceptable, Sir?” There was nothing particularly hot about this; she was playing and just being friendly, and riffing off of our “thing” from earlier.
I said “It is… acceptable…”, but I said it in the tone of voice that implied, at least to me, that a spanking might be needed, and she seemed to receive the message loud and clear—she looked at me with the exact look… well, it’s hard to describe, but you know if you have been teasing a girl for a long, long time, and you finally, slowly, slip a finger between her legs, between her lips, and find her so wet, and then you touch that one, certain spot with such firm, excruciating pleasure—fulfillment and need wrapped in smoking, uncontrolled lust and, in that moment, you know that girl will do anything for you. Anything at all. Yes, I got a few seconds of that exact look, right there at the table, and my friends were completely unaware that anything was happening. (I think, in fairness, they were drinking a bit faster than I was. I was distracted.)
A bit later she was once again practically lying in my lap, and I’d had enough drinks that common sense was beginning to slip away, she brushed against me and I said the first thing that popped into my mind, “you smell very good.”
She froze, again stretched across the table and nearly in my lap, and said “Sir, you will make me blush. I forgot to wear perfume today.”
“I know.” (If I was writing a story I would say I spoke those words in a husky, dominant growl, but, again, we should not take ourselves so seriously!) And, in response to those words (or perhaps the way I said them) she immediately had what looked like a small seizure, actually managing to spill three glasses on the table. This, interestingly enough, was the first time my dining companions really noticed that anything was “off”.
It’s hard to put your finger on what was happening here. On one hand, it was just flirting, but I do think there’s another level of communication going on here. Was this a girl who speaks the “BDSM language” or who just naturally had some submissive tendencies? Who knows, but this is what it’s like when things click with a stranger, and it’s exceedingly rare.
When the check came, there was the usual discussion about who would take it, everyone arguing for it, but I just looked at her and held my hand out, and she obediently placed it into my hand. She walked around the table and bent down beside my chair, reaching her hand out as she did so. I held my hand out and took hers to steady her. She bent close and started to say something in my ear, but our hands were still touching and I extended my index finger and stroked the skin under her wrist once, twice, at which point she actually gasped and moaned into my ear. She recovered, said “I am done with work at midnight”, quickly composed herself, stood, and walked away. So, to answer your question, that’s one way you can tell.
If you’re wondering what my vanilla friends (and I can say that, because one of them told us once about the “strange” girl he dated who “wanted to be spanked sometimes”) noticed, one of them commented, as we left, that the girl was “hot but kinda strange.” You must pay attention. You gotta pay attention…
That’s…. pretty freakin’ hot
I finished reading this on my other blog and wanted to reblog it on here and I don’t know if this post had anything to do with it or not but it literally took me five tries to log in correctly. Five. I just kind of lost all ability to function there.
This is what I really love. The orgasm denial is fun and all, but that has nothing to do with me being submissive. That’s just me extending the pleasure because I enjoy being horny, and wanted the challenge. But this. The non-sexual stuff. The power exchange, where two people just click. This is what I really enjoy.
This is just so unbelievably hot, and so much more so because I know this exact feeling. I crave this feeling, and I miss this feeling. Perfectly explained. This honestly just casually tossed me straight into the depths of sub space
So many things just got put on hold to answer this. There’s flour on my keyboard now.
First things first, I appreciate you asking off anon and in a semi-polite manner. If I get a little testy during this reply, it’s not personal. I certainly have never been offended by you, and I hope the things I post don’t drive you off. Though if it does, I’m not going to apologize. Because secondly, I don’t hate guys. I reblog a lot of jokes about boys, and I go on quite a few feminist rants, but it’s not because I hate guys. It’s because I’m angry.
I’ll tell you what I do hate, dear friend.
I hate that when I was ten years old, a teenage boy cornered me on my bed, kissed me against my will, and touched my body without my consent. I hate the way it made me feel, hate how I was so embarrassed I didn’t tell my parents until I was sixteen. I hate that to this day his family is close to ours and I can never hear his name without tensing up. But what I really hate is that almost 250 thousand people are sexually assaulted every year and usually about 9/10 of them are women.
I hate that I have to carry pepper spray on my keys to feel safe at night. I hate that I check the back of my car every time before I get in it. I hate that I learned in middle school to hold keys like claws in my hand in case someone grabs me. I hate that until I was an adult, my parents wouldn’t let me go to Walmart alone if it was after dark. And I hate that it is an understood fact in our culture (in most cultures) that women walking the street at night are in danger, and yet when something happens she’s the one at fault for walking alone.
But most of that’s not guys our age, right? Sure, let’s go with the idea that most of these attacks are carried out by men 25 and older.
I hate that little girls are told to cross their legs, and that little boys aren’t told “don’t look up girls’ skirts”. I hate that when boys push, tease, hurt little girls, people say, “It’s because he likes you!” I hate that we’re told “Boys will be boys”, and that those boys aren’t held accountable for their actions because of it. We are living in a culture that caters to your sex and criticizes mine.
I hate that “let’s play twenty questions” has become “let me ask you about your sexual history”. I hate that “so what would you be doing if I was there?” has become a common sort of pick up line that insinuates that if there was any hot blooded male within ten feet of me, I’d be so distracted that I’d have to engage in sexual congress with said male. I hate that after one text conversation with a guy, I get half-naked pics. I hate that chat roulette is more dicks than conversations. I hate that the “friend zone” is a thing, that there’s this kind of imaginary Valhalla for “nice guys” that receive friendship as some sort of consolation prize for treating women like human beings. Especially when a lot of these “nice guys” turn into violent, hateful human beings the minute you turn them down. Like the boyfriend I broke up with in middle school— middle school— that said he was fine and then turned around and told the whole school I was having sex behind the building with some other guy. That followed me through my high school career. I got told “locker room stories” about myself because one fuckboy’s ego got bruised. People invented a long list of people that I’d fucked before I’d even had sex.
But that’s just guys I’m not having sex with. Let’s get into the ones I have messed around with!
I hate that I gave my virginity to a guy who said he loved me and then dumped me a week later. I hate that I gave my virginity up in the back of a car because he didn’t want anyone to know about me and I thought that was okay. I hate that I went to my senior prom with out a date because he told me he couldn’t stand me going with anyone but him— and then he took another girl. I also hate that I started looking for affection with my clothes off, because hey— if I blow him, he calls me beautiful and amazing and gorgeous. I hate that I drove home bleeding from a hook up with a guy because he didn’t listen to me when I said I was uncomfortable. I hate that it took the fourth guy I ever had sex with to fuck in a position where I wasn’t on top doing all of the work. That it was the fourth guy who “returned the favor”. And that it was the fourth guy who actually gave a rat’s ass whether or not I was receiving any pleasure whatsoever. Because women aren’t just expected to respond to weak texting game with instant horniness. Women aren’t just guilted into helping guys with their blue balls. Women aren’t just pressured into sex even after they say no with pitiful faces and “if you loved me”s and “just for a second”s. Women are sex objects to fuckboys. We get used and then thrown away.
But the double standards go on!
I hate that women are expected to be clean shaven and lovely at all times, while some dudes throw an absolute hissy if you tell him you’re not going down until he’s shaved. I hate that as females, we’re supposed to treasure our bodies and our virginities, but dudes are encouraged to lose theirs early (nudge-nudge, wink-wink, atta-boy, go get ‘em) and fuck around often. I hate that girls in movies are expected to be tight, toned and beautiful, but guys can get the hot blonde at the end simply by being funny or saving the day. I hate that girls who complain about small dicks are “size queens” but guys call pussies loose on the regular, even though vaginas are muscles that don’t get loose. I hate that you’re a prude or a bitch if you don’t swallow, but a girl’s pushy or still a bitch if she asks her man to eat her. I hate that I’ve listened to jokes about guys getting cum in a girl’s eye and watching her cry and then to guys making jokes about girls who don’t do oral. I hate that women feel so obligated to see to a man’s pleasure that she’ll forfeit her own. I hate that a friend told the guy I was interested in that I “sleep around” when I’ve had sex with four guys, but there’s no stigma for a guy who’s slept with twice that many. I hate that faking orgasms is a thing— a thing I did— because instead of teaching men how to pleasure us, we’d rather cushion their egos and do the fake moaning, the biting lips, the oh my gosh you’re so big. It’s easier that way. It’s safer that way.
So basically, I don’t hate guys. I have tons of guys that I love hanging out with, and I will drool over Chris Pratt with the best of them. It’s not men that I hate. I hate the experiences I’ve had with guys. I hate that I feel unsafe, uncomfortable, and unsatisfied on a regular basis because of guys. And my experiences are not limited to me. This is shit that’s happening every day, to ten year old girls and to twenty-one year old women. The jokes I reblog about boys wouldn’t be so popular, wouldn’t have so many notes if this wasn’t a problem. This is the culture we live in, and it’s unfortunate that there’s a lot of great guys out there who get their feelings hurt over fuckboy jokes because so many other men have screwed women over. But it’s more unfortunate that people don’t understand why we make jokes and why we say we hate men. Because we are told a thousand times a day in a thousand different ways that we’re supposed to be the ideal manic pixie girl, sweet and loving fifties housewife, lady in the streets but a freak in the sheets perfect woman and never speak out against stuff like this, no matter how much we’re mistreated. I’m not a man-hater. I’m angry.
Holy shit, that was worth reading!! EVERYONE SHOULD READ THIS
I’ll just leave this here
This honest to god may be the most articulate, well put, important thing I have ever read. I don’t have words to explain how amazing and comprehensive this answer is regarding one of the biggest problems in our society. Definitely worth reading.
