In the financial markets, in times of turmoil, investors engage in a “flight to safety.”
I like the term, “flight to safety.” It feels to me like the very definition of much of my sexual life and, indeed, of much of my life.
I wonder if this differentiates me from any other human.
In my sexual fantasies – and my sexual realities – I create situations in which my greatest terrors recede. Rejection, abandonment, judgment. Obligation, responsibility, the power to disappoint. As I wrote the other day, they conjure a primitive world that exists around me, constructed by me, designed for me.
That world protects me from the painful reality that I am not the universe, that my needs must contend with the needs of others, that those others’ needs often (always) differ – even if one infinitesimally – from mine.
When you subordinate your desires to mine, when you make my desire yours, you indulge my primitive fantasy, and derive your own ecstatic pleasure and delight from… well, I wouldn’t presume to analyze how your flight to safety works.
I imagine your safety mirrors mine. For me, safety lies in your having no needs other than mine; your safety (I imagine) lies in your having no needs, but in your satisfying mine perfectly. Somehow, my use of you, the satisfaction I take in you, my finding you to be (and perhaps calling you) a “good girl,” all that makes you feel safe.
When we click, your flight to safety and mine complement one another perfectly.
Shall we flee?