For 48 hours, stretching across three days, Marina gave me ownership of her cunt.
We began with a Zoom call in which, together, we drank a toast to the impending 48 hours of fun.
It got off to a rocky start. Really, the rocky start began before we started. Marina and I have, generally, enjoyed a nearly perfect (except for not fucking being able to touch) relationship, since some time early this year. She’s been exquisitely available to me, has complied exquisitely with my requests. Except in one area. And it’s an important one.
Several times, when her life has made her unavailable to me for a period of time, we have hit rocky territory. Several components have contributed to this, the largest, of course, being my terror of abandonment. But Marina’s not blameless. I communicate constantly, and compulsively. And while I don’t demand constant communication of Marina – or of anyone – I do demand compulsive communication. It’s vital to me, for example, that if you’re going to be unavailable to me for a minute, a day, a week, or a year, you tell me. That if you exit a conversation that’s happening in real time, you say good-bye.
Add to that, I am threatened by other men. Well, not exactly threatened. But when Marina is with another man, I long to have her back. And I fear I won’t get her back. So I’ve asked her to communicate with me very thoroughly about her absences – and about the men with whom she’ll be, while absent from me. Not to exert control: I imagine myself entitled to no such thing. Just to medicate my ancient, infantile anxieties.
Marina struggles with this twice over. First, because she’s not really accustomed to communicating in this way at all. And second, because, when it comes to men, she’s (understandably, appropriately) private: she doesn’t necessarily begin to understand my preferences in this regard.
Admirably, since we first “met,” Marina has striven, diligently, courageously, to come to me on questions like this, to give me what I need, even if it’s challenging. And, in nearly every instance, she has succeeded beyond any measure.
But not, alas, in this specific area.
In this specific area – call it, for shorthand, “times she’s with others and unavailable to me” – she seems to have almost a preternatural knack for missing my cues. For triggering my anxieties. For making my heart beat faster, my breaths come quicker, my muscles tense up, and my sleep to recede.
The worst thing about all of this? She’s trying. Hard. She’s not trying (consciously) to inflame me in these ways. And it may, of course, be that I’m just combustible. That my flammability is so extreme as to be inevitable. It might be, in other words, that Marina is not failing in any material sense, but that I’m just overdetermined to be miserable in such times.
Or, of course, both could be true. And this, honestly, seems most likely to me: given the intensity of our connection, the constancy of our communication, I’m just bound to suffer when it’s interrupted, particularly if it’s interrupted so she can suck another man’s cock. And, too, that given her discomfort with the completeness of my demands for her – and maybe, also, with the intensity of her feelings for me – that she’s just bound to rebel just a little against my demands, in the moment, even if, consciously, she wants me to have what I want.
So anyway: in the days prior to the start of our 48-hour window, we had been through one of these hiccups. Our third, fourth, or fifth, in the short time we’ve been at this. It had been a particularly difficult one, because of the real-world background for Marina in all of this. (Our relationship exists in a fantasy realm, where there’s really little other than my desire and her body. But she exists in reality, where there are a variety of other demands. On her time. Her attention. And yes, on her body.)
But it also had been difficult because of the interaction between our relationships to time, and to communication. From my perspective, the peak moment of infantile, tantrum-y rage came when Marina was eight minutes late for a fifteen-minute conversation we had scheduled (and which was happening in what was, for me, a span of availability that was, itself, precisely fifteen minutes). In a moment when she wanted me to know, she told me, how she was prioritizing me. I didn’t feel very prioritized. Or rather, I felt as if she had communicated in that moment precisely how she was prioritizing me. And it didn’t feel good.
We found our way through that. We communicated. A lot. Had good conversations. Made ourselves vulnerable. Apologized. Made amends. And, we headed into the long-anticipated 48 hours of cunt ownership.
I should have stopped us there, should have said, “You know? I’m excited to own your cunt for 48 hours. But now’s not the time.”
But I was greedy.