Like many (all?) men (people?), I can’t be aroused and terrified at the same time. True fear – not contextual fear, but existential fear – stifles desire, quenches erections, dries up cunts.
I construct my dominance as a bulwark against terror. Terror of abandonment, rejection, judgment, shame, annihilation.
When it works? When it works, my dominance and your submission combine to form an elixir that makes me forget my terror. Not just to forget it in the moment, but to forget it ever existed, to forget that it is certain to return.
When the relationship between my dominance and your submission goes sideways? If your submission is imperfect? If it’s, seemingly, willfully imperfect? My terror raises its ugly head and swamps my bodily sensations with ancient memories.
I’m one demanding motherfucker. I know that about myself. I ask for a lot. And I ask for a lot in very, very specific ways. And/but… that’s what I want. I want a lot. And I want a lot in very, very specific ways.
It all boils down to a painful, masochistic repetition – except when it doesn’t, when it boils down to a rapturous, ecstatic escape.
I am just like every other junkie: intermittent reinforcement motivates me powerfully.
Give me a taste of your elixir, and I’ll forget your poison exists. And when I taste your poison? As I recoil, as I revulse, as I shudder and shiver with pain and terror, even still, I can smell, I can taste, the elixir you gave me once, that I long for you to give me again.