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Posts Tagged ‘identity crisis’

  1. Identity Crisis are Dumb

    December 13, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Do you ever have one of those moments where you’re sitting and doing something utterly mundane, like eating brunch with people you love, and someone says something that hits you like an arrow to the heart? Words that are so straight and true to the crux of your existence that you didn’t realize it was an issue until you’re fighting tears and thinking THAT’S WHAT’S FUCKING WRONG?!


    I had one of those moments today, and I’m still recovering and processing. It was perfectly timed, because that one sentence summed up the conflict within me with breath-stealing clarity. I paused with a fork full of sausage halfway to my open mouth, looking for all the world like a landed carp and feeling my world shift slightly on its axis.

    “So you’re going to settle again for the same watered down version of the Dom you want?”

    Eventually I was filled with gratitude that Matt, my girlfriend’s boyfriend, said what he did. Despite wanting to run into the bathroom to have a good cry. There it was, one of my biggest fears laid out in mean black and white. And I’m frustrated to death of worrying about it. Am I settling? Will I ever find a Dom who suits me perfectly? Am I still a slave if I’m not collared and owned?

    My logical mind knows that this fear is leftover residue from the fallout of parting ways with my ex-Dom. He threw those words at me with the intent of an emotional hand grenade, and his aim was precise. It worked like a charm. In the wreckage of my broken heart, those cruel words took root, and I haven’t been able to excise my doubts. Not yet, but I’m working on it.

    In fact, I had a meltdown about it a week or so ago. I’m only in the consideration phase with the Boy Scout and haven’t earned my first collar yet. Our relationship as boyfriend and girlfriend, Dominant and slave, is only beginning, and the Boy Scout is deliberate and thoughtful. There is no rushing that man which is a contradiction to how I usually operate. As much as we’re in sync with our romantic/poly relationship, we come from different backgrounds in the kink perspective. The Boy Scout does not get off causing me pain, but I’m learning that even though my inner masochist stomps her foot with frustration, it’s his dominance of me that’s more important. I have several friends, not to mention my girlfriend, who will cane me until I sob. None of them choose to dominate me outside a scene, though, and none of them desire to own me. And those are the two things I’m searching for.

    I fell to pieces in an email to Liri, and she responded with the kindest message that essentially told me to get a grip. As she eloquently pointed out, kinky relationships develop just as traditional relationships do. Rarely can you start up a dynamic that is perfectly suited to both parties. There’s trust to be earned and love to be given. In short, she gave me a much-needed slap across the face and a homework assignment. I was to envision in specific detail what I needed from my new Sir, whether that be tasks to complete or protocols to follow. As talented as the Boy Scout is, he’s not a mind reader. He can’t possibly know everything I need if I don’t tell him.

    I warned the Boy Scout over dinner that I would be dredging this up for the blog. He listened again to me fretting about our newness and how he doesn’t beat me enough as I played with the napkin in my lap.

    His full lips twisted into a half-smile and he asked, “how many times have you looked at your phone since we got here?”

    I blinked. “Um, three times I think?”

    “ You’ve looked at your phone three times, and you still missed my last instruction?”

    My mouth dropped open. “I missed an instruction? No I didn’t  I was ready in ten minutes as you requested, and I thanked you for the invitation.” Blue eyes bore into mine.


    I pulled out my phone again and scrolled through his texts. There it was, a command that I wear a dress. I had missed it completely in my rush to get ready. I felt my cheeks turn scarlet, and my ego pinched me. I was way too good slave to make that kind of rookie mistake.

    “It was an accident!”

    Part of me wanted to crawl beneath the table to lay my head on his lap and apologize until he forgave me, but my instincts to grovel were overruled by my identity crisis. I needed to know if we could make this dynamic work in one simple way. A spanking or paddling were things that I craved. The Boy Scout had to do something that I would loathe so much that I never forgot to double-check my instructions. He didn’t like physically hurting me, so how could he perform a punishment that I would actually hate?

    I tried to look contrite. How far would the Boy Scout go to put me in my place? There was only one way to find out. When he appeared completely unmoved, I did the only thing I could think of, I pouted and crossed my arms over my chest. I may have even uttered the words “not fair” but there’s no evidence of that. With a pleasant smile and his southern drawl in my ear, I was ushered home for punishment. Score one for Team Slave!

    Once home, Sir told me to place two towels on the bed with my vibrator and lube. Then he told me to strip and wait. I stood in the bedroom, my mind turning with the rotations of the ceiling fan. I still had doubts that he would be able to make me truly regret my error, but when I saw him return with a large glass of ice water, those doubts morphed into anticipation.

    There were ice cubes held to my most tender places and freezing water covering body parts that were never intended to be that cold. The soles of my feet were iced and then struck which spurred a round of fervent begging on my part. As I knelt in the cold, there was only Sir’s voice and the anxiety of fulfilling what he desired of me. The moment became hyper-focused on the two of us even though I was shivering and my knees ached. There were no walls separating us, and I had the thought that it was this emotional place specifically that I yearned for.

    Finally it was over, and I was permitted to stand. He told me to start the shower, a hot shower, and wrapped his arms around me as we waited for the water to warm. We climbed in and he held me for a long time under the hot spray as we discussed what had happened. I floated in a dreamy state that being dominated will bring me. Not the rush of endorphins that a beating brings, but the joy of pleasing my Sir completely. Finally we emerged from the shower and got back to his original after-dinner plan of towels, lube and my vibrator. We used all those items, all at the same time, until my body was limp from orgasms. Later I curled up beside him in the dark, my eyelids growing heavy.

    “Do you know what my favorite part of tonight was, Minx?”

    “No, Sir,” I murmured into the crook of his neck.

    “I loved holding you in my arms in the shower after your punishment. Anyone can beat your ass, Minx, and make you cry. It takes a very particular kind of person to own you.”

    I’m beginning to realize that he’s right.