Show Me What You Think I Deserve
I always let them. Even if I’m not sure I’m ready.
There was a Dom I was with. A sadist. The man who first made me feel alive by degrading me. And instead of withholding kink, I limited the vanilla side of our relationship so there wasn’t room for him to think much at all about me—other than what my body could do for him.
I did want him to think about me beyond the scene. I wanted his devotion. I would’ve given him mine. But if he saw all the stuff underneath, that felt more dangerous than him dishing out words he didn’t know the weight of. If he got to know me—if he understood the history behind why being called “stupid” made me cry—I think his words would’ve carried more weight. I think they would’ve left bruises I couldn’t negotiate my way out of. And still, I would’ve wanted to be received by him. Fully. Not as a prop, but as a person.
Sometimes his aftercare was perfect. He’d tell me sex with me was like ecstasy, and I still hold onto that phrasing as a comfort when I feel not good enough or insecure. Sometimes I’d cry silently in his bed until I fell asleep, then go home in the morning. Like always. We wouldn’t talk again until it was time to see each other. When he told me he was proud of me, I lapped it up like a balm.
I got addicted to it. Not just him, but the way he made me feel—split open, stripped bare, seen through something rougher than love. After him is when I knew I couldn’t cut kink out of my life. I think I began to meet a new side of me. And that side was more than I expected.
I started to worry I’d have to choose someday—between safety and intensity, between being loved and being wrecked. But it also confirmed that I never could.