Dependence
I spent a good deal of my life feeling worthless. In getting over that, I came to see myself as intrinsically valuable, and placed less importance on my value to other people. I remain keenly conscious of what other people say, but Iâve learned toâmostlyâtrust myself.
Once, I gave that up. Over a few months I became friends with a charismatic and attractive man. His name was Dylanânoodlesandbeef. When he later expressed a dominant interest in me, I couldnât believe it was real. Someone I looked up to, who I admired, found me of value.
He told me that I would be a difficult pup to claim; that my independence was a challenge to the submission he desiredâbut that it made that submission a more valuable gift. He encouraged me to let my guard down, and I, excited to retain that attention and prove myself worthy, opened up. He encouraged me to need him.
He called me pup, and in time, instructed me to call him Sir. I became fond of his existing boys and saw the love and support their Dom expressed for them.
As I became more invested in the relationship, he began to question my sincerity. I began to make mistakes: asking him out to the wrong kinds of activities. Giving him a giftâhe disapproved of presents. Making plans with my other friendsâI had too many. Iâd drink every few weeksâit was bad for me. When I made a mistake, he cut off contact. I beat myself up over it and resolved to be more accommodating.
When I invited him to dinner and a movie with my friends, he told me it was too expensive and a bad idea for socializing; I should be more creative. When he had to take a rain check on an event weâd planned to attend together, he assumed I never wanted to hang out again. I started to think it wasnât my fault.
He said that he wasnât the right Sir for me, and we moved back to an amicable, egalitarian friendship. I was dejected for a few days, but got over it.
Then, one crazy night, things snapped back. I was an adjunct to the family again. Overjoyed. Filled with longing. He encouraged me to miss him, to need his voice, his affection. I counted down each hour before I could see him again.
âI love you, pup.â Weâre at dinner together at my favorite sushi place. Thereâs a panting, bounding Labrador running through my chest. He kisses me goodbye outside the subway. I thought this was impossible. Count the hours between texts, between visits. We cuddle in a huge pile on the couch, and laugh, and itâs wonderful.
Then I say something wrong again, and no matter how much I try to back up or reassure he insists on the opposite of how I feel, and I canât seem to get the words out. Iâm a bad pup. A bad match. âWeâve never even been on a proper date,â he tells me. Itâs eleven P.M. Iâm in the office, finishing up work, sobbing.
He comes to my house. Iâm a wreck. He cooks for me, and I apologize again and again, and he forgives me. âCome here, pup.â He holds me on the couch and Iâm so grateful that heâs able to see past my mistakes. Good pup.
Good pups obey. Contact is never enough. I repeat these mantras to myself.
Then I made another mistake. I went to a play partyâwith his permission and foreknowledge. I wasnât feeling the right kind of energy for a scene: the only person I felt I could submit to was him, and heâd passed on attending. So I spent the evening just talking with friends. Leaving the venue, he asked how it went. I told the truth.
He wouldnât believe me. Heâd never been to one, but insisted that I had to have played with someone. I didnât know whether to make up a lie to satisfy him, or stick to my guns. I did the only thing I knew how to do, in a Dom/sub context, to signal that I needed an equal discussion.
I used his name.
That was unforgivable. He told me that the relationship was clearly not important to me. Forbid me to call him Sir. Said heâd see me tomorrow, as planned, but only as friends.
Iâd spent the day baking his favorite pie. The hand-drawn card read âHappy birthday, Sirâ. The two sat on my desk as I crumpled to the floor, sobbing, begging forgiveness over text.
I held it together through the trip the next day, and left his house so despondent I forgot my shoes. Theyâre probably still there.
Grief, turned to vinegar. I couldnât bear to see him, and after a cursory apology, he cut off all contact. I held myself back from walking off the BART platform, in front of an arriving train.
I held my head in my hands, months later, when another wave of grief and abandonment flooded out of some subconscious storm sewer, and left me keening in a hotel room at four AM.
I am worthless; I am disloyal; I donât deserve love.
I know depression, and recognize the cycle. I know how to cope. I reconnect with friends, involve myself in work, and lift regularly. I talk myself out of bed and into the world and gradually heal.
Six months later the birthday card, undelivered, falls out of my journal. With it comes a slurry of bitter anger, which follows it into the rubbish bin.
I donât think of him much, after that. But every so often he comes up again, and I reflect on this time in my life. I re-read my journal and my text logs. And Iâm still not sure what to think.
To what extent does that hunger for approval, for belonging, strengthenâor poisonâa pupâs relationship with their Dom? When is dependence a source of intimacy? When does it solidify our bonds and reinforce mutuality? When does it cloud our judgement and damage self-esteem?Â
How far should one extend off-balance in order to join in a dynamic movementâand can there be any form of meaningful relationship without the risk of injury? Is it inherently dangerous to eroticize the loss of self-control?
I donât have simple answers.
~
I know this: today I have a wonderful alpha, who means the world to me. My heart leaps every time I see him, and laying on his chest is the safest place to be. When I make a mistake, he forgives me and reassures me thatâeven angryâhe cares. And he never makes me feel unworthy or unloved.
I hope everyone finds that kind of compassion. I hope one day I can be that good to others.
Noodles And Beef is the fucking gay Onision. And that is NOT a good thing. This horrific level of manipulation and psychological and emotional abuse is just like Greg.Â
I canât believe I was so stupid years ago that I liked NoodlesandBeef.Â
