The roles I play - part 1. Sparkle

Last night, I was happily stunned by a documentary named "Kink" (all about the kink dot com web site) and it made me think about all the roles I play in my life.

Now, I have a serious problem with my fear of being abandoned, so I am very likely to stick to some destructive roles just to make sure I don't get abandoned by people I somehow feel that I need. Maybe this series of posts will weed out those relationships without me having to struggle with having to pull them out myself (wouldn't that be grand?)

This series of posts will also be less coherent than my usual streams of thought. There will be jumping in text, correlations that might not make sense at first glance, and/or concepts that require some googling (no, I will not remember to link to everything. I'm confident any readers know how to use a search engine.)

We all set? Great. Let's get on with it, then.



Part 1. Sparkle.

I call this first part "Sparkle" because it reflects a part of me I have been told is my greatest gift. Not that I am bubbly and giggling and cutesy-poo, but that I fit in everywhere, like the glitter once spilled on a shirt.

I can insert myself in basically any conventional social situation and make it a perfect fit. "Socially competent" is a label I've held for more than 20 years. I am 29 now, so you can really see how sad this is. What 9 year old is socially competent? This label gets even sadder when you really consider what it means to be able to fit in in every social situation. To compromise who you are to such an extent that you become a specter. Interesting enough to become a natural part of a group, but not so much that people remember you when you leave. Even among people I call friends, I always feel like someone observing. The third person narrator in my own life.

It wasn't until I ran into a particular group on the old online journal service LiveJournal that I found a place I belong. (Here I also met a person I have loved for 10 years now. She is my sister in everything but DNA.) In this group, I could talk about hidden desires, broken fantasies, and unconventional needs. I was just another one in the group, but I didn't need to manipulate my way into it to be a part of it. I just had to be curious about a world I previously had no idea even existed.

I left LiveJournal in 2010, but I kept up my research. I was now dating Boy, and he and I stared down the Scene together.

I finally had a place I could feel completely free in. It no longer felt so destructive to smile and courtesy and fake a laugh, knowing that the people around me couldn't know that in my head, I was struggling against metal cuffs, sharp edges biting into my wrists, a strong hand closing ever-so-slowly around my wind pipes. Blue eyes blazing above me, filled with love, pride, and a sadistic glee matched only by the trusting, loving surrender in my own hazel eyes.

Unless you have experienced that power exchange, there is no chance you can understand the powerful high that comes from putting everything you are into someone else's hands. To have your sense of self, your soul, and your heart shattered into pieces and put together into a stronger version of yourself.

Now, if you want to use labels again, I would classify myself as a submissive masochist. I am more of a switch, though, but I prefer to follow over leading. It's perfect, really, since Boy is NOT submissive in any way, shape, or form. He is also a sadist, which feeds my need for pain completely. (Here I would like to make a distinction between pain and hurt. To me, pain is a sensation, like warmth, cold, soft, hard etc. Hurt is something destructive. Hurt takes away from who you are, while pain adds to the experience.)

The first time Boy took a crop to me, I came so hard I nearly passed out. The first time he choked me during sex, I swear I was in Heaven.

We have since progressed from party store, easily breakable aluminium hand cuffs to Kevlar restraints.

I still prefer sharp pain compared to dull ache. A crop, a hand, nails, pins, clamps. All preferable compared to a flogger or pinching.

When I feel the Kevlar pressing on my wrists and the softness of the blindfold across the bridge of my nose, the noise in my head fades away. The first touch of pain on my skin makes my world light up with a warm, red glow. Each strike builds the light into a chanting crescendo until the pain breaks something in my mind and everything turns into a dark, safe embrace in which nothing matters except love, trust, and safety.
Touch of skin on skin. Boy's voice in my ear. Feeling safe and loved and cherished.

And I no longer care that the world outside Boy's embrace is cold and judging. Without pretending, I know where I belong.



DFTBA