Posted at 00:19 on 11 Apr 2012 by Pandora / Blake
I write this from my bed, my own bed, in my very own room in my new flat. My room is getting there, now: the bed is up, the furniture in place, clothes unpacked into a new wardrobe and chest of drawers. Big bags of clothes I'm giving away.
I'm a hoarder by nature, and while unpacking I'm sorting through my things, working out what I need, and what I can live without. The last six months living out of a suitcase at D's place has allowed me to re-evaluate. Some things I've missed; others I've not. The tools and equipment for filming and my vanilla business bulk out my possessions, but those are being trimmed too, keeping the best and throwing out what I rarely use. My shooting clothes have been compressed into a mere three crates. I'm lucky to have nice things, and being in my own bed again, with my own books around me, is a pleasure. But there's a consumerist guilt, too, to owning so much, especially when faced with a mountain of boxes that require moving.
The new flat is gorgeous. I can't wait to shoot in it.
It's been a stressful time interspersed with moments of delicious peacefulness, enjoying the light and calm of my clean, pretty new home. Subtle battles of wills with the new housemate, the first time I have lived with just me and another woman - and a relative stranger at that, a friend of a friend. I would have preferred to live alone but can't justify the expense. I'm not even sure I can afford this place. Tensions and uncertainties.
I have been dreadful company for D, weepy one second and demanding attention the next, requiring him to fit around my ridiculous working hours and upset if he can't match my timing at the drop of a hat. Desperate to be spanked, dominated, fucked, but too stressed to be pleasant company and too busy to make space for things to develop naturally. It's not just the sex; it's a need more urgent than getting laid, although that does help. It's the emotional reset, the ego drain that I need. The meditative space of submission that gives the mind a rest and the body an affirmation.
The morning after an emotionally messy Saturday night I cuddled D and we talked. He said he hadn't wanted to abuse me while I was upset: he'd wanted to be gentle with me. Perhaps that was best thing for him to want. Right then, though, that morning, I knew what I needed, and I told him so. He gave a half smile. "Let me guess: to be beaten hard, and fucked hard?"
"Something like that," I whispered. I was trembling with need.
"I need to hear you say it."
I looked at him. Usually these days I'm good at articulating my desires but I felt so small and lost I didn't know if I had the courage. He made it easier for me: "Say, 'yes please'."
I swallowed. Why was this so hard?
He made it easier still: "Or 'yes, sir'."
That I could do.
Strengthened by a kiss or three, I tried to explain: "I don't feel assertive, I don't want to pounce on you. I want you to be dominant. I want you to want to hurt me, to take me to a place where it's okay if I cry."
"I know," he said, looking into my eyes. "That's why I need your consent."
I feel like it shouldn't make everything better when I'm beaten until I sob. But it does.
I feel like the dependency is a weakness; but actually, I think that maybe it's a strength.
Pictures found via A Kinky House