Poetry of Submission

I started with an idea for this post, maybe with a few minutes of writing it will return to me. Over the last few weeks as my relationship reaches its own rhythm, we have learned plenty about one another. Because of my service nature I’ve kept track of small things, how he likes his pillows, the right amount of ice in his cup, vegetable to protein ratio on his plate. I try to log these things, I work towards making my presence useful and appreciated. I serve.

In my domestic service at times, the sexual submissive wiggles her fingers wanting recognition. So used to being rewarded with sexual gratification, so trained that way in the past. Training that you believe in/enjoy, turns out to be a difficult habit to break. At times disappointment has caught up with me that this relationship does not reflect others I’ve enjoyed. That there is no punishment/reward system. That there is no task assignment, and at times my schedule and our life wouldn’t allow it anyway. Further reflection provides that this just isn’t the nature of things at this time. It may never be.

But, it makes me no less submissive. It makes my service no less important. In a small way for me, the lack of “rules and regulations”, the missing “reward” system makes my continued dedication to service that much more important for me. Knowing I am providing without overstepping, a quiet support. Enjoying the times of power exchange when they do happen. Remembering that it is unfair for everyone involved to compare our relationship to someone else’s. It is damaging to measure it up against the “perfect idea of D/s”. Because what we are doing right now is what works for us. There are frequent conversations about how we can improve our relationship. Not just with ourselves but with the community. How we can help, even in the face of whatever obstacles lay in the way. Moreover when that obstacle is one we have laid out because of our own issues.

There has been so much talk lately of cute submissive rebellion, it makes my relationship choices feel unpopular. Especially in the reality of less regimented D/s. It makes me forget the importance of my submission, both for me and for my Sir. Even when days pass and he hasn’t noticed that Ive not done the laundry or swept the floor. A part of me realizes that many people may read this and stand in defense of either one of us. That is not the point of this writing. I believe in a learning community of like minded individuals. Reading this may in fact give someone, D or s (or any of the other wonderful categories we fall into), a moment of thanks that they aren’t alone. That BDSM is not always all about the whips and canes. The rules and regulations. We are real people with real lives. Doing the best we can with what we have.

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Poetry of Submission

Jealousy

She’s a mean bitch, isn’t she? It’s also a relatively unexplored experience for me. Many years ago I reached the conclusion that it was the ugliest emotion. So I worked very very hard to rid myself of it. Lately I’ve found it creeping around the shadowed corners of my heart.

I find myself stressed and looking for signs of betrayal. Wondering if the soft chiming notifications coming through on his cell phone late in the evenings are from some other woman. When it shouldn’t really matter to me either way. Not because of our dynamic, or our relationship, but because I know my value. I know I should feel like a priority. I know that my presence in his home means something.

I know that there will be days when everything isn’t perfect. I know this is my self doubt shaking the foundation of my trust.

But, ….. what is there to say here? I wish I had a fight song that could bolster my insecurities. Some mantra that helped to lift me from these insecurities.

I wish I felt pretty and happy.

I wish I felt like I was living my real life.

Jealousy

Better alone

Paying very close attention to my behaviors has proven to be a worthwhile endevor. Since January and the beginning of my relationship with MC, I’ve notice some things within myself. A breaking of self confidence, independence, faith, fun.

I dedicate so much time to my partners. I believe truly in giving what you’d hope to receive. Attention, affection, compliments, desire, sharing of life, dreams, fantasies, hopes, aspirations. I believe in unity. It has never happened that someone has ever responded in full.

I am and always have been polar opposites for some people. Simultaneously too much and never enough. I want to much attention, sex, affection, compliments. I require too much maintenance. Or I simply am not enough in regards to intelligence, social standing, career prospects, beauty, physical aesthetic.

Whatever the case may be, or however you view me, one word always rings true. When I am a partner in a relationship, I’m overwhelming. That word slices through me. It opens me up and allows everything to spill out. All of my hurts and scars. An eviseration of horror. Which in turn only leads to more overwhelming sensations for my partner. Because really, no one wants to see the beasts living in your darkest most closets.

All of these thoughts accompanied me in my trip to Lafayette yesterday. As I approached the familiar roads of the city I grew up in, the truth came to me. I am so much better when I’m alone. These relationships take so much work. I have someone who expects me home in the evenings. Someone who expects me to do the laundry and feed the dogs. Likes when I shave my legs.

In my moments of self reflection and wonder, I begin to debate my effectiveness as a partner. I begin to second guess myself. It’s almost as if I am just around the corner from discovering the actual truth of my life. Believing for so many years, one thing. Just to discover a pure vision of my role in the world. A role where I am none of the things I believe myself to be.

Not a healer.
Not a mother.
Not a friend.
Not a partner.

Not anything I would say I desired to be at some point in my existence. Maybe that the truth of it all is, I’m a an overwhelming vacuous hole of vapid insecurity. A pulsing excuse of a woman wrapped up in too much flesh and desire.

An overwhelming void, better off alone.

Better alone