WordPress tells me that yesterday (8/16) is the five-year anniversary of my blog. It’s only actively been in this incarnation since around… January of 2012, but I have been writing here since 2009. WordPress is also telling me that I’m nearing my 500th post on this blog (that includes private posts). I’m thinking of some way to mark the passing of the blogiversary and the 500 posts, but I’m not sure how yet? This is part of my rather intense need to mark every milestone in some way–I can’t let birthdays, anniversaries, holidays pass without some fanfare. Being my friend or lover is dangerous business around your birthday! Ask Sir. =P
In the spirit of milestones and fanfare, I’d like to clear up some misconceptions that, after some careful thought, I think I am responsible for.
I’ve been very happy lately. You might have noticed the lack of low, sad, depressed, posts, the disappearance of self-doubt and the questioning of my relationship with Sir. Or you may not have noticed? Who knows. The point is: I’ve noticed. I’ve been happy. Very happy. For some months now. I feel like I might jinx it by talking about it, but a larger part of me thinks I won’t. The happiness comes from an inner sort of peace (how cliche) that I’ve gained… an understanding of self, of my relationship with Sir, a contentment with the world around me and the space that I exist in, an acceptance of things for how they are, and absorbing the truth that Sir has been giving me for so long, that I’ve been absolutely unable to accept–not because some failing on his part, but because I find it hard to find myself worthy of things like love, care, consideration, deep and abiding friendship.
In the beginning of this incarnation of my blog, I had known Sir for over a decade and we’d been dancing around whatever our relationship was for almost as long. I was in the middle of a terrible relationship, I was reeling from guilt at something I had done to Sir— I was careening down a bad track at full speed, and I was more depressed than I had been in years. After tooling around for so long, it may not seem like it makes much of a difference, but Sir presented me with a collar and a question, and it changed everything in my mind. It made things feel more… real. It made me feel… different. It sent us on the path of discovery that we’ve been walking down for almost three years now. Who knew there was still something to discover about yourself and about your sex partner after a decade? Who knew there was still… a lot to discover?
But because I was feeling so differently, because I was experiencing such change in the middle of devastating depression, because I was in the middle of what can only be described as a toxic relationship with my ex-boyfriend, the target of my doubt and uncertainty became my relationship with Sir, the only thing that was even pseudo stable at that point… steady and steadfast and dependable and there, and I could not be sure of it. If you’ve been reading me for a long time, or if you’ve gone back through the archives, or even to the beginning of this year, you know the ways in which I’ve torn myself apart and the ways in which I’ve aimed my pain at Sir, the accusatory and paranoid thoughts and feelings, the ways in which I wanted him to confess to not caring about me, not wanting me, not needing me; the ways I wanted him to tell me (in a fit of self-destruction) that I wasn’t enough: physically, emotionally, mentally, that all I am good for is to give him an orgasm, and sometimes not even that. The devastating ways in which I would find myself stymied in the middle of a scene, in the middle of sex, sobbing, self-conscious, and unable to go on. The ways in which I would tear myself apart inside, telling myself that I was only good for sex and I couldn’t even do that right.
Through it all, Sir has been the rock that has kept me in place during the high winds. Sir has been beyond patient. He reassures me over and over and over again, without thought, without annoyance, without raising his voice: you are beautiful, you are special, you are treasured, you are cared for, you are adored, wanted, needed, loved. I have whined about the ticking clock that hangs above my head, but as he said to me the other day: if/when our relationship changes… there are things that will not change, even then, he will want me and care about me, even then I will be treasured and special. He is my best friend, he is the best friend I’ve ever had, as I’ve stated so much, and that is, always has been, and will always be enough.
I receive the question all the time, and recently, quite a bit: What About Love (cue Ann Wilson)? One woman went so far as to say to me: you give women who read you low expectations, they should not hang after a man who can only give them sex, and you romanticize it.
Here’s what I have to say, and this will be the last time I say it in such a capacity: What is missing between Sir and I is nothing more than a traditional title, a tagline that society wants to lay on men and women who have sex so it’s cleaner, so it fits into the lines better. There are reasons why I don’t call him my boyfriend or my husband, good reasons, reasons that are our business. Sir is my best friend, but he’s also my Dominant, my Top, my Daddy, my Darlink, my Lover. These are the titles that matter to me. Outside of my chosen family, Sir is my single favorite person in the world. If you think for one moment there isn’t love between us because we don’t say it in the middle of sex, because we dance around the actual ‘L’ word, because I don’t call him my boyfriend? You’ve got a narrow view of what love is.
What it is between us satisfies me on more than the physical level. Sir makes sure I always know how important I am to him, but maybe I’ve erred in that way. Sir is important and he is special, and my absolute favorite. He is my confidante in all things. He is the person I can bullshit with about anything. I can tell him all the boring details of my work, we can discuss art and philosophy, I can share all my darkest secrets, and my most depraved thoughts, and we can make cat noises at four am at each other because we’re both so tired we can’t even function. I’m completely comfortable around him… even when he’s doing his level best to make me uncomfortable, and I trust him more than I can say.
I hope this has cleared up any confusion I might’ve caused in my awkward and sad beginnings, on my journey to understanding myself, my needs, my best friend, and my partner in crime.
PS. To break the tension, can I just say I’ve had some really new, really fucked up fantasies lately (ones that I doubt I could share, even here)? Sir said the truest thing he’s ever said to me the other day: “we’re all sorts of fucked up and getting worse. Just you wait, soon enough the only thing that’ll do it for us is juggling little people doing lines of coke from the naked skin of writhing, squirming sex fiends locked in the heated and passionate act of elbow-on-knee tribbing.”
He’s probably right, and it made me laugh out loud before I went back to waxing about my newest obsession to him. Partner in crime, indeed.