Somewhere around February, our kink took a dive. Why? Maybe it was related to my getting my audio drama back online, and preparing to launch that ten-years-in-development project. Maybe it was his taking more hours at work. Maybe it was our nigh constant traveling throughout the month. Or maybe … it was something unexpressed, that had been growing for awhile. Maybe it took watching a powerfully obviously femdom Japanese film called Moonlight Whispers; though it was released a decade ago, it’s shockingly current. And in the end, the real take-home message seemed to be ‘kink always wins’. (To better understand that phrase and its full meaning, pick up the film. You won’t be disappointed.)

What did I realise? Something I had already known, and said a few times before, but eventually somewhat dropped and allowed to fade into the background — because it’s too complicated, or otherwise painful(?) to confront head-on:

I don’t like fake control.

This is dicey for me, being from a real femdom household. Not a ridiculous ‘stable of boys’ from wank material, but a real, non-kinky, non-consensual femdom relationship between a man and a woman, where the woman had all the power, and — for some reason I’ll never understand — the man let her; and even seemed happy for the arrangement. I had the opportunity myself, back during my first engagement, to a man that was younger than me back in college. When I think of just how much I ran his life, how in control of everything I was, it doesn’t shock me that he couldn’t take it and ended the relationship. When such a relationship isn’t negotiated — but rather simply develops — it can become dangerous to its participants. The one in control may not want to be, while the one who has given it all may not really understand what they’ve gotten themselves into. And such is the case of my mother and father; who after all these years, still operate like clockwork: with him making all of the money from his own business, and she spending as she pleases, and doing as she does. I was twelve years old before he finally decided that being a cuckold wasn’t so grand, and that was the only reason why that stopped.

Why? Because underneath it all, he had the power. I would watch my mother honestly think that she was in control, knowing that all my father had to do was take it back, and her fantasy was over. But he never did. Something, in fact, seemed to prevent him from doing so. And to this day, I cannot fathom why. He’s not a pansy; not a pushover. The man has brass balls in his desk so that he can literally bring them out and say, ‘These are the smaller set, so if you don’t wanna see the bigger one, don’t fuck with me.’ (People get the message, and yes, he has done this.) And yet, when it comes to my mother … ‘Yes, honey. Of course, honey. How do you want that? They didn’t have them at this store, so I had to drive across town — three different directions — before I found them, but I did!’ And, knowing the praise he would receive solely for making her happy and avoiding her disappointment, he would be genuinely happy.

If that ain’t fucking femdom, people, then kindly tell me, what is.

Of course, that was sort of a false statement, since, to me, it really isn’t femdom. It’s fantasy femdom. It’s what all these subby horny dicks think femdom is — or what it’s become. This whiny bitch princess-type that does jack shit while expecting her ‘slave’ to handle all of the difficult stuff, (see: life) for her as she lounges about doing nothing.

Jesus. Fucking shoot me now.

I couldn’t stand such a ‘cush’ life. In fact, I focus on the things I do, to develop what I have, do that I may hopefully, one day, be the sort of success I’ve always dreamed of being. I have no idea what kind of wedding to have, because I never daydreamed about my wedding day; never planned everything down to the tiniest detail. I think, somewhere in the back of my brain, I just assumed it would happen along the way while I was on my road to success. Like the Game of Life. Eventually, I’d end up stopping on the ‘Get Married’ square. It certainly wasn’t something I geared my life toward being, though the whole companionship thing has turned out to be pretty awesome. And I admit that I’ve grown rather attached to it at this stage of the game.

I don’t really know my mother’s dreams, because they always seemed to be lofty things that would send her into fits of disappearing into the master bath and listening to ‘Everybody Hurts’ for a few hours and crying when she thought I wasn’t listening. When she emerged, there was never any mention of what saddened her so deeply, and life would move on. When I’d inquire periodically much later, I’d get a list of the things she’d decided not to do or be — and, she thought, for good reason. Like going into the FBI and being a Special Agent. (Of which she informed me when I was 12 and decided I wanted to be a criminal profiler; that was a hard dream to let go. There are days I still have my own little ‘Everybody Hurts’ pity parties in my head about that one.) And she would never be an actress because ‘everyone in Hollywood is crazy, and I’d hate to be famous.’ (Instead, we guess, that she chose to be a drama queen on our own private stage.) She might’ve been a pianist, except something got in the way of that … or she feared she couldn’t be good enough to be a professional and compete on a wider scale, (though she’d already won numerous competitions at the national level). She was even asked by the protege of the woman responsible for instituting an entirely new form of education in the U.S. from Italy known as ‘Montessori’ (maybe you’ve heard of it?) to open up a school with her. But she ‘chose to focus on me instead’. She was a psychological counselor for a few years prior to my being born, and continued with it, working out of our home, until I was about 7 or 8. Then she quit.

Looking back, my mother and I had some of the same dreams, and some different ones. But by the time she was 24, she was married. And by the time she had me, I hope to have a career. I used to feel like I was the reason she never pursued her dreams, but the sad reality is … I’ll never know why she chose to put all of her energy into dominating her husband, and then creating the sort of household that would have me doing her bidding. I know my father’s dreams, for the most part, and he achieved the practical ones: recording a hit song (check), building and running own business (check), maintaining rock band well into sixties (check). In fact, as the years go by, he continues to make progress toward his goals and dreams. My mother … finds more opportunities to listen to REM.

The reality of femdom isn’t pretty, but it’s all I really know. It’s not so much a sexual turn-on for me as it is ‘this is how life goes … this is the way it’s supposed to be.’ I knew pretty much as soon as the time I began dating that I didn’t want some spineless idiot I could dominate with my more colourful, intimidating, forward personality. And I spent plenty of years knowing a number of people who would try to tell me I’d never find anybody being the way that I was. For the most part, I didn’t give a shit. But, eventually, I thought that having someone in my life — a real companion — might be something I would enjoy. My mother obviously gave me plenty of real-femdom dating advice that led to all sorts of unsatisfying relationships. It became pretty evident to me in high school that if the guy I was dating didn’t want to massage both mine and my mother’s feet in the living room than he was ‘clearly not deserving of me.’ I mean, what the fuck. Seriously? Nobody behaves that way out here in the real world. In essence, while she might’ve not realised it, not being openly kinky, (although I do suspect a bit from her younger years … ) she was looking for a good ‘slave boy’ for her daughter. After all, I gave her all of my time, energy, and attention. The exact same was expected of any man that I dated, who would be given the honour of spending time in her home.

Needless to say, I lost many boyfriends due to my mother’s basically running them off; her always saying the same thing; ‘he isn’t a real man if he can’t stand up to me.’ Funny thing is, so I would learn almost 15 years later, she was absolutely right. I needed someone more like my father — minus the whole broken-spirit part. A man who didn’t take bullshit in general, and wouldn’t take mine nor my mother’s. Of course, she had no idea what she was getting herself into when she made that declaration, and so many years later, I would bring home Mister P — who proved, in more ways than one, but definitely by her definition, — he was indeed, a real man.

So. What is someone like myself, having grown up in a real femdom household, and a suppressed dominant for so much of her life, now in an actual femdom / female-led relationship supposed to do with so much conflicting information? When I need, and crave, and — on some level — expect to be silently understood — the very thing which is wrong, damaging, and in some ways — not even sane? Which I try so hard to avoid — but end up drawn to with such certainty, it feels as if someone’s turned my world upside down if it’s denied me?

In short — consensual femdom. The way it’s supposed to be. Safe, and sane. I don’t think I even know how to do that, honestly. A part of me seems to need the uber-willing, unconditionally submissive man who wouldn’t dare question my methods, needs or even timing, while the rest of me (I can only imagine the sane, normal part of me) understands that to want that is to want what my mother did to my father — which is the antithesis of what I need, and I’ve done well to somehow avoid, given my upbringing. Being reminded that it’s a privilege that I’ve been given — that it’s something that isn’t really mine, control I don’t actually have, and power I don’t fully wield — just seems to always kill it for me. And trust me, I know, until I have the ability to be making the kind of money I once did, and can honestly say to myself, ‘I can fully sustain myself without assistance from anyone or anything,’ again, then I can’t even hope to have a real power dynamic — where I actually hold the power.

And I hate that, more than you could ever hope to imagine.

I don’t like that I have to depend on others. I don’t like the fact that he’s the one making the money right now, and in our society, money = power (for some fucking reason I don’t want to get into here). Unlike my mother, who, (I guess) actually enjoys having people do everything she wants them to and be completely under her control even though the whole thing is a fucking illusion — I can’t stand it.

So, the long and short of it is … I don’t know how to be satisfied with fake femdom. Maybe you guys can launch into this fantasy in the bedroom that never bleeds over into the rest of your lives and be happy as little clams — but I can’t. I always feel like I’m fooling myself, and there’s always something that can steal my interest away from scening. Maybe because it doesn’t seem to give to me what I want consistently — and only in small doses. I can get very disappointed if I don’t send him so deeply into sub-space that he’s sort of stuck there for several minutes following. I dream of the day when he’s so genuinely feeling everything that he’s unable to fake any of it. It breaks my heart when he fake resists. If he’s going to be saying, ‘Ow, that hurts, please stop, stop it now,’ I want it to be because he’s actually in pain, and he’s really begging me to stop.

I know. It’s fucked up.

Now you see my dilemma.

What I want isn’t sane, and I’m a sane individual. A fucking therapist, for God’s sake. I can allow myself to explore controlled, consensual, fantasy sadism. But the real stuff … that‘s what has to remain the fantasy. And until I can find some sort of satisfying compromise between the two … I’m stuck here in the limbo of never having what I want, but always needing to give what I just don’t really get. I crave the synergy. Without it …

Well …

It’s this.

Man. The power it holds over us human beings is pretty phenomenal, isn’t it? While it has a greater physical impact upon men, it has an equally emotional one on the fairer sex (and, of course, some men as well). So the intensity, and the need, is quite equivalent, but expressed very differently — and with enough overlap to create the dance between the sexes we all know well. The truth is, there’s a lot of research that says we’re basically serial monogamists as a species; while some of us can certainly hack forever, we may not be expected to do so consistently.

And, yep, that means just what you think it does: when she’d rather read, and you’d like to … erm, ‘make use’ of your own ‘reading material’ — it doesn’t mean the honeymoon’s over completely and eternally — but the infatuation is. While it’s a rather sad thing to mourn, and I’m happier in general knowing that my fiance’s orgasms are under my control, these blips on the sex-dar are pretty normal — and very human.

Once you’ve come to accept that, what the hell do you do? It’s tricky, honestly, because what I’m about to tell you proves a real test for most couples, and explains a good portion of the rising divorce rate over the last 30 years. When both partners decide against ‘forcing’ the sexual chemistry back into their relationship, they tend to ‘let each other be’ — sometimes entering a no-sex spiral that lasts for months. Or years. What began, ‘Not tonight, honey. I really want / need / have to X, Y, or Z,’ became a lower expectation of sexual interest, which then became a decreased need, and the forming of a habit and entirely different dimension of the prior sexual relationship. This is typically how, and why, couples that were once engaging in a healthy, active sexual relationship have managed to dry up and go celibate for years.

So, what the fuck happened? A number of things. Habits are tough to break, and a respite does not equal a permanent sexual lull. There are a lot of dependent factors, but also some ways to avoid the major pitfalls — if you know what to look for and have genuine compatibility.

Hmm. Speaking of lulls and genuine compatibility, my fiance’s getting home soon. While I feel this is no doubt a very important post to be making, I think it’ll have to wait.

Keep your eyes peeled. And in the meanwhile, ask questions. You know I love those.

This one from another guy off CollarMe, asking a pretty common question: are masochistic fantasies healthy? Especially, those in which one desires to be hurt, captured, or forced to submit? It’s a very long, individualised answer — which I rather hinted at in my brief response:

‘Great question, [name given].

Submission exists in many forms — and is as individualised as we are. The key is to understand what’s triggering the ‘submissive fantasies’. It may be a negative or abusive situation from your youth; or, conversely, you may have never experienced anything like that and be secretly curious about it. Sure, you know it’s an awful thing — to be harmed, made to suffer, and experience fear. Consciously, that is. Subconscious is a whole other ball-game, and it plays by very different rules.

Not sure how much you read from my profile, but I’m a psychosexual therapist, so this sort of speculation is my stock and trade. I’m always evaluating the presence or absence of ‘healthy’ versus ‘unhealthy’ kink — namely, that which has presented itself to you based upon negative conditioning from the past through abuse, etc. (unhealthy) from the stuff we fantasise about which comes to us from a place of curiosity about and fascination with the unknown (healthy). My favourite thing to (at least attempt) to do is transform a negatively conditioned ‘unhealthy’ kink into a positive kink experience in a safe, controlled environment. Takes work, but it’s certainly worth it.

I have a number of episodes about this very topic throughout my Podcast on iTunes, ‘Diary of a Dominatrix’. Take your pick, really, or browse the various posting through my website. It’s a hot topic; so hot, actually, that the DSM-V is actually taking such things into account regarding their ‘sexual perversions’ sections. About bloody time, too.

Hope this helps; best of luck to you.

-M Roulette Chatelaine’

What are your thoughts? Experiences? Any you’d like to share?

Think again.

So, it’s been an interesting day, to say the least. After a particularly insightful discussion with an old friend about a surprisingly common problem, Mister P and I decided to Podcast on the timeless battle of the sexes; more specifically, sexuality.

His take on it is not something with which I’ve been unfamiliar — but no less find troubling. See, he always wants a new partner. Regardless of what’s going on around him, if there’s new pussy to be had, by God, he wants it! He says all men are oriented this way due to pure biology. Now, the reasons why he doesn’t go out and fulfill those apparently natural drives and instincts is due to the consequences it would involve.

Women, on the other hand, don’t crave strange cock — most of the time. We can be satisfied with the cock we know gets the job done; especially if it happens to be attached to a dear friend of ours, and someone we have a great affection for. This doesn’t factor in with men, and quite frankly, they don’t get this about us. Meanwhile, the knowledge that they’re always imagining and desiring a new sex partner — which, quite obviously, isn’t you anymore — is hardly comforting.

I hate to say it, but it really, really does remind me of one of my favourite romantic comedies. (Not to spoil it for anyone, because it really is worth the watch, but it turns out that men and women are not so easily defined, and men are not always on the constant search for ‘new cow’ — just, watch the film to get the reference.)

So, what Mister P is telling me is that it’s true. After they’ve had us once — just once — and the thrill of the new conquest has abated, a part of them is off and running to the next. Upon just a single sexual encounter, he’s already bored of fucking you.

Charming.

Naturally, I asked him: ‘if there’s no guarantee then, that a man will not just up and fuck up and fulfill his constant need for strange one day, then wouldn’t it make sense that the only way it could be guaranteed is if his woman locks his cock up?’

He blinked for a moment, and then responded (almost hesitantly): ‘ … Yes.’

‘Interesting.’

And there you have it. The battle of the sexes rages on, and the next Podcast episode will be our latest contribution to the eternal war. We haven’t even begun it, and I can already tell you, it’s gonna be one to remember.

By the way … anyone have any suggestions for good, comfortable, solid and reliable chastity devices? I may be in the market for one very soon.

Check back for the next Podcast episode.

Oh, dear, christ. How can I ever hope to express the full extent of my conflict over this?

Because:

A) It’s largely true — and it works.

B) It shouldn’t. It really, really shouldn’t.

See, I’m rather living proof of this, since my mother’s earliest lessons involved manipulating men. I was too young to realise that it was … well, kinda wrong, and that the world didn’t really work that way. (I know. Funny coming from a domme, isn’t it?) The truth is, I don’t believe in either (or any) sex being superior to the other. Both genders have strengths and weaknesses. Really, they fit together quite neatly, once you get past the cosmic joke of all the internal conflict. And even that’s not true in every case. Quite honestly, dominant women and submissive men get on very well in tandem. So long as they both remember to respect and appreciate each other.

But … it doesn’t seal the deal.

Nope.

Sad, that in this day and age, we have to look at tying the knot as a business transaction, but really, isn’t no different from any other sales conversion. You’ve each convinced the other that you’re worth the contractual agreement, because of your fancy advertising or dollars poured into market research, so you sign on the dotted line. It’s true that men don’t marry nice girls. Nope. They marry bitches. They like nice girls. They enjoy nice girls bringing them coffee and sharing their office space. Cleaning up their desk and ensuring that the blinds are open when they come in and closed when they leave. They probably even appreciate those women who take the time and effort to make their lives a little easier, to see that they feel supported, valued, and loved.

But do they seal the deal with a nice women?

Natch.

Negatory.

The second you fall for him, and he gets under your skin, the balance of power changes. I hate to admit it, but the most fulfilling, successful portions of my relationships have been as intricate as a battle plan — where every piece of correspondence was strategic, every word carefully crafted, each response closely evaluated to see whether or not the operation was a success or failure. God, I remember triumphantly proclaiming to my mother my various escapades. How I’d played each of my potential suitors like the fiddle he appeared to be, wrapped him around my finger, twisted him up this way and that, and watched my puppet dance. Whatever I wanted, I could achieve that. Easily. (Once you’ve had to mindfuck a homicial maniac, trust me, your average male between the ages of 25 and 35 is child’s play.)

I also found myself creating my own masterpiece: a lengthy, multi-volume fictional tale of a woman (or was it really the man that was the focus?) that begun in childhood where the two met, and for the first time, she’d encountered someone as brilliant as she was — as clever, as fearless, as manipulative, as wise. And, lo, and behold …

I’d plopped down in the Great Room with my mother, at home one weekend from the university where I received my Psych BA, exhausted from the some 5K words I’d just written in a mad flurry. ‘Doesn’t it get old?’ I’d asked her, still deliciously enthralled with my creation; mildly jealous of my protagonist who would eventually get to live happily ever after with him — after a lot of hell, naturally. (I am a mystery writer, after all.) She set down her tea and stared at me, blankly for the moment. ‘Old?’ I explained myself: never meeting a man that could really keep up. Always beating him at his own game. ‘Yes, they’re wonderful for taking you places, and doing favours for you, and being there if you need … satisfaction,’ I sighed. ‘But what would it be like if you couldn’t just control him? If he was as swift as you are, confident in his own right, and … oh, I don’t know. What if you could share the power?’

She laughed. ‘Sweetheart, there’s no such thing. The woman always has the power. Always. Whether or not he knows it. And trust me, most of the time, he doesn’t have a clue. They never did.’

I was dissatisfied with her answer, sighed to myself, and dreamed of men like Dr Penderan Fauste. He satiated me for a long time, actually. I wrote some of the best things I probably ever will in that particular series. He also kept me strong and complete throughout the long years I decided to (subconsciously) really stick it to my mother and found the most terrible, arrogant (and for no good reason), spiteful, cruel, unambitious, vile creature that ever walked the earth. (In my personal experience.) And, since I was recently done with my college education, moved in with him — so that I wouldn’t burden my parents.

Trying to control him was a full-time job. Maybe a part of me even enjoyed some of it. Oh, God, how I despised him. I never felt guilty for my anger toward him, either, because he was truly abusive toward me, and almost always unprovoked. What a change he was from my ex-fiance! Here, I wanted a man that was willful, domineering, and wouldn’t be pushed around. And, holy fuck, did I get it. Even minor things like doing the dishes or ensuring that the carpets were vacuumed was ripe for major conflict. Every time we got into the car together, after the fourth — and soon to be final — year of misery, was the advent of another war. He never paid for anything, expected me to swathe him with gratitude for the mere usage of the furniture he had, and bitched and moaned whenever I didn’t want to fuck him. Which was 90% of our relationship.

It actually gave mutual friends, with whom I still acquaint myself, the idea that I was a cold fish and incapable of sexual passion with zero prowess. For awhile there, I think Mister P was under that same impression, but I never can tell for sure. Sometimes, I get the sense that he knew under my mousy and unassuming exterior was a dominant and sadistic woman secretly dreaming of letting it all go; other times, I don’t think any of it even crossed his mind. He gives me mixed reports, depending upon when I’ve asked him, or at what point we’ve reached in our relationship. So, who knows? The truth is, that relationship, despite its volatility, abuse, and overall misery was not sexless. True to being my mother’s daughter, I’d found other ways with which to satisfy myself — other men that I could entice, ensnare, and use for my own pleasure.

(I know. I’ve come a long way, haven’t I?)

To that end, I’d often-times write with them — sexy, D/s filled fantasy-oriented collaborative stories — which was, I guess, like some kind of cyber-sex to the nth degree — but minus the present arousal. That would always come later, and be saved for all posterity. One particular writer I knew adored me, and while he was so very sweet, a wonderful friend, and will always be dear to me, he never really did it for me — you know? But another one — the one I’d recruited from another collaborative story group — he was just the right mix of asshole and charmer.

Shit, I thought I was kinda in … something. It couldn’t be love, but it was an intense sort of sexually-charged affinity. The ambiguous platonic of which I’d become an expert after my teen years. I always knew which ones were secretly in love with me, and which were just friends. (Odd but true, there were much more of the former than the latter.) It was with him that I truly got to let off the steam that unbearably built up after I’d realised I was developing a crush on my coworker — Mister P. Who, for the record, could not be more indifferent to me. He was stand-offish — but helpful, abrasive — but friendly. (Yeah, talk about your mixed signals!) But really, it was more confusing because the more important actions said, ‘I care about you.’ The more minor ones — his daily manner, his behaviour — even his words, all screamed: ‘Who are you?’ or ‘You’re really annoying me.’ Hell, at the end of most days, I was just as perplexed as the character I wrote with my favourite co-writer. I’d never knew until later, however, the insights I’d draw from that very same thing.

After a thoroughly enjoyable, but altogether confusing, day at the office, I’d return home to the pity party / abuse and drama factory, put on my headphones, some of my best writing music, and go to town, losing myself in the world I’d created because, at that point, fantasy trumped reality in spades. My co-writer and I would converse outside of our work, of course, and soon, it became just as rife with mixed signals as my daily grind with Mister P. I couldn’t tell if he liked me, hated me, was secretly into me, or couldn’t care less about me. Depending upon the day, or the situation, his words conveyed a little bit of everything. His actions, like Mister P’s, were always aligned. He was prompt, respectful of my time, committed, and reliable.

Then came the day he opened up to me. It was like hell fucking froze over. (I couldn’t get Mister P to do that. Believe me, I’d tried. He walled me off — successfully — and barred me from any private thoughts or insight into his inner life. I was rejected — and dejected — at first, but I was able to channel my fury, confusion, and sadness into my writing. And, damn, to this day, it’s some of the best. Honestly felt.) Then came the truth: about how I meant something to him. He just didn’t know how to express it. And the talks about women. And the roundabout admittance of, ‘so, what if you didn’t have your boy-toy?’ (Note: this would continue even into the near-present. In his eyes, anyone in my life who is not him is clearly a ‘boy-toy’ given what he knows about my ability to manipulate the male mind and body.) Then, I was enamoured. I mean, despite my commitment to my ‘relationship’ — which I never, ever stepped out of, thank you — I do have scruples — I was really, really into him, too.

… Right?

Or was I into the character he was writing? … The character that I’d originally mapped out and created, that had quite the eerie resemblance to … Mister P.

Shit, fuck, and damn.

There really weren’t two ways around it. But which was safer? Confess to my co-worker that I really didn’t know how I felt about him, only to surely be pat on the head, told ‘how cute’ and have my entire feminine ego crushed in a single blow — at which I point, I would’ve just gotten angry and even. Or, skip the whole thing and continue this rich and fulfilling fantasy life with a guy miles and miles away who’s really attractive, but a teensy bit young for me, (listen, after being with a man 2 years your junior and enduring that train-wreck — anything beyond that feels ‘too young’ — regardless of how legal or otherwise normal it may be) which served double-duty to allow me to indirectly contemplate and evaluate the complex dynamic I had with someone else entirely. Obviously, I chose Option B.

The most gratifying sex I’d ever had in my abusive relationship were the times I’d written a particularly kinky scene with my co-writer only to be so fucking hot that I really did need to just use someone until I came. At which point, I could promptly return to writing. It was an okay — if not mind-numbing — existence. At least outside of the moments of genuine pleasure and happiness — which were precious and few, to say the least. I was discovering a real compatibility with my co-writer, which only served to complicate everything. It always got me thinking back to Mister P, since their similarities were peculiar, to put it mildly.

Of course, once I started to take the template of the characters we were writing, things … got even weirder. (They never actually experienced any of this wondrous kinky erotic fun, by the way — at least not to the point where they could remember any of it; that’s the whole point of stringing the audience — or readership — along. It also meant we got to write it over, and over, and over again. In so many ways. Which I didn’t mind!) See, if I looked at everything logically, read the internal motivations of his character, I came to see that his word were almost a complete contradiction of his actions. His character would be saying how silly and annoying my character’s behaviour was, while his thoughts ran to the … tender. Affectionate. I dare say, loving. While he never once indicated to her how he really felt — how much he cared, needed, desired, and admired her — he thought it the entire time!

Okay, big effing deal. But you’ve got to remember I’m a writer. I think in terms of character, plot — motivation. I ask myself: why does someone do what they’re doing? What’s the point? What’s their agenda? What do they hope to achieve? Seeing that he actually loved her, despite all of his statements and minor behavioural evidence to the total contrary was a kind of epiphany for me. Oh, I knew that people can mask their intentions. They do it all the time. But for some reason, when it comes to matters of the heart, I tend to think in more surface terms. Writers tend to do this, too. If they’re going to have two characters hook up, they always give you — the reader, or audience — outward, obvious indications of that happening.

Did anyone ever think for a minute that Mulder didn’t want to bone Scully from day one?

Yeah. I rest my case.

That’s because, be it the talent of Duchovny or the skill of the writers who were responsible for creating that fantastic character, we all had enough hints that they so wanted each other. And Carter (the guy shouting, ‘I made this!’ at the end of every episode — because he did) was going to make us wait. Nine bloody long seasons. And one movie, apparently. But most of us hung on. Why? Because we knew it was going to happen. There’d been enough evidence that, while maybe the character acted dumb, they were just waiting for the opportune moment — that the writers would decide they could finally do the horizontal mambo.

And, oh, how we cheered.

But life’s not like that. If there had been a convenient voice-over attached to all of my dealings with Mister P a few years ago — besides being incredibly odd, and auditory hallucinations — I might’ve had a clue that he was going the way of my dear character. At least part of the time. (Again, I’ll never know the per centage on that. Even now, it keeps changing.)

This was not a line of thinking I wanted to explore. Because he was different than the other men I’d known. I didn’t exactly know why, or what the fuck was wrong with me that I would still find myself thinking of him even after months of purposefully breaking contact. (Which led to many futile attempts to write something to fully express my inner turmoil, often accompanied by Chris Isaak’s ‘Wicked Game’ — sung by many talented cover artists.) It was best to just stick to fantasy and quit entertaining the possibility that just because that’s how it was shaping up in fiction, that that was the way it really was in reality. That world was only gonna break my heart.

The truth was, he’d tapped into something even I had forgotten in my years of trying to learn who the fuck I was, and what was really up with men and women. I’d controlled and dominated oh-so-many boyfriends. (Yawn.) I’d finally found one that was such a supreme asshole, hated me and everything I was so intensely, that he would rather die than see me be happy. (Yikes.) And, to that day, there’d only been one guy that I’d known who I couldn’t really control, who proved that I could enjoy sex, and it could be playful and suspenseful and fun, and yet, was gentlemanly, generous …

… and completely fucked, since his father had fairly recently died, and couldn’t have a real relationship at that point if his life depended on it. We’d been such good friends for years, and fuck, I fell hard. He was my first masochist, and I’ll never forget the delicious hours spent filing my nails to a razor-sharp point while listening ‘Supervixen’ before our weekend would begin.

And then he left. Broke all contact, because, well, technically, I had been taking a break from the pussy man I’d been with for the past couple of years. He was kinda committing, and kinda not, and — did I mention a total pussy? Oh, he was sweet (at least then) to be sure, but he was also putty in my hands. Been there, done that. So, so many times. When my dreamy masochist came along, and decided he wanted me all to himself, and I had to do the fucking honourable thing and decide to stay with my pussy-boyfriend because he’d been so loyal to me … Sigh. Let’s just say I sacrificed my own happiness.

It wasn’t until Mister P that I’d even thought that that sort of feeling, that kind of man, was in existence. And it was so much more than that. Somehow, he touched upon everything deeply buried in my psyche. All the archetypes of all the men I’d put to the page and longed after in my adolescence and early twenties. He was, in every literal sense, the man of my most private and dearest imaginings. My ideal version of  a man. Brilliant — insanely brilliant; genius level brilliant. Attractive — with amazing eyes. A strong build — capable, but not muscle-bound, and certainly not wiry. Able to dress well, but most of the time, just not giving a rat’s ass — but with excellent hygiene. An incredible smile. And an off-the-wall, borderline crass, on the edge of obscenely arrogant, but always crowd-pleasing sense of humour. A natural comic — complete with timing.

It was like I’d taken all of my favourite traits — from characters I’d admired, or created myself — listed them, and sent them to someone and said: ‘Here, make this.’ And there he was. And I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.

Oddly enough, I firmly maintained that belief — all the way up to the point when he first kissed me. And, to my amusement, entertained the same thoughts that my character had in that fictitious works: he was drunk, he didn’t mean it; don’t get too caught up in this. I’d never had any thing like that happen in my life. Hell, I didn’t think it was possible. The guy that you somehow can’t get out of your head, for whatever reason, does not just reappear in your life, soon as you’ve left the asshole and gotten back on your own feet. Well, not outside of the latest spec-script for a rom-com. (Fuck. I’m turning Angeleno, yes, I’m turning Angeleno — I really think so. People really talk like that. I don’t, typically, but after awhile, augh, it seeps into your head.) In fact, it’d been so long that all of my denial had congealed into a strange form of truly violent hatred. I’d always thought that, had I ever had the weird happenstance of running into him somewhere, that I’d punch him square in the jaw.

I know. Punch a guy 6’3″, who’s a brown-belt in Judo … in the jaw. When you’re 5′ 3″ — maybe 5’5″ in stilettos. I didn’t say my anger was logical, or even sane. And it certainly wouldn’t take into account logistics. Yet, I think deep down somewhere, I knew he’d never hit me back. But he probably would do a great job of blocking me — despite how quick I can be on my feet — maybe even restraining me for the moment, the portrait of calm, asking me what the fuck did I think I was doing — his blood pressure not rising a numeral.

And then what? That’s where my brain would stick — and then rewind on itself, and get back to this part about … uhh … where he would stop me, and maybe restrain me for a moment, at which point, I was going, ‘What the fuck?’ That wasn’t the way I rolled. I was in charge. I was in control. But what about those moments when I wasn’t? When I’d lost it completely because of the rage I know of which I’m capable? What then? How could it be that what, deep down, I really needed, was a man who would save me from myself? Well, and doing damage to him.

Naturally, he knew I’d never been in the submissive role before, so we started out that way. And, given the nature of how my mind had been working then, it felt … well … natural. Until it didn’t. He was right — and honest — when he proclaimed I was the world’s worst submissive. It made me so upset! I’d wanted so much to be his faithful and loyal little … whateverthefuck. And … do … uhh …

Okay, so maybe I am the world’s worst submissive. But that’s okay, because he’s not the world’s most natural dominant. Of course, if you want him to top you, he’ll gladly oblige. I think he even enjoys it in some respects. But that’s because he’s eager to please; looking to satisfy. If that actually involves picking up the crop, okay, he’s happy to serve.

Funny how that works out, isn’t it?

So, fast forward to the here and now. Argov’s article proclaims that men want confident women who know themselves and where they’re going. Well, that‘s a no shit. I’m not sure when ‘confident’ became synonymous with ‘bitch’, but, okay. We’ll just go with it. Just as women want a confident man who will give of themselves completely and fully, men want a confident woman. Awesome. But, wait — that’s not what the research (Argov claims to be sound) states.

She says that men marry bitches.

Let’s break it down. Men — which means, not pussies; marry — as in get hitched to, okay; bitches — in this case, dominant, powerful, arrogant, and self-serving women.

Huh.

I guess it’s a theory worth testing, except that it seems to go against everything I’ve done thus far. Of course, I’m almost 30, and have yet to actually wear anything on my left ring finger for longer than 6 months. And men certainly do love bitches — or, if you want to get more specific — submissive men certainly do love dominant women. Trouble that I’ve seen is that …

… they don’t love them back.

Period.

It’s sad. Pathetically, so. While a man’s with a loving, beautiful, caring and sensitive woman, he’s secretly in love with a controlling, manipulative, cunning bitch. And you know why I know this is true?

BECAUSE ARCHIE MARRIES VERONICA.

Click the link if you don’t get it. You soon will. Even comics have failed reality — or, they’re a frighteningly accurate portrait of it. What do men value the most? What do women want? If both men and women want a confident mate, then there should be a lot more dynamic, power-brokering couples out there. Except, there aren’t.

Instead, there are a lot of henpecked, cuckolded, emasculated men who are bending over backwards for their controlling, manipulative, self-entitled, luxury-loving wives. Are they great in the sack? Maybe. Perhaps, the true way to a man’s heart is his cock. Maybe once you put a ring on it, he’ll adorn your finger, too. What drives submissive men to crave, fall in love with, and be perpetually drawn to, bitchy, horrible women? Their need to be used, abused, and discarded? They’re sort of going about it correctly by trying to get it all in one place — marry a bitch and you don’t have to pay a domme.

But is that safe?

Is that sane?

Maybe it doesn’t have to be — because it’s consensual. Whatever these master manipulators did to wind up shuffling all accountability off of their shoulders and getting a free pass to controlling their subservient husbands, I’ll never know, because it’s never been a philosophy to which I’ve subscribed.

But maybe, if I ever hope to ‘seal the deal’, I’m going to have to. Or I could just continue to be a good and decent human being and hope for the best.

(Hah. Yeah, right.)

Please. Please, please, please, tell me that after all this time, Mother did not know best?