I need to be in control. Or at least to perceive that I am.
I cannot waver; cannot let myself feel it slipping. I only feel safe giving up my control when I know that I am passing it to someone I can trust. (I can give my control to you, for a time. But I cannot drop it otherwise.)
Still, how is it that I have fooled myself into thinking I have retained control, when all around me events are spiraling? It’s not so much that it’s slipped from my grasp, rather than it’s too large, too slick and slippery and fast for me to hold on to. I can see, finally, that I don’t have control and never did, and that I’ve just been pretending all along.
I need to be touched.
I always liked being touched – a hug, a hand in mine, the press of cheek against cheek. I grew up adoring the closeness and intimacy and warmth of another person close to me.
But right now I crave it. It’s not enough to barely brush fingers, or bump bellies briefly in an embrace. I need full-length clothing-free skin-to-skin touch. Stretched out not-talking pressing from shoulder through torso down to genitals and thighs and knees and feet. I need the reassurance presence of beloved skin connecting with my own.
Usually I am proud of my marks. I take delight in the ache and purple of bruises; in the lines left by claws; in the dents left by teeth or leather or pain.
Usually I love my marks. They remind me of how they were received, and of the love intermingled with the hurt which created them. They also give me a solid connection to my submission.
I don’t submit easily. Ninety-nine percent of my life I am in control, the one others turn to, the one making decisions. Every day I run my own life and deal with my own problems and help friends with theirs. I have interdependent adoration and support with Apollo. I have loving friendship and support from my brother and my friends. But I still have to keep the control.