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spirit of waiting
When you are with someone that loves you they always approach love making with a certain tenderness. Even a rough fucking has a certain care, a knowledge of your preferences. These thoughts ran through her head as she drank weak peppermint tea, her throat raw. The man she had gone home with last night had seemed so sweet, but once in his bed he had raped her throat with impersonal passion. She had been wanting so desperately to sleep with someone, but now that it had happened she felt only repulsion and dissapointment. She wished for absolute control with men.
She wondered why she needed to be with men at all and why, although she promised herself every time that things would change, she always let them dominate her. Was her only choice to give up men completely? She was tired of submitting, tired of feeling powerless. She needed to find someone who didn't intimidate her, someone soft and vulnerable with whom she could practice being in control without struggling for power. She wasn't sure she could ever be attracted to such a person, but she knew it was the only way to free herself. So she started searching, online.
She had always thought online dating seemed pathetic, but now it seemed the best way to deliberately choose someone she could overpower. She looked for men she would usually avoid, ads featuring "hopeless romantics-, men who like "long walks at sunset-, people who were "tired of dating and ready to find that special someone-. She needed someone broken, someone who not only wanted, but needed her. She narrowed her search by getting rid of the ones she didn't find physically attractive. She sent out thirty two emails, got twenty four responses, and in a week of chatting online chose one.
He was very quiet. He liked to watch the Sopranos, but never talked about it. He made soups, which he would stir for hours, tasting and seasoning. He rarely even looked her in the eyes, and being around him filled her with power. She became almost comically dominant. She tied him up, held him down, and made him beg to touch her. Sometimes she would fuck him with a strap-on, sometimes that would be the only sexual contact she would allow. She felt completely different. She was comfortable and safe in her mastery. Unfortunately, outside the relationship, nothing had changed.
Other men still frightened and dominated her, and worse she still desired them. Her new relationship had exposed a fresh desire without lessening her existing compliance. And somehow this new affair held none of the moral restriction she usual felt. Her puissance left her free from guilt or obligation and she knew that she was still susceptible to the powers of other men. The only reassurance she had was that because of her current lover she knew she would never truly belong to anyone else, so at least their control would be only temporary. She was awed, repulsed, constantly hungry.
Nothing had happened yet. She was still faithful, but she was filled with longing, and this repulsed her. She didn't want to be dominated; she wanted to overcome her desire. She returned to the internet. She found a submissive, this one a real BDSM freak. He liked to clean her toilet and to wear a hood while she fucked him. Nothing she could ask of him was too much, and she had to command him to even look into her eyes. She did not tell her submissive about her other him, and she did not tell him about her submissive.
Trying to balance two relationships made her feel even less in control. She worried constantly that anyone would find out. She told no one, not a single friend, not an anonymous stranger on the Internet. She felt alone, and hidden. She felt as if she had been stuffed inside another person. Of course she new this was an almost idealistic viewpoint. She had become someone she hated, and yet the deception thrilled her. She found it fascinating to observe how distinctly different she could be. She was one person with her boyfriend, another with her submissive, another with other men.
And then she lost control. Her life was a series of lies and contradictions and no one knew her. She wasn't sure what anyone truly thought of her. She felt isolated, translucent, and small. She wanted to be taken in, comforted, coddled, and understood. She wanted simplicity and acceptance. She wanted to be what she had been struggling so hard to unbecome. SHe didn't know what to do with the life she had created. She was deflated. She went to her boyfriend and asked him to hold her. WHen he did she found even his slight strength an overwhelming comfort.
To fulfill her need to be dominated she started waitressing a few nights a week at an up-scale cocktail bar. She loved the attention she received from strong assertive men. She liked bringing them their drinks balanced on a tray. She liked thanking them for their tips. She liked the way they talked to her; some of them treated her like a child, others a purely sexual being. They were all a little condescending and a little tender. She was so busy she lost all sense of remorse and feelings of isolation in the constant pulse of her life.
She loved her job. She let everything else melt out of her life like the ice cubes in the cocktails she served. She gave up her boyfriend and her submissive. She worked as many hours as she could. She bought tight skirts, low cut tops, dangly silver earrings. She flirted constantly, developed regulars. She brushed her breasts up against arms as she took orders. She bent over provocatively as she set down drinks. She let wandering hands linger on her thighs, waist, hips. She teased and flirted. She became addicted to the constant arousal; she went home every night alone.
She had found a new form of control, the power of the act of submission. She enjoyed the freedom that she allowed the men in the bar, leaving each to his own limitations. She was generally surprised by how innocent their aggressions were. She submitted to whatever they desired, and their desires never hurt or overwhelmed her. This was only at work however, and as pliant and accommodating as she was, it ended the moment she walked out the door. When she was alone the men from the bar filled her fantasies, but she never brought any of them home.
As she spent increasing amounts of time at the bar she began to develop relationships with the other waitresses and bartenders. They were all women, and most of them had few friends outside of work. They often stayed after closing and counted their tips, made themselves cocktails and talked about their evening. She found that most of them were sexually inhibited in some way. Some where married to men that repulsed them, some where lesbians who hated lesbians, one went home with a new man every week but could never have an orgasm. The bar was their fantasy and escape.
Unfortunately, as she grew more settled into her work a restlessness began to pulse inside her. She loved the power of the constant, teasing, passive-aggressive domination, but ultimately it left her almost as hungry as the men she was taunting. She began to yearn once again for absolute control. She new she couldn't maintain any sort of romantic relationship; she had grown partial to keeping her sexual desires professional, her personal life blank. She expressed these thoughts to some of the other waitresses one night and discovered that one of them was a dominatrix. She too became a professional mistress.
She was now working approximately 80 hours a week. She divided her time equally between submitting to casual violation and aggressively dominating. There was nothing else. She didn't watch TV, she didn't talk on the phone, she didn't even make her own coffee in the morning. She ate, she slept, and she worked. Her life felt surreal, and therefore magical. It was filled with sexual innuendo, but devoid of any actual sex. She felt pure and lustful. She felt lost and fulfilled. If she thought of the future she went catatonic with panic, but each individual day was dreamlike perfection.
Sometimes she missed small things. She missed sleeping in. She missed eating strong stinky foods like curry. She missed sitting in the park. She missed kissing. She was tired a lot and sometimes she thought of cutting back her hours, but then she would remember how empty and restless she used to feel. Now her life was always filled with something. She received so much attention that she sometimes felt like a celebrity. She was a muse, a fantasy, an erotic ideal. She loved feeling so desired, and yet so free. She knew that any variation would lead to discontent.
Like everything, the excitement of her life soon gave way to routine. She was no longer tired and no longer intoxicated. She began to dream of something new. She wanted a friend. She wanted someone to talk to, someone who would understand her need for her bizarre life, someone to share another perspective. (She was so lost in her work she had forgotten how other people lived.) And, although she hated to acknowledge the desire, she wanted someone to have sex with. She wanted someone who wouldn't be threatened by her work, and who wouldn't judge her, maybe a woman.
She began to have very strange dreams. In her dreams she was a man. She would be a submissive at the club she worked at. A beautiful woman would bind her to a rack and whip her. The woman would call her weak, and pathetic, and fill her with pain and shame, and then she would look down and see that she had an erection. The dream woman would see it too; she would point and laugh. Then it would fall to the ground with a soft thud and the woman would stomp it to pulp with her black heels.
She had the unsettling dreams almost every night. They bothered her because she always had a sense of relief and satisfaction as she watched her penis get crushed to pulp. She found this very disturbing. She started going to a lesbian bar on her night off. She wanted to get laid, and was unsure of how she could relate to a man in real life. She needed someone completely disconnected. She liked watching the lesbians, wondering what their lives were like, what they did in bed, and if any of them found her attractive, but she couldn't talk to them.
She couldn't decide if she hated men or was jealous of them. She thought being with a woman might give her distance. She wanted to think about men objectively. Lately they seemed like caricatures to her, one sided, predictable. She wanted to eliminate her sexual desire for them in hopes of a more lucid perception. She just didn't want a woman; they had no mystery. They were too beautiful, or too much like her, or they were bad imitations of men. She didn't desire them. She kept going to the lesbian bar hoping to find someone. And she finally did.
She met a woman that wasn't. She was so excited to be attracted to a girl, and then he didn't want to be one. He was passionate and witty and completely accepting of her work, but she was never allowed to touch hem. She had to ignore hes body, hes wispy hands and small waist. She could never use words like pretty or lovely to describe hem. She was finally attracted to a woman, but that woman saw herself as a man. He was always in control. He fucked her and loved her, and made her feel small and safe.
She realized that he wasn't what she had been looking for, and she knew that she was allowing hem control she would never allow a man, but it was easier to accept. She was attracted to hes masculine character, and hes genitals allowed her to feel less repressed by his dominance. She liked having someone again, and she enjoyed hes mystery. He was so aroused by her pleasure, and yet hes desires were obscure, elusive. Sexuality had taken over every moment of her consciousness and she was fulfilled...but she couldn't talk to hem the way she wanted; she was lonely.
She decided to spend more time with hem, to try to develop their relationship. She told both jobs she wanted fewer hours. She ended up with shorter days, and Sundays off. She told hem, and he agreed to spend every Sunday with her. They had brunch, went to the park, and saw movies. They spent whole days in bed with pruney fingers. Still, she felt a specific isolation. He never criticized her work, but he never wanted to talk about it. He told her very little about his life when they weren't together. He liked them both to have mystery.
She hated hes secrecy. She wanted to know everything. She had lost control again. Her work didn't satisify her anymore, so she began seeing her clients outside of work; if he wanted secrets she would make some. She went home with someone from the bar. They didn't fuck, but she striped for him, and let him cum on her face. She also went home with one of the clients from the club. She let him suck her toes, and cum in her shoes. She told herself she wasn't doing anything wrong, but she was delighted in having something to hide.
She wondered if he had secrets like hers. When he touched her and kissed her she felt that she was the only one, but when he was gone...the only thing that helped when he was gone were her clandestine affairs. Still, she tried to hold something back from these moments of faithlessness. She wanted to belong to him, to have something sacred between them. She needed someone to know everything and to understand, so she wrote it all down; wrote it out as letters to an imaginary friend and posted it on the Internet so no one could find it.
She wrote every day, sometimes only a few words, once over five pages. She didn't try to write prettily or even well; she didn't try to philosophize or analyze. She wrote what she was doing and how she felt about it. She posted it under a fake name, but on a major website with thousands of other blogs, and she let anyone read it. At first she had only a few readers, but after a month over five hundred people a day read it. Some of them left her comments or questions, and she began to read their entries too.
There was a girl who commented almost every day. She would mock other people's comments and joke about her entries. " You must be proud of your life, if you weren't you wouldn't share it."The girl said. She read the girl's blog. She had three boyfriends and wrote about how she kept them apart and made each of them feel special. It was really funny, but also pathetic. She loved all of her boyfriends, but none of them could meet her needs or fulfill her desires individually. Sometimes she felt bad about the way she lived, but not often.
The girl asked her to go out for a drink; she was so excited. There wasn't a single moment of awkwardness between them. Every moment they were together one of them was talking. Each of them felt that the other understood them in a unique way. They shared everything with each other, every detail and emotion. It was wonderful to have someone to confess to, and it actually reduced her need for a secret life. At last she had a relationship that satisfied her yet was completely asexual. She loved having a woman in her life again. She felt lighter.
Then, just as quickly as she had started to feel better, everything seemed to get worse. Her lover began disappearing for days, sometimes weeks, at a time, not so much as returning a phone call, then showing up and wanting everything to be okay again. Her friend had met someone new and dumped her other boyfriends; she wanted to move away with him. She was distracted at her jobs, and her tips declined, some of her submissives left her. She felt suddenly abandoned, and she couldn't figure out what had happened. She felt she had lost her allure, her power.
She'd had so many experiences; everything seemed to have lost its luster. She ended her relationship, quit both her jobs. She stayed at home, and there were days she didn't even brush her teeth. She had spent so much time in pursuit of a new sexuality, and she felt only tired and empty. She had tried everything, and it had led her to loneliness. Certainly there were people whom she could still choose to be with; many of her old clients would love to fuck her (some even date her). But it didn't matter. Everyone seemed to obvious, lacking mystique.
One morning she woke up to a syrupy fog of rain. It was her day off, but she got up, put on some flip-flops and went out. It was warm out, but after a few minutes she began to feel chilled from the wetness; she kept walking. She walked forty-seven blocks to the club she used to work at. When she walked in a male dominant she knew only by name took her in and strapped her to a rack. He whipped her and she cried. She sobbed and moaned, and then soaked with rain and tears, she smiled.
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