that too clearly. It would kill him. I know because it's
nearly killing me. It's a horrible thing to admit even just to myself. It gnaws at my bones.
But I crave, I do, and I can't yet seem to shut it down; it's like plunging around a dark basement, pawing the walls desperately
for the light switch and finding nothing but clammy bricks and cobwebs. And it's not just about D. Oh, maybe it is. It's so
hard to know. Because, yes, I dream of being welcomed back into his bed, of reconciliation, but that's becoming too painful
to dream upon. And when it hurts that much, it's time for a little cure-the-headache-by-slamming-the-fingers-in-the-cutlery-drawer
treatment.
Lots of people like indulging in a bit of light submission. It's not necessarily such a big deal. I was always interested,
in an academic sort of way. It just always felt so... well, goofy, in practice. In Eric's and my little experiments. I figured
it was one of those desires that works out better in the mind's eye. And then D came along.
"Come home with me."
I remember the first time, when I knew it was certain. We were standing in front of a deli at the corner of 12th and University
Place, on a November afternoon in 2004. We'd had our friendly lunch, which had grown into something else. But this was where
we should have parted ways; I'd already been away from home too long.
"I'll come tomorrow. I will. But I can't today. I have to walk the dog." I tried weakly to pull out of his arms, but his hands
remained firmly clasped behind the small of my back.
"You'll change your mind if you don't come now. Come now."
I was flushed and breathless, ready. D may have protested that time was of the essence, that I was a grown woman who needed
persuading, who was capable of changing her mind, but in truth he'd known, from the moment he kissed me there on that corner
while we waited for the Walk sign, that he would get me back to his Murray Hill apartment for the first time that day, and
with a minimum of fuss. He didn't even bother to conceal the shine of certainty in his eyes.
All my young life, when push had come to shove, I'd been the one to pick what or whom I wanted, and to make sure I got it.
Steamroller Julie. It's how I got my husband, how I got my new career. But now I was being the one wanted, taken, had. I was
helpless against that assurance. Liked the helplessness.
"Okay. But I have to get back soon. One hour. That's all."
"Perfect. Come on."
He's like that, seems to suffer no trace of uncertainty, nary a moral twinge. For the two months before Eric found out about
the affair, D felt no compunction about anything. He readily attended dinner parties to which I readily invited him, readily
exchanged footsies and covert glances, readily even spent the night on the couch so he could have a wee-hours make-out session
and then breakfast with us the next morning, comfortably digging into his eggs Benedict at a booth with his lover and her
unknowing husband. (His
lover!
How I relished rolling the word around in my mind, writing it in a covert e-mail or text--though always with ironic quotation
marks--even tasting it on my tongue, though I would never speak it above a whisper, and then only to myself.)
"Come on. Come to me."
"I'm on my way."
I was finally doing something I ought to have felt ashamed of, and for the first time in a long time, no obscure guilt squeezed
my heart at all. I was giddy. Wanton. I had a
lover
.
"At last you came." D answered the door naked.
"As soon as I could."
He slammed me up against the wall, screwed me in the foyer before he managed to get my clothes off. Carried me--me, a big girl,
not light and lithe--past his roommates' closed doors (I chose to believe they weren't home)--to his bedroom. Threw me onto
the bed, knelt to unzip my black high-heeled boots. Raised his eyebrows in an expression both ironic and genuinely, excitingly
lustful. "Rowr..."
"Oh, please. I'm wearing stupid
nearly killing me. It's a horrible thing to admit even just to myself. It gnaws at my bones.
But I crave, I do, and I can't yet seem to shut it down; it's like plunging around a dark basement, pawing the walls desperately
for the light switch and finding nothing but clammy bricks and cobwebs. And it's not just about D. Oh, maybe it is. It's so
hard to know. Because, yes, I dream of being welcomed back into his bed, of reconciliation, but that's becoming too painful
to dream upon. And when it hurts that much, it's time for a little cure-the-headache-by-slamming-the-fingers-in-the-cutlery-drawer
treatment.
Lots of people like indulging in a bit of light submission. It's not necessarily such a big deal. I was always interested,
in an academic sort of way. It just always felt so... well, goofy, in practice. In Eric's and my little experiments. I figured
it was one of those desires that works out better in the mind's eye. And then D came along.
"Come home with me."
I remember the first time, when I knew it was certain. We were standing in front of a deli at the corner of 12th and University
Place, on a November afternoon in 2004. We'd had our friendly lunch, which had grown into something else. But this was where
we should have parted ways; I'd already been away from home too long.
"I'll come tomorrow. I will. But I can't today. I have to walk the dog." I tried weakly to pull out of his arms, but his hands
remained firmly clasped behind the small of my back.
"You'll change your mind if you don't come now. Come now."
I was flushed and breathless, ready. D may have protested that time was of the essence, that I was a grown woman who needed
persuading, who was capable of changing her mind, but in truth he'd known, from the moment he kissed me there on that corner
while we waited for the Walk sign, that he would get me back to his Murray Hill apartment for the first time that day, and
with a minimum of fuss. He didn't even bother to conceal the shine of certainty in his eyes.
All my young life, when push had come to shove, I'd been the one to pick what or whom I wanted, and to make sure I got it.
Steamroller Julie. It's how I got my husband, how I got my new career. But now I was being the one wanted, taken, had. I was
helpless against that assurance. Liked the helplessness.
"Okay. But I have to get back soon. One hour. That's all."
"Perfect. Come on."
He's like that, seems to suffer no trace of uncertainty, nary a moral twinge. For the two months before Eric found out about
the affair, D felt no compunction about anything. He readily attended dinner parties to which I readily invited him, readily
exchanged footsies and covert glances, readily even spent the night on the couch so he could have a wee-hours make-out session
and then breakfast with us the next morning, comfortably digging into his eggs Benedict at a booth with his lover and her
unknowing husband. (His
lover!
How I relished rolling the word around in my mind, writing it in a covert e-mail or text--though always with ironic quotation
marks--even tasting it on my tongue, though I would never speak it above a whisper, and then only to myself.)
"Come on. Come to me."
"I'm on my way."
I was finally doing something I ought to have felt ashamed of, and for the first time in a long time, no obscure guilt squeezed
my heart at all. I was giddy. Wanton. I had a
lover
.
"At last you came." D answered the door naked.
"As soon as I could."
He slammed me up against the wall, screwed me in the foyer before he managed to get my clothes off. Carried me--me, a big girl,
not light and lithe--past his roommates' closed doors (I chose to believe they weren't home)--to his bedroom. Threw me onto
the bed, knelt to unzip my black high-heeled boots. Raised his eyebrows in an expression both ironic and genuinely, excitingly
lustful. "Rowr..."
"Oh, please. I'm wearing stupid
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