One
I have to admit that what the rest of the world deems as a
‘normal’ relationship has never appealed to me. All those late night tweets
and texts, updating the facebook relationship status and plain old goofy,
romantic gestures have never been my thing. My roommate Melanie, on the other
hand, relishes in these things and the two carat diamond on her finger is proof
positive that those things work for her and David. They just don’t work for
me. Those sorts of things actually turn my stomach.
I’ve seen the way my parents hold their breath at family
functions, as though they’re waiting for the moment when I come out of the closet
and announce that I’m a lesbian. As if I’m always on the verge of saying,
“Mom, pass the mashed potatoes please, and oh yeah… I like pussy.” They’d
probably accept that easier than the real truth. The real truth is something
Bob and Diana Crenshaw would never, ever understand.
I’m not even sure how I got to the point of wanting to be
controlled, instructed, and punished. All I can explain with great certainty
is that no man has ever given me what I need in a ‘normal’ relationship.
Eventually they’ve all shrugged their shoulders and called me names like
‘carpet muncher’ as they stormed out my door. I’ve never taken it to heart
because I know that’s their ego talking; their way of guarding against their
own inner voice that tells them they couldn’t satisfy me. I’m not heartless.
In some ways I felt sorry for them, yet I kept rifling through them as if
miraculously one would strike a chord and I could finally change my facebook
status and ease my parent’s nightmares. To date, that hasn’t happened.
When the realization first slapped me in the face I was
standing in the local ‘couples’ store –alone and incognito – reading labels on
erotically packaged dildos. I knew if I was going to face the rest of my life
as a loner then I needed more power. As I rounded the corner a large cardboard
display caught my eye: Each large box had a picture of a woman blindfolded,
tied, and bound with an excessively large red ball shoved in her mouth.
Curiosity got the better of me and I reached up and pulled my baseball cap
further down over my face and scoured my surroundings as if I was on some
covert mission. Finding my efforts to remain anonymous largely ignored by the
rest of the store, I picked up the box and studied it intently.
It doesn’t sound like much of a defining moment, but I’ve
come to the conclusion that these instances are rarely accompanied by
fireworks. The woman on the cover of the box had everything I wanted, and a
pang of jealousy shot through me. She was tied, bound and gagged; a strong masculine
hand on her bloodshot ass told me that someone had her under complete control.
I studied the picture carefully as if it contained the almighty answer to the
questions that have plagued me since puberty.
Fifty Shades Starter Kit. It contained a ball gag, five
yards of nylon rope, a battery powered ‘massager’ and instructions. This
bargain was only $99. What would I do with it? Tie myself up? How would I
hide a box of that size from Melanie? I sighed and put the box back on the
display, acutely aware that my life was lacking the one key element needed for
something like this to work: A man.
I’d gone home on a mission that afternoon and by the wee
hours of the morning I had a plan. Delving into the mysterious world of true
BDSM via the internet, I began to wonder how long the instructions in that box
back at the ‘couples’ store must have been. No wonder the box was so big.
What I did discover to my surprise was that there was a local chapter of a BDSM
club that met the first Thursday of every month at a downtown hotspot.
Immediately I signed their online registration and agreed to attend their Meet
and Greet scheduled for tomorrow evening.
While it may seem that I’m one
I have to admit that what the rest of the world deems as a
‘normal’ relationship has never appealed to me. All those late night tweets
and texts, updating the facebook relationship status and plain old goofy,
romantic gestures have never been my thing. My roommate Melanie, on the other
hand, relishes in these things and the two carat diamond on her finger is proof
positive that those things work for her and David. They just don’t work for
me. Those sorts of things actually turn my stomach.
I’ve seen the way my parents hold their breath at family
functions, as though they’re waiting for the moment when I come out of the closet
and announce that I’m a lesbian. As if I’m always on the verge of saying,
“Mom, pass the mashed potatoes please, and oh yeah… I like pussy.” They’d
probably accept that easier than the real truth. The real truth is something
Bob and Diana Crenshaw would never, ever understand.
I’m not even sure how I got to the point of wanting to be
controlled, instructed, and punished. All I can explain with great certainty
is that no man has ever given me what I need in a ‘normal’ relationship.
Eventually they’ve all shrugged their shoulders and called me names like
‘carpet muncher’ as they stormed out my door. I’ve never taken it to heart
because I know that’s their ego talking; their way of guarding against their
own inner voice that tells them they couldn’t satisfy me. I’m not heartless.
In some ways I felt sorry for them, yet I kept rifling through them as if
miraculously one would strike a chord and I could finally change my facebook
status and ease my parent’s nightmares. To date, that hasn’t happened.
When the realization first slapped me in the face I was
standing in the local ‘couples’ store –alone and incognito – reading labels on
erotically packaged dildos. I knew if I was going to face the rest of my life
as a loner then I needed more power. As I rounded the corner a large cardboard
display caught my eye: Each large box had a picture of a woman blindfolded,
tied, and bound with an excessively large red ball shoved in her mouth.
Curiosity got the better of me and I reached up and pulled my baseball cap
further down over my face and scoured my surroundings as if I was on some
covert mission. Finding my efforts to remain anonymous largely ignored by the
rest of the store, I picked up the box and studied it intently.
It doesn’t sound like much of a defining moment, but I’ve
come to the conclusion that these instances are rarely accompanied by
fireworks. The woman on the cover of the box had everything I wanted, and a
pang of jealousy shot through me. She was tied, bound and gagged; a strong masculine
hand on her bloodshot ass told me that someone had her under complete control.
I studied the picture carefully as if it contained the almighty answer to the
questions that have plagued me since puberty.
Fifty Shades Starter Kit. It contained a ball gag, five
yards of nylon rope, a battery powered ‘massager’ and instructions. This
bargain was only $99. What would I do with it? Tie myself up? How would I
hide a box of that size from Melanie? I sighed and put the box back on the
display, acutely aware that my life was lacking the one key element needed for
something like this to work: A man.
I’d gone home on a mission that afternoon and by the wee
hours of the morning I had a plan. Delving into the mysterious world of true
BDSM via the internet, I began to wonder how long the instructions in that box
back at the ‘couples’ store must have been. No wonder the box was so big.
What I did discover to my surprise was that there was a local chapter of a BDSM
club that met the first Thursday of every month at a downtown hotspot.
Immediately I signed their online registration and agreed to attend their Meet
and Greet scheduled for tomorrow evening.
While it may seem that I’m one
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