Being a Sadist doesn't mean never having to say you're sorry

The fiend is a coward.

He made a mistake.
A big one.
He hurt me badly.
Not physically.
But psychologically.

And rather than deal with his mistake and my pain he walked away without a word.

Oh the big bad strong sadist, not responsible to anyone but himself, not responsible for anything but his own satisfaction.

Bullshit.

The dom says: "I'm the boss."
The dom says "I'm in charge, I'm running the show, what I say goes."

The fiend said "This is not a game to me, and I have entered into this with you because I believe you feel the same way."

And it wasn't a game to me. I sank into my submission and my collaboration, and I took it all very seriously. But I wasn't his slave. He already has one of those, a highly masochistic slave who satisfies his extreme sadistic needs. Perhaps for a slave it really isn't a game at all. But for me, there was always this knowledge that a conscious choice was involved in how we related to each other. It wasn't a game, but at no time did I abdicate my connection to the rest of the world or my identity as a relatively good and thoughtful human being.

Being the dom, the boss, in charge, claiming you are answerable to no one but your own pleasure, is a good escape from the rest of your life, from the demands of family and friends, from needing to be answerable to others, from needing to take care of others, and from having to take responsibility for your mistakes.

Our relationship was interesting. The fiend does indeed have an incredibly strong aura of dominance, which I felt through e-mail even before he turned up at my door. But I stood up to him. There were things right from the start that I refused to do, ways of doing things that I said just wouldn't work for me. And he accepted my refusals, and changed things that affected the way others did things in order to accommodate me. That was early on, so perhaps it was part of being sure he had hooked me solidly on the line. But I didn't fight being caught. I swam up to the shore and begged him to scoop me up in his net.

He valued me. He was possessive of me. He resented the philosopher because he knew I love him and that my first allegiance will always be to him. He didn't want my love - in fact, it would have been rather awkward - but he did want to own me. I wasn't his slave, but he did own me. In some ways.

We were collaborators. He taught me, he focused me, he guided me, he ordered me to write, he insisted on more structure. He was just starting to demand changes in the poems. I argued about one change, then read and re-read and realized that he was absolutely right. On another poem he ordered a change and I explained why I couldn't do it. It's a tritina, a form I'd never heard of before, and which resisted me for a very long time. The part he wanted changed was an integral part of the structure and I was able to explain why those repeated words had to stay. We were learning together.

He fancied himself the Phantom of the Opera, and I was Christine. You heard a little of his voice in my poems. He drove me and excited me and inspired me.

I wasn't in love with him. He wasn't my friend. But there were conversations about music and literature that made me tingle with intellectual stimulation. He woke up my mind, and took my creativity on another step out of the darkness. A manic fit over 2 years ago broke the spell that kept me creatively silent, and the philosopher kissed me fully awake while giving me the gift of my submission. The fiend pushed me to be more serious in my writing, less impulsive, and carried my submission further, teaching me more about what I was and what I was not.

He taught me that I'm not a masochist. And in some ways, the lesson which he blew so badly was more along the same lines.

It clearly was a mistake. I don't know if he miscalculated, or was just too caught up in his own perceived cleverness to see what a bad idea it was.

He had recorded something on his cell phone that he wanted me to hear. He sent it as a voice mail, with the order to listen and then immediately, as usual, write him with my response.

What he sent was awful.
And very upsetting.
I wrote back immediately, very upset, very angry, and not at all submissive.

He said nothing.
Not a word.

I didn't have a safe word.
And I never received aftercare.
He would come, do his thing, and leave me holding my position until I heard the door close.
But I was ok with that.
I really was.
I trusted him.
He was very experienced.
He sensed my limits and pushed me very slowly to their edge and a step or two beyond.
He taught me about submission and pain.
He taught me that I'm not a masochist, but he taught me the communion of pain.
We never had sex.
He never took of his clothes.
But still, there was an intimacy.

He said he was fond of me.

And he threw it all away.
Out of cowardice, I think.

In his early declaration of principles for my service to him, he wrote the following: "I will use those qualities in you for my pleasure, and leave you without the slightest thought of your well-being, except as to how it may affect your next service of me. " The italics are mine. You can say that his having done what he did, and then his ignoring of my distress, violate that phrase in italics. Because that was the end of my service to him. If he had replied, if he had expressed any regret, perhaps he might have saved it. Perhaps... but he didn't even try, not even in the mostly domly, high-handed way.

But I think of something else. In the early days of something that lasted only a little over 3 months, we were sorting out who, what, and how, and sometimes he misinterpreted what I said, and thought that I was calling things off. I wasn't. But in any case, he never tried to back up and figure out what had gone wrong. He would assume this was the end, and if that was the case, would thank me for everything I had given him till then. I was his treasure and he treated me as such. But he never fought to keep me. He always gave up too easily.

This time he didn't even thank me.

He said nothing.

Dom or sadist or whatever the hell you say you are, if you are the writer and director and producer all rolled into one, you have a responsibility to your cast. Especially when your star and sole performer is an independent contractor.

I wondered if he was waiting for me to crack and write again.
I wondered if he assumed I would.
I don't know. My letter was pretty clear about how deeply upset I was.

Well, finally I did crack, but not to come crawling back. I just wanted to give him a chance to say something. Anything. It was hard to believe that this man who acted like the King of the castle, this large man who carried his weight with authority, who walked in as if the world were his by right, was so destroyed by having screwed up that he would just toss away something that obviously gave him pleasure on many levels.

I wrote.

If you're expecting me to come crawling back, saying I'm sorry for the tone of my reaction to your little gift, it should be clear by now that it's not going to happen. I assume by your silence that this is what you've been waiting for.

Still, I'm curious.

You send me something you know will upset me.

You demand my immediate reaction and you get it.

You certainly can't fault me for my honesty.

You played on my vulnerability and I bled

and I sent you a picture of the mess on the floor.

I honestly don't know what you expected.

And I'm disappointed, really.

I trusted you.

Yes, I know you said I shouldn't, and true you're a sadist, but you also seemed pretty clear about your own self-interest, and VERY clear on my limits. I admired you for that, and respected you. I can't think you deliberately wanted to sabotage our collaboration, but you did.

I didn't actually throw up, but it was close, and I try very hard not to think about it because the nausea just comes right back.

So no, no submissive apology.

But yes, I suppose you can pride yourself that I did blink first and write first. If that's what you need.

And I'll miss the intellectual stimulation.

You gave me a lot.

It's too bad...

His reply?

I agree

That's all.
Pathetic.

So that's it for the fiend.

I WILL miss it all. I'm sure my poetry production will suffer. And I was counting on his pushing to get me through the next month or so of SAD season. Sadistic patrons of the arts don't give out mental health days. But I'll be ok. I'll keep exploring poetry forms. And he was trying to get me to write on topics that weren't about him. Poems I could show my mother. He made me work. I'm not sure I can do that for myself, but I'll try.

I'll miss my submission.
I'll admit to that.
It's a drug.
An incredible high.
I don't do drugs other than prescription meds and I don't drink (blame the same meds), so my submission was my route to an altered state of consciousness. I was going very deep, and I loved it.

But some things are more important.

The philosopher called me Monday night.

The events of Monday night fit together like carefully milled pieces of a wooden jigsaw puzzle. I wrote my post about SAD, and was finishing it when the fiend's voice mail came through. I was just finishing my response when the philosopher called. He was worried about me.

He was wonderful. He was everything I needed. Still, I held back, because I wasn't ready to talk about the voice mail. I was too upset and shaken.

He called and he was there for me. When I need him, he takes care of me. We talked of my SAD and of other things and I cried and I laughed and things felt... right.

Then last night I posted about the Phantom.

Again, as soon as he read it, he called. And when I didn't answer, being downstairs with Rachel Maddow, he e-mailed.

I called back.

And again, he was there for me.

He said "You'll always be my kitten. I know that now."

I said "You always take care of me. But you don't have to take care of me."

There is something between us.
It doesn't go away.
We just can't quite figure it out.

I need to relax about it.
I need to take a deep breath and relax and stop trying to figure it out.

I need to take a deep breath and relax and smile, knowing there is this sweet, smart man with flowing red hair who wants to take care of me. Even though he doesn't have to.

The philosopher is a sadist, too.
Not a mean and nasty sadist.
But a sadist nevertheless.
A sweet sadist.

And when he accidentally brought his belt down very very hard on my poor defenseless cunt, and I screamed from here to Baltimore, he was filled with remorse and apologized profusely, while my arousal ran all over the ottoman.

THAT is true strength.

Sorry for babbling on like this. I had a lot to get out of my system. Thanks to all of you for putting up with me - and I'd love to hear your opinions on the issue of doms and sadists and taking responsibility for your actions. [12/11/08 - The discussion continues in the comments. Do please stop by and weigh in. And thanks fo0r being supportive.] --o.g.