Report: the photographer

Writing is good for me. It helps me digest my life and see what turns up in the toilet bowl at the end.

Yuck. That was a nasty metaphor.

To be a submissive placing a want ad is almost a contradiction in terms. The choice of who shall live and who shall die. Playing the role of human resources director for the department of amorous activities. Delivering pink slips while still suffering from fits of grief and self-doubt over one's own rejection.

As a submissive, it is very hard to say "No."

So.
The photographer.
It started out amusingly enough.
Erotic rhymed couplets that recalled old bawdy ballads.
The second one hinted of a dom,
a perception later confirmed when he answered this ad:

Another sort of relationship

Could a Dom be a boyfriend?
Could we join my friends for dinner
without their fretting for my safety?
Could I introduce him to my neighbors
without their listening for my screams?
Could he come to spend the night
without scaring my poor cats?
Could he pass for rich vanilla
an intensely rich vanilla
but later
but always
at home
he would give me needed structure
he would teach me how to please him
he would smile and call me "good girl"
he would value my submission
he would discipline with spanking
he would strike a healthy balance
between dominance and loving
he would make me his forever.

This is probably a pipe dream
I don't know if *I* could do it.

But could you?

Rather mushy and very self-indulgent. He replied briefly and sternly, with some suspicion that it was from me.

He sent a photo. Not all that good-looking a man, but it added to my suspicions that I had a dom on my hands - or should I say that I potentially had a dom's hand on my ass. So we kept writing, while all along I wrote to a few others as well. The connection felt good, and we were both feeling rather impatient.

So we decided the hell with it, we didn't want to wait for Saturday night.

He was here as promised at 8 PM. But he didn't look quite the same.

I had already figured out, even just from the head shot, that he was short. Except that after all these years of wanting guys only a few inches taller than me, now that I'm in touch with my submissiveness I crave taller and larger men. Men who by their mere presence will have me feeling small, overpowered, both cared for and vulnerable. So although I had somehow figured out that he was short, I was disappointed nevertheless.

Plus, there was an atmosphere to the photo that was missing in real life. That sense of no nonsense allowed, that hint of something just beneath a threat.

Still, there was something.
Something that pulled out my submission.
I wasn't faking that.
I can't.
So I submitted.
It wasn't deep, heavy submission like with the fiend.
but it was submission nevertheless.
And that felt good.

He drank me in.
The sight of me.
The scent of me.
Not a single touch
taken for granted.
These men
they look at me
they tell me I'm beautiful.
I don't protest as much any more.
Maybe I really am like a wine
that is boring when young
but matures into richness.
I can't deny enjoying the admiration.

So I submitted.
"Sir" slid from my tongue.
My ass, my throat, my wrists
the smacks, the hands,
the police-issue handcuffs.
Nothing extreme, not a
moment of fear, but a bit
more than play. Not just play.

Still, it definitely meant more to him than to me. We were both needy, I don't deny that. It felt good to be with a man, it felt good to be touched, he did that well... but the personality connection didn't feel quite right after all. He doesn't feel like someone I would introduce to my friends. And his loss far outweighs mine.

His beloved wife of 27 years died in his arms 6 weeks ago. Cancer. And I'm the gift she sent him to fill his needs.

That's too heavy a burden for me to bear. Especially when to me he is an applicant on an audition. Not even temp-to-hire because there is no chance he'll get the permanent job.

I suspect, which should surprise no one, that I am not really ready to hire anyone at all.

On top of it all, I still didn't get fucked.

OK, it wasn't that big a surprise.
It's only been 6 weeks.
His mind was ready
but his cock was not.
Still, this is getting boring.

[bursts into tears]

No, I'm not crying over not getting fucked. I was getting ready to write "I would trade getting fucked for..." and was searching for the right words when there they were again. Those damn tears.

I'm just making it hard on him. Not the photographer. You know who I mean. He reads here and I'm crying, I write him and say I'm crying, I try not to write him, I vow not to write him, and then I can't help myself. There's this vacuum.

I'm asking too much of him. Just like the photographer is asking too much of me. He would be with me every night if he could. He would have spent the night. He would have come back tonight. I said OK to tomorrow night because we already had the date set, and he's out buying a paddle. He wonders if the local mall stocks cat-o-nine tails. I doubt it. It's Virginia, after all.... he is so empty, he would imprint on anyone who would have him. Last night, he asked in a small catechism "and who owns you?" And I pushed away my submission and my fear of hurting someone's feelings, and I looked him straight in his eyes and said "you know I can't say that."

He wants something I can't give. And I want something that the philosopher can't give. For whatever reason, for whatever amalgam of reasons, he can't. And you can't force someone to feel something, to want something, to offer something, that just isn't there.

I haven't heard from him since Christmas Eve. It surprised me, when I looked back at the record of our correspondence. Somehow it felt longer than that. I know he reads here. But he hasn't written. He could be sick. He could be depressed. He could be busy. He could be sick of dealing with me. I can't blame him. If I tell a guy it can't be what he wants, I expect him to go away quietly and leave me alone.

I'm trying. I'm hoping magic will happen again. I'm hoping someone will turn up who can excite me, who can love me, who can spank me, who can be here in 20 minutes, and who can help me to let go.

Who can help me to forget.

I need to learn to give up on lost causes.

I need an agent.
An agent to set up my dates.
An agent to send out the rejection letters.

Any volunteers?