So, I’ve agreed to meet Ben for drinks on Wednesday, followed by a trip to a hotel room where I will take off my clothes and his belt for what follows next.
This terrifies me. Absolutely petrifies. I can’t think about it. I can’t even get myself off in the safety of my own bed because this is hanging over me, scaring me and I can’t think about sex without freaking out. All I can think about is his hand on my cheek. The feeling of his hand running down my cheek as he looked in my eyes has replaced the feeling of my ex slapping me hard and telling me to shut up. There is a kindness and a cherishing and a taking control there that I need to follow.
Despite that, I feel like the ‘before’ in an anti-drug commercial where the ‘after’ involves some crystal meth addict in a trailer park without an ounce of dignity or soap in the vicinity—like there is this slippery slope and if I have a relationship based more on erotic energy than all the trust, love, emotional intimacy, respect, etc—then I’m a slut and practically a prostitute. Twice in my life I met someone with this intense erotic interaction and both times I ran far away, as quickly as I could, and wondered what it would have been like to follow that.
It amazes me the power of the word ‘slut’ to control my behavior. I don’t even believe in that demarcation, and I certainly don’t intellectually think it applies to people until they are above a certain number of partners (figure their age, minus 16). And yet it resonates in my bones. I may be into S&M, but I’m sure as hell not promiscuous!
In addition to the slut factor, I’m scared of him seeing me naked. I look good in clothes (although I’m more insecure than I think men realize. When I weighed 20 pounds more, men always told me I was beautiful. Many more men try to pick me up on the street, but once a guy has picked me up, he never tells me I’m beautiful any more. Intellectually, I don’t think it is because I’m looking too old—I think it has to do with men not thinking I need to hear it, but I still need to hear it.
But my stomach. It isn’t flat. It jiggles. It’s just not sexy. I keep imaging him looking at my stomach and saying ‘yeah—no thanks!’
Given that I’ve had two men who saw my soul, who saw who I am under whom I pretend to be and said “yeah—no thanks” I spose this is safer. My stomach isn’t all of me, the way John and the man before him saw me deep down.
Ben says it isn’t that he is looking for a fling—he wants a long-term relationship but he wants to establish the D/s dynamic from the beginning. I partly believe him. I believe him enough to try, but intellectually, I don’t think that is the case.
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