Added: Marybell Eakin - Date: 30.09.2021 14:59 - Views: 32766 - Clicks: 7039
I try to hide it and revel in each smirk afforded to me by a universe that also allows me a job I love, and friends who cheerlead my writing, and lovers who kiss trust into my shoulders on cold Brooklyn nights. But I feel the bruises in my bones like injuries from an old accident, aching at a spare word or a trace of familiar cologne on the subway. I take off my clothes at the end of each day and trace the past across my skin.
No amount of confidence can protect you from disappointment. Sometimes people fail you and your hands tremble, left outstretched. I meet him in a bar. We chat about BuzzFeed and who has been insulted by celebrities recently. The dive bar is loud enough to drown it out. I nurse a beer and nod at everything. And then there he is, tall and full of kind energy, the smile a wide light across his face.
He leans across the booth to laugh at my jokes and look at me with big, bright eyes. A friend steals him back in conversation and I consider taking a business card out of my wallet and scrawling my across the back, but he returns and asks if I want another drink. I want another drink. I make him watch my favorite TED Talk before we have sex. I think about it at work the next day, good girl. We text about our likes and dislikes, what we want to try and what we need to avoid. He is a dominant and I confess there are kinks I used to like but had taken from me, words ruined outside of play.
Being called a whore stops being fun when someone you love means it. He steps out of the role immediately and holds me close to his chest, presses kisses into my hair. We puzzle out what happened together afterward: I like submission but I have been degraded enough for a lifetime.
Most of my dark secrets are already on the Internet, articulated neatly with beautiful imagery in blog posts or personal essays. He is in his mid-twenties and is less afraid of mapping out our terms early on. We are having fun, fucking twice a week and collaborating on the occasional project. Our sex is loud, our relationship quiet but not secret. Twenty-three hours of the day, I am my own person, whole and brash and strong. When we are having sex, I am his. After maybe a week, a week and a half of seeing each other, he asks me what my thoughts are on daddy kink.
My usual composure dissolves into giggles. A few summers before, I interned with Madison Young, a brilliant feminist pornographer. Afternoons were spent in her adorable house in the Bay Area, stuffing copies of her book into bubble mailers to send to reviewers. I devoured Daddy: a Memoir over a weekend sitting in the park by my apartment, challenged and enthralled by its graphic, messy sex scenes.
The central relationship felt weird to me, its submission and age play so core to her identity. I wanted someone to support me as I figured out who the hell I was. Curiosity takes over. Please, daddy , I say carefully, the word unfamiliar and not funny anymore. His face is tucked into my shoulder but I can feel the impact of it in how his whole body shudders, the control going haywire in his square frame.
He gives me permission to come and tells me how proud of me he is. In my life, I have never felt this exact mixture of fragile and precious. L Train commuters raise their eyebrows at its cover but it helps me understand why I am both strong and thrilled to do exactly as he says. For me, submission is less about subservience than it is about communication and trust: years of being emotionally cat-fished by boys who promised to not let me down have made a man who tells me just how good I am deeply arousing.
But to be owned, to be taken care of, to know that I am safe and understood… he forces me to look him in the eyes and I need to let myself be seen. It is simultaneously thrilling and horrible to be heard — everyone wants a comment and everyone has advice. He comes over that Friday and after a week of being tough it is a relief to let him pull lace off my skin. There are men in my life who are kind and do unkind things but he is kind with every touch, even as my back is scratched raw, even as my ass burns under his palm. I am an exposed wire with its rubber casting peeled away.
Yes, daddy. Thank you, daddy. The word is less unfamiliar now and I am learning when and how to use it. I sleep without nightmares about my Twitter mentions or phone calls from unlisted s. In the morning I count the bruises scattered across my shoulders and hips like pennies on the sidewalk. I sit down to write. Medium is an open platform where million readers come to find insightful and dynamic thinking. Here, expert and undiscovered voices alike dive into the heart of any topic and bring new ideas to the surface. Learn more. If you have a story to tell, knowledge to share, or a perspective to offer — welcome home.
Start a blog. in. Good Girl. Ella Dawson Follow. Femsplain Sex Nsfw. Feminism, sexuality, technology. Femsplain Follow. Written by Ella Dawson Follow. Make Medium yours. Write a story on Medium. About Write Help Legal.Good girl kink
email: [email protected] - phone:(283) 273-6259 x 6377
Your Etsy Privacy Settings