It tolls for thee...

He's breaking me down.

There's something to be said about submission.

Something strong running through you, in different ways, with different needs and trigger points.

My issue, as I will call it, though it is not precisely that, is my need to please and serve. My desire to have someone worth serving.

My submission gives up my individual identity. I cease to be myself and instead become an extension of my partner.

If I can submit.
Which means I need to relax and trust.
Which means my partner needs to make me feel safe and that he has to be worthy of my trust.

Safe means power and strength. Trust means perfect control and honest communication.

He's breaking me down, slowly.

My need to please rises, and I feel that tugging in the back of my brain telling me that I need to become his. That I need to sink into him, that feeling of perfect surrender, that feeling of willing loss of control.

Control, my addiction.

Because I have never found a man with more control over his lusts than I have over mine.

Hence the lack of respect.
Hence the lack of trust.
Hence the lack of surrender.

He breaks me down. I seek his body under times of stress.

He made me dance for him. Something I have never done outside of a club. I'm not a performer. The compliments, the confidence, the knowing that unless a select few people are on the floor with me, it is likely that I am one of the best in the club. It leaves me. Nervous and shaky.

But I danced for him.

In the half-dark. Song of choice, Portishead's "Strangers". I always return to my trip-hop.

Too nervous, too shaky, blocky movements caused by anxiety. If we had been at a club, it would have been so much easier.

When I finished, the shakes continued to vibrate my body. I walked to where he was sitting and gently dropped to my knees in front of him, put my head in his lap and slid my arms around his waist while he stroked my hair and told me how much he liked the way I moved.

I stayed like that until the shaking stopped.

And I knew I had given him something, a part of me that would cause us to entangle even more. A hook on a line leading from me to him, something that would hurt if he ever ripped it out.

It wasn't the dancing. It was the recovery. It was the laying with my head in his lap until I settled. It was using him for comfort instead of finding it in myself. It was trusting him to treat me gently until I calmed and fought off the waves of anxiety that come from a solo performance.

He was right. It's something to battle, something to get over. I've had many men ask me to dance for them and I've declined each one, too nervous, too anxious. He was the only one that meant something, that had that power over me, the power I had given him, that could make me dance.

We had sex later that night. It continues to get better, continues to get more intimate, and for the first time I felt the stirrings of an orgasm solely from penetration. Oddly, it did not frighten me. The idea that, one day, I could give up my focus, my control, my monitoring, of what goes on during sex, enough so I could relax and actually orgasm through penetration... amazing.

We come closer and closer to that vaunted "making love".

Something I've certainly never done. Not even with Rick.

It truly does amaze me.

And, maybe, all those people who talk about the ectasies of making love, of that partner they truly care about, how that sex makes all others pale in comparsion, maybe they're right.

But it makes me think of the couples that make love who have had sex with no other partners.

Do they know, really? Do they know the difference in feeling between a grudge fuck, a pity fuck, a fantasy fuck, a one-night stand with no pretensions, a caring fuck, a friendly fuck, or a drunk fuck? Do they know what it's like to have sex with someone who you do not love, possibly don't even know, where all it is is the physical and what you create inside your head?

I do not mean for this to sound derisive, but how do they know what making love is, if they've never encountered its opposites? If they've had no variation? How can it be treasured?

I've always laughed at the idea (for me) of making love.

That anything could be as good as the brutal, animal fucking that comes with a man like Riot. Being completely used and degraded, being tossed around like a blow-up doll because your partner is so damn strong. Having your mind so involved with surviving the sex that you can't actually be bothered with thoughts of anything aside from taking the blows and the penetration (wherever it ends up) as best you can, minimal damage. Days later, you're still staggering when you walk.

That, to me, is sex. Is perfect sex.

But now I'm entering a realm of something I haven't experienced, something I don't understand, and, honestly, I don't really respect the opinions of most of the people who talk to me about it because it's such a religious experience for them and they usually have so little experience in the sex arena that I can't quite take their information seriously.

Which isn't the best of me, I know.

Maybe it won't happen. Maybe GV8 and I will split before I ever get to that point with him and, maybe, because of that, it'll wreck my trust for any men in the future. It's possible. I am a bundle of damage, but at least I take stock of my wounds and attempt to heal them.

I picked up Dune as Hope suggested. A cult of women that I think might be my heros, save for what appears to be a heavy thread of spirituality. But maybe it will change me like it changed her.

Who knows?

I've always said sex is what you make of it.
But I'm starting to think that I am what sex has made me.