Big

When I worked up the nerve and finally broke the shocking news to john, he was nonplussed. He said, “well, you did blog that you might be becoming more of a switch.” At first his response was a little disappointing, I was hoping for a bigger reaction (like when I startled people in the Eeyore costume), but I got it later when he began to tease Me about new kinds of porn he might send, just tweak Me. I’ve told several people now, and debated quite a bit how far to spread this new information, but I don’t really see a legit downside (mere discomfort doesn’t count) and I think we all hide too much anyway. So following in the spirit of one of my favorite blogs, theDrewduality, I choose relentless honesty.

I have a Big.

But let’s be clear:  I’m not ready to say “I *am*” a... little.

You remember Littles, right? I hate them. I hate Littles with a passion I feel for almost nothing in My life; even iphone data loss does not trigger in Me the disgust response I have in My innards at the sight of Littles in full blown regressive whiny play mode. I’m pretending when I neutrally say something benign like “not My kink”.  I just want to hurt them, break them, really, and not in a fun way. I can think of few things more terrifying and repulsive than the Little  Miss Littles Contest.

I don’t use the word hate lightly. I hate Littles.

So of course I have to wonder why. Why are they uniquely offputting to such a degree? I have tried not to think about this too much, but it has been in the back of My mind a long time. Waiting.

The relationship with slave t pulled some of this off the back burner. Specifically, My lack of interest in sex with him made Me notice that My Dominance is as a rule not about sex. At first I thought that was just a gender difference (it’s logical somehow a guy Dom would go more easily to “suck My dick!”), but I realized I do have a strap on and I have liked having My cock sucked. So if I have willing boys at My command, why doesn’t it happen? Why is it never the right time? Why do I forget I own that strapon? Why is it always too much trouble to find the right O ring? Why does that not get planned out better? 

How is it that I have men willing to serve Me and yet I do not have the sex life I want?

For a long time I told Myself a story that subtly blamed the men.  John is in chastity. Other subby men don’t give Me the sexy vibe.  It feels too parental. I’m a competence freak, they are not competent enough.  It was all sort of true. Until tarin in our breakup conversation said:

I feel sorry for you.

I feel sorry for whatever happened to you that makes it so difficult for you to have the sex life you want.

I hope you figure it out some day.

—

In the moment those statements mostly sailed by, with so much other stuff flying around. But the arrow actually found one of the little castle tower turret windows and zipped through the walls and struck the heart of things. Thank you, wonderful tarin.

Why **don’t**  I have the sex life I want? I’m almost 50, and in 35 years of sexual activity I’ve yet to create the sexlife of My dreams... and I’m a big bad uncloseted Dominant. It’s got to be Me, not them. It’s got to be Me. I could fuck a lot more than I do; I don’t. Because I don’t want to. Or at least, the part that wants hot wild gratifying primal sex is not the part driving the bus when the guy with the penis is within arm’s reach. And in the last year, I’ve lost interest in other activities too. Fine in the abstract, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but those activities have lost whatever hotness they once held; when the guy is RIGHT HERE, I don’t want that.  We end up in bed, naked, he is willing to do whatever I ask.

And we cuddle.

At Fusion, Midori said to us: Beware the tyranny of the technician, focussing on all the skills. Ask yourself, where is My hunger?  Begin with that.  Where is Your hunger?

Ok, I am hungry for cuddles. Most of the time. Enough that it is derailing other things.

Pondering all this, I remembered a single coaching session I did once in Europe with a total stranger. We sat in a room and invited all the parts of Me to come in and talk.  The first one marched in like she owned the dump, all hyper competence, vigilance, kicking ass and taking names; we later named her the general. The other was silent and timid and could hardly be coaxed to talk at all.  She asked only for this: bring me along sometimes. For purposes of the blog, I’ll call her little one.

Two weeks ago under great stress at the office, I flashed on an image of the general screaming at the little one, who was lying on the ground defeated and dirty and exhausted. The general was screaming at her to get up, but she couldn’t.  It was like the scene you often see in movies about a fresh recruit who almost fails in boot camp, but gets screamed at enough by the tough DI, and the recruit goes on to succeed. Three years after that single opera coaching session, I suddenly had a live wire connection to those parts of Myself.

Of course. The general mostly runs life for Me and it has long been thus.  It is exhausting for Me and others sometimes but it works pretty well. The little one is there unnoticed but not without effect. The general gets the boys in the door but when we hit the staircase to the playroom and the bedroom, the general leaves. Very quietly the little one takes over, she gets to play with her fun toys.  And she gets a way to meet her hunger for cuddling.  A long time ago I wrote a story which included a statement saying everything that happened in the impact scene was just to get HERE, to the neural magic of aftercare; I was more right than I realized.  I have always dropped hard and needed a lot of aftercare.  It’s funny how we sometimes accidentally overhear ourselves say a truth we didn’t know we knew.

So it appears the little one has been pimping out the general to get her wordless hunger for fun and cuddles met.

Shit.