Fifty fifty

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The thing about Jack, about our relationship, about how I experience it, is how I love him more than he loves me. Well kind of. He loves me. And maybe you can’t quantify love like that. But still, he doesn’t love me the way I love him. Because me, I’m still first day fresh. I still have that lump in my throat from the first time he told me was in love with me. I’m still checking my phone, refreshing my email, looking at his facebook page, day dreaming conversations, boring Pan to death with it, stretched out tight, taut, like a bow string – yet I’m the quiver (and I don’t know why I said that), looking up more synonyms for tight and taut because that’s the root of it, high, breathless, purple and black at the edges, strung on my emotions, excited, giddy. He is my fetish object. His body is. And there’s nothing I can do about any of that.

Here’s the problem. He does not feel this way about me.

He loves me, but it isn’t the way it is for me. He doesn’t feel the way I feel. Who even could? Who could even begin to feel like a ripped up emotional junk yard with a 100 year old fetish interest finally satiated. I can spend the whole evening transcendental, floating, thinking only, over, over, that this man, who is here and real and mouth dryingly handsome, will let me hurt him. Will let me do anything I want. Has said that. Thinks it’s – what? – cool? Sexy, sure? You want to…? Okay, sure. Why not? I lie there (I like to lie down) and ,without touching him, just massage my jolly with the idea that I could. That he has promised me I can do anything.

But he does not see that in me. Because he is my answer. I’m not his. He is my missing piece. But the piece that he is: still a whole.

He says I shouldn’t put him up there on a pedestal – and I know what a prison a pedestal can be. But it wasn’t me. That was where I found him.

And the real trouble is, a man who would feel about me the way I feel about Jack, a man who would hold himself in pulsating almost unbearable joy just with the idea that I get turned on hurting him, that I hurt a man and I liked it, those men are ruined. Fucked up. Broken. Smeared in the shit of prodoms and fetish porn. Hot housed into frustrated uselessness by the fact they are no dominant women. Made into things that might turn me on – on some level, but also make me bleed inside with an haemorrhage of raging bleh.

People say, oh that Bitchy Jones, why doesn’t she just shut up about prodoms, about the culture of femdom. Well here is some why. This is how it affects me. I can’t be in a relationship with a person who feels the way I do about my kink. Those people are so fucked up by this culture I am meant to ignore that when they get their hands on me they break me. And anyway, Jesus, I am not meant to be affected by my own culture? If you seriously think that’s the normal way of things I suggest you pop along to your doc and get tested for autism. What sort of world view do you truly have if you think the cultures people are immersed in (especially if you are part of sexual minority) don’t affect them. Fuck’s sake – that is what a culture is, asshat.

I struggle with finding a place in a sexual culture that is designed mainly for the entertainment of straight men. I know this comes up for people with other sexualities too – but I think it is particularly prevalent in femdom culture as the ‘entertainment for straight men’ part of this culture is actually the *only* part.

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