June 2011
I am sitting in my apartment, in the living room on my couch, with twelve dozen roses surrounding me. I’ve written this before, you say. Why yes, I have, about five months ago, I think. And yes, he sent them again. This time they are white, not red, and this time rather than an apology, they feel like a promise. An invitation to be something other than what we have been in the past. Something more than master and submissive. Oh, I know that master and submissive is quite special to many, but to those many, it is right for them. It was never right for me. He was, though. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe it’s the heady scent of the flowers he’s made me love. Maybe it’s the heady sense of hope these flowers, delivered after a month of silence between us, have now created. Or maybe it’s the fact that the card reads: Tonight. Eight o’clock. I’ll send a car.
I admit that when I opened the card, my hand had been shaking. And I admit that when I read that card, my heart hurt. It hurt because that is the kind of note he sent me when I was his submissive.
He ordered.
I obeyed.
Now don’t get me wrong. There is something about the power and sexuality of this man that makes an order hard to resist. And safe. I am not sure why I feel safe with him when the truth is that he’s made me feel emotionally betrayed. I am sure if I go back now and read my prior entries there would be many examples of why that is the case. But the reality here is that he always, always felt safe. He felt like my protector. He felt like the other half of my soul and I was his. And I think he needed–still needs–me to heal that soul. It’s crazy, I know, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
It’s been weeks since I have written a word. Why did I go silent when this is my therapy and sanity? I visited my mother’s grave, and it opened that barely sealed wound all over again. And the nightmares. They were there every single time I went to sleep. Honestly, I didn’t want to remember what I was feeling during those weeks. I lost me for a while when I lost my mother, I think, and it was like it was happening again. It hurt. Imagine me laughing bitterly right now. I mean, does the word “hurt” even begin to define what losing a mother means? I think, even if you aren’t close to a parent, it’s like having part of your soul leave this earth. You are alone. Only I wasn’t alone because I found him. He went with me to the grave, but he wasn’t really there. It felt, like he wasn’t with me. Like he’d shut down and cut me out. I think the visit hit some nerve in him, cut him, where he was already cut as well. But he wouldn’t say that. He wouldn’t let us evolve and heal together. My reaction was to shut him out the way he had me, and even though it was my choice, the result was: I lost him, too.
Him.
Funny how I never write his name.
I just call him Master.
But you see, that’s where life has become complicated. When I revisited the loss of my mother, I was reminded that life is short. And I knew that I could no longer play this game of master and submissive with him. That isn’t who I am. I’m so far from submissive, it’s really comical that I ever decided to sign his contract and wear that rose-adorned ring he’d given me. I did things with him, for him, because of him, that I would never have done with, or for, anyone else. I often ask myself how I went down this path when I am not a natural submissive. I’ve actually thought a lot about this question.
I think step one was what I felt when I looked into his eyes and when I was in his presence. Like he owned the world around him. Like if he said I would feel pleasure, I’d feel it. If he said I was safe, I would be. Like he would be the escape I didn’t dare myself in any other part of my life. I found that part of being his submissive addictive. There was no room for worry or fear because he was that consuming. And then there was what I saw in his eyes when he let down his guard and often, I’m not sure he even knew that he did. The pain. The need. The tenderness. The past that torments him and makes him protect himself even from me. But I’ve earned his trust. I deserve to have that wall fall. That’s when I said, no more. Not until he gave all of himself to me.
And so, the flowers came. And the card that read like every other card. After fifteen minutes of debate, I called him. Oh God. I called him and hearing his voice again, when spoken just for me, not for anyone else, as silly as that sounds, slid through me like salve to a bleeding soul.
“Rebecca,” he’d said softly, but with that familiar command radiating through his tone.
“Hello,” I said, because I could not say master, and I could not say his name. Nothing felt right.
“The flowers-”
“Are beautiful. Why are they white?”
“Because we can color them, and us, any way we choose.”
I sucked in air, and breathed out my reply. “What does this mean?”
“It means I don’t know if I know how to be what you need me to be.”
“I don’t want you to be what I want you to be. I want you to be you. The real you.”
“You’ve seen more of me than anyone else ever has.”
“I know.”
“And yet it’s not enough.”
“It is, as long as that isn’t all I ever get.”
“I’m not ready for more, Rebecca, but it’s not about you.”
My chest had tightened. “Then why even send me the flowers?”
“Because I miss you.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I do. I haven’t touched another woman since you shut me out.”
I am stunned. “Not even at the club?”
“No other woman. I want you. Just you. I just need more time to figure out what that means, but not without you. With you.”
“Because of something in your past.”
He is silent for heavy seconds. “Yes.”
“Will you ever tell me about it?”
“I don’t talk about it.”
I don’t push. This is more than he has ever given me. “I can’t be your submissive again.”
“Go to dinner with me tonight. On a date.”
“A real date?”
“Yes. A real date, but I can’t promise what that means. Say yes, Rebecca.”
It’s enough. It’s a start and so I’d said what he’d ordered me to say, but not because he’d ordered it. Because I’d wanted to. I’d said yes.
And so, I’m going on a date with him tonight and I will be Rebecca. Just Rebecca. If he can’t handle that, it will be our real goodbye. If he can, perhaps it will be our first real hello.