It’s not because you have daddy issues or masochistic tendencies or lingering pains of an abusive childhood. Or, perhaps, you do. But equating your need to feel the weight and power and force of another as nothing more than a therapist’s wet dream is as unfair as being denied passionate sex for the rest of your hump-having days. It’s about losing yourself in flesh and sweat and limbs. You’re not thinking about your inability to pay bills or the loss of a loved one or a failed relationship two years too old that you still nostalgically recall from time to time. You’re not contemplating your anxieties or your shortcomings or the parts of your body scarred by insecurity and doubt. With every forceful grab and powerful push and stinging slap your problems scurry behind the bedroom door and hide, leaving only your animalistic sexuality to roam and claw and bite.
It’s about letting someone else take hold of the control you have been fiending to lose. You’re strong in every other aspect of your life. You’re sturdy for friends and stable for family members and reliable for every individual in between. You keep your responsibilities in labeled cubbies and color between the lines and make decisions when decisions aren’t necessary. But with every demanding movement and insatiable order and dominating hold the need to control that very moment of your life slips away. You are free.
It’s about trusting someone to hurt you just enough. People have destroyed your heart and abandoned your dreams and misused your love on the other end of closed doors. You guard emotions behind ribcages and under spines and you swallow vulnerability like a child trying to hide a stolen piece of candy. But with pulled hair and twisted skin and sunken teeth you allow another human to string your body between the boundary of pain and pleasure. You become the line everyone wants to toe.
It’s about feeling the ghost of unhinged passion long after it has vanished. Thanks to posted conversations and tagged memories and feelings expressed in 140 characters or less, you are as detached as your cordless mouse. Your fingertips need to feel more than keys and your eyes need to undress more than screens and your senses need to be stimulated by more than blinking cursors and unsolicited comments. But with lingering bruises and earned scratches you carry a piece of simplistic humanity with you. Your shoulders are stained and your thighs are marked and you remember what basic instinct feels like.
So, trust me. It’s not because you have daddy issues or masochistic tendencies or lingering pains of an abusive childhood. It’s about so much more than that…