Death Diary: On Dommes and the Paradox of Submission
(Previously: Once in Reverence and Once in Despair)
October 4
Kelsey and I went to Olive Garden last night in honor of my dad.
Growing up working class, Olive Garden was considered “fancy.” It’s where we celebrated major events. When I graduated from high school, we went to the OG, stuffed ourselves full of breadsticks and iceberg lettuce and damn if that wasn’t happiness.
At dinner tonight, I used the gift certificate you got for him, and felt a thrill of perversity doing so. It felt “wrong” to use your money, to enjoy a meal on your dime, even though what’s $50 to a multi-millionaire?
Not much.
But to me? It was everything.
Kelsey and I both cried at dinner. The pain is still so acute. When it comes on I feel as if I have been grasped quite literally by the throat.
I feel as if I’m being forced to breathe around a brick. A crushing from within. A man-sized boulder in my chest that is also my chest itself.
And, this is silly, but the Domme texted me unprompted and I was elated. I’m still feeling the tremors when I recall our night together. It’s been days.
She wrecked me. Is wrecking me. All I can do is hold on tight.
And two girls smiled at me at the gym. I didn’t talk to them. It’s such a precarious thing. But still.
—
I know my dad was proud of me—my life, my accomplishments. What I don’t know is why the thought of him being proud of me makes me cry.
I guess because I can’t tell him so.
I guess because I have to be proud of myself now and I don’t know if I have it in me.
October 5
I’m so nervous to see the Domme again. Way more so than the first “platonic” time. She asked if she could practice jiu-jitsu on me!
IS THIS A TEST?
October 6
She kissed me on the floor, my legs wrapped around her waist. A jiu-jitsu move, she said.
Her lips soft as sunrise. Her hands grasping at anything they could reach.
But first we watched Concussion and then she asked if she could give me a foot rub.
“Platonically?” I joked.
She told me she shaved her legs for me and I told her I cleaned my house for her. We stained my comforter. No one came but it was hot and sweet. She’s handsy, like me. She couldn’t stop smiling.
She said (again) that she can’t get romantically involved with me. I asked her, What is romance?
She said she’d get back to me, that she couldn’t think because of the sex haze.
Perhaps more to the point, what’s NOT romance? To the romantic, every gesture has potential.
A foot rub. The outside of our thighs touching on the couch as we watched the movie. The way we wound around each other, limbs stacked, her hand tracing the sharp of my hip bone.
She said she liked the poetry I sent her—that that was the problem.
She said to really think about whether I wanted to do this with her.
But she likes me. I can tell.
But I’m wrong a lot these days.
October 7
Met the Lawyer. We made out. He bought all my drinks and asked permission to do everything, even to touch my knee. He’s short, with a soft beard and graying temples. He was also a pro-dom.
I’m finding all the dommes. Or they’re finding me.
The Domme texted while I was on my date with the Lawyer, which delighted me.
A is my only enabler on the subject of the Domme—everyone else is saying, “Run!”
But A says, “Maximize the pleasure, babe. Enjoy it while you got it. Even knowing it will end. We all end, eh?”
I love her. I think we’ll kiss soon.
October 8
My father’s bills pile up and up. I have made 50 phone calls already, canceling his cards, calling banks, insurance companies, and now debt collectors.
The debt collectors make me especially angry—like they smear my dad’s name or something. As if he cares about his credit score now!
When will they stop coming though? When will his death actually conclude? I keep waiting.
But fall has paused. The sun shines bright and crisp through the window. I made carnitas tacos.
There are so many ways to be alive.
Is this one? It must be.
—
A memory: On my date with the Lawyer, I told him I was hungry and he said, “Go next door and buy a fried tofu dish called Inari.”
And I did it, without question.
I only realized later how submissive that was. How unthinking. To obey.
I didn’t even look at another food item in the entire store. I’d never had Inari, and didn’t know if I’d like it. (I did.)
This is the paradox of submission—the delicious freedom to not choose. The power to let others decide.
October 10
Seeing the Domme again today. We’re going to the cemetery.
—
So, you’re disappointed. It’s okay. An actual platonic date is not a bad thing.
It proves you’re not sex beasts, that you’re capable of getting to know each other unaided by alcohol and lust.
So why the doubt? The depression? Because you believe in lust. Its potency and madness. You’ve staked your life on it.
And Anna, this just goes to show you that if you can’t be okay respecting her boundaries, then you probably shouldn’t date anyone. You should heal. You should make art and not worry so much about getting laid.
You’ll get laid again. Plenty. You’re attractive and caring and kind, with a wonderful imagination and a great rack.
It’s okay. Why are you crying?
Because you’re not ready and you desperately want to be.
Because she didn’t kiss you.
Yeah, I get it. But she’s just a person and you’re not okay either.
You think you are but only when you get your way. Otherwise you collapse in a heap.
Like now.
October 11
I’m okay today. Less sad. I keep thinking about the Domme, how I drove home after dropping her off, feeling hollow, scraped out. So hopeless. So dramatic.
Was I ever mellow or was it all just a facade?
She bought us ice cream at Fenton’s. She told me her mom used to put spaghetti in a thermos for her school lunch. We both did AmeriCorps. She’s thoughtful, asked questions. We smiled and laughed a lot.
Hold onto that. It’s connection and it’s real. It doesn’t mean you aren’t desired or desirable. It doesn’t mean you’ll never find a girlfriend.
Enjoy the day. Let it be a single day, which it was. Enjoy the company and let it be. Let it be.
—
But when your heart is a husk and pain warps and wrecks you, remember this, Anna:
Remember to tell your grief so true that anyone can recognize it.
Then you won’t be alone.
