I really can’t stand labels when it comes to matters of the heart, and don’t kid yourself, D/s sex no matter how rough and dark things may appear, should be matters of the heart.
Even now, I debate changing this blog name even though it grows and gains more audience, and I probably even would and take the drop in followers for a few months, postpone any other writing plans, and of course rebrand this blog as none other than “mr-fucking-awesomes-blog”, but my dumb ass went and watermarked every goddamn GIF in the thousands of posts that are on this blog. So it’s kind of a major pain in the ass now. Meh.
Oh well – first world problems in “Scary Dark Domville”, I guess.
It’s just the “D” word in my blog name that bugs me; not the “R” one so much.
It’s as if I’m expected to fit some cookie cutter mold where I now get to join some lame ass black leather club without the benefit of Groupons for floggers and nylon rope. Instead I signed up, unknowingly, to be part of “The Club” where people assume we all see the world through the exact-fucking-same lens, usually presumed to be dictated by the last wet-your-panties series on Goodreads.
Now, tangent warning: doesn’t it bug you that these books are always written by a postmenopausal female and never from the mind of the person doing the “Super Dark Dominating?” I realize that is douchebag thing to say; table your judgment for a moment and hear me out.
I know that I sound a bit sexist and ageist (hold on…is it too early to high-five myself for that?), yet it still bugs me not hearing the perspective from someone who “feels it” as opposed to somebody who “desires it”. So, sorry Anne Rice, E.L. James, and Sylvia Day, but you don’t know what it is like to squeeze a woman’s neck with your dick inside her. Well, the jury is still out on E.L. James.
Back on point – words. Every few months my Tumblr inbox reads…“Anonymous said: what kind of a Dom are you?”
I get this every so often from the latest “I just read 50 Shades” girl and I just laugh inside, delete the always “anon” Ask, probably burp, grab my balls, scratch my beard, and just move the fuck on.
I’m the same softie that bought his 8th-grade girlfriend a shitty 14K-gold chain necklace from the drug store and teddy bear on Valentine’s Day, just to get dumped that day when I handed it to her. Don’t worry, I dumped her two years later to even the balance.
I am that same weak teen who told his first love that he loved her as he took her virginity and meant it in every word when I said it. Who bought her flowers all the fucking time. The same fucker that opens doors no matter what. The never-sinister-character in real life, raised by a single mom who taught her son to respect women no matter what.
I fucking adore women – everything about them.
From their stupid fucking crippling beautiful soft hair all the way down to the goddamn asshole-like sexy little-painted toenails – I am so fucking weak for women it is pathetic.
But above everything else, it is that inner beauty. The way their minds work. The kick-ass “I can totally out-argue you” attitude coupled with the “let me make you some chicken noodle soup” nurturing side. That no matter how hard ass a bitch you might act, you are still one amazing pure soul on the inside.
The mind of a woman is God’s best creation – plain and simple.
That quality of just being a woman that is present in every single woman I have ever met on the face of this earth. It kills me.
I am a bundle of nothing over them. How’d that happen?
In bed, I express my passion the best way I know how – and that looks pretty angry sometimes, but it always founded in deep admiration for them. Every single woman I have ever hurt it fucking bothers me to this day, deeply. Even at work, if a girl thinks I am a dick, I hate it. Guys? Fuck em.
So save the “what kind of a Dom” shit for someone lame enough to think there is an actual answer to that question.
I am a passionate man. I love women. Period.
I love you so much I want to learn your thoughts and dive deep inside them. I want to journal with you and hear all your needs and wants and give you the best way I know how. I want to give you guidance and structure when you need it and take your verbal beatings when you are pissed off because I was insensitive. I want your collar to mean something unbreakable when I put it on you. I want your mind, emotions, and body, in the most vulnerable way, and I want to hand you all of me in return.
I want your orgasms and I want them in my front pocket, and I want to feed them to you like candy. I want your sex tears, your bruises, your red marks, your begging, your aching for me, and your gorgeous delicate face seeing mine in a passionate rage over your goddamn undeniably flawless presence.
It may look like I am mad at you. I am not.
I am just weak for you.