The first boy I ever fell in love with was a vanilla submissive. I have mentioned him before.
We are still in touch, I am pretty sure that I gave him this blog address at some stage long ago. I doubt he reads it, but I really don’t know and haven’t asked. If he does: *smile… wave* Hello there, A!!!
We were together before I had ever heard of BDSM, or D/s, or any of that. I once had us write sexual fantasies for each other. We were exploring possibilities, and I wanted to hear what was deep in the back of his mind. Maybe it would be something he had never shared, nothing was off limits. I thought it might take us somewhere exciting.
I wrote a terribly violent story about abuse and non consensual sex, about fear and power and helplessness, all scary and wrong and sooo fucking dirty-hot.
I don’t even remember what he wrote, but he was finished first and he gave me his story to read. Even though I can’t at all recall what it was about, I clearly remember reading it and thinking, “I am NEVER sharing mine with him… NEVER EVER EVER…”
I imagine his was sweet and romantic, as he was.
And mine was… wrong. Bad. Frightening.
I told him my story wasn’t done yet, which was true, and since the entire thing was my idea, he never chased me for it. I can’t remember if I finished it, but I let the whole idea drift away.
We never spoke of it again.
This post was inspired by this article in the NY Times: Finding the Courage to Reveal a Fetish