I felt fuzzy all day today, my edges blurred and insubstantial. This is not a bad thing, in fact I am quietly enjoying it: letting myself experience and taste it, ease into and enjoy this warm, cocooned feeling. So often my life has clear, defined edges, a sharp clarity in all that I do and perceive. It’s necessary to be that way, to be “on” and clear and focused. Today…not so much. Today my head is like that window behind me, awash in rainwater, smeared opalescent and just a bit out of focus.
It’s a happy feeling. A content feeling.
Last weekend was rough, but, ultimately, it was a positive experience. We came through stronger, our connection deeper and with a greater understanding of ourselves, of each other, and of our relationship. Sometimes…I think we need to go to those dark spaces, we need to fear losing what we have in order to fully appreciate it. )That we never should have had that fear in the first place is beside the point. I’m working on my issues–leave me alone.) ;-)
Last night I went home to W after work. Home in more than just the sense of a physical space. I hadn’t been there since our rather ecstatic balcony adventure, and in between then and last night we had our “bump.” In the past when we experienced something like this, I was a little hesitant to go back into “W space” again, a little fearful that, even after we had talked it all out, things would be different…skewed or distorted by the emotional turmoil. It is more than just not wanting to play (or wanting to) after an emotional upheaval, although finding each other in that space is important too. It is this fear that things really will be different between us. That we won’t be able to find that space again, that connection.
And yes, there is also my fear that, because of the emotional places we go in our non-play relationship, you know, the one that is he and I as a couple, as lovers, that he may not want to play with me as a BDSM partner, as someone to fuck and abuse, with the same intensity that we have in the past. That he won’t be able to because of how he feels about me. He has said before that being emotionally attached changes play for him…it does for me, too; but in my case it makes it more intense, deeper, allows me to go further, to give more of myself. In his case…I think he feels it takes the edge off. And when those emotions are the complex mix that comes when you have an upheaval like we did, well, it’s understandable that he might not be in the best headspace to play.
But sometimes, that’s when I need it the most.
It’s quixotic, and counter-intuitive, perhaps, unless you understand the things that I take from the play that we do. Unless you understand why I play, why I go the places I do. For me it is about connection: it affirms us, it brings who we are to each other–the play partners as well as the life-partners–back into focus, connects the two and nestles me back into that deeply intimate space that we share when we are there. Even when a scene is especially brutal or vicious, even when it is as intense and disconnecting as this one was (and perhaps even more so when it is) it is the reconnection that I crave, that confirms in me why I am there.
Sometimes, because I know that he reacts differently, I am hesitant to bring it up. It’s hard for me to ask for play anyway (though I have gotten better about it) but even more so when my emotions are so raw and fresh. I need it, want it, but I am afraid to ask for it. And not only because of my own fears of rejection, but because I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable. I know he hates to disappoint me, but I also know that if he wasn’t ready for it he wouldn’t go there, even if I asked. Regardless, I can’t stand the thought of putting him in a uncomfortable position in the first place.
I needn’t have worried about any of that last night. I needn’t have worried about feeling disconnected or out of sync with him, either. It was like the bump had never happened and we were just…us. And after some talk and a drink, he did play with me, and if he felt different about it I couldn’t tell–he made me his again, reclaimed me, marked me, made me his Dirty Girl, as only he can.
The funny part is that what brought me back last night was not so much the play, although I love being his Dirty Girl, I love that special intimacy between us when we are in those spaces where I am stripped down, naked emotionally, existing only for him, and, at times, feeling as though I exist only because of him. What brought me home last night was late that night, as I lay in bed with him. He had put the headcage on me earlier, and kept it on, even when we went to bed. “You can tell me if it gets too uncomfortable,” he said as we prepared for sleep. It wasn’t comfortable, but I could tolerate it, for him, and I curled into him, loving the feel of his arms around me, holding me to him. But I was restless, and sometime later I woke and turned over, rolling uncomfortably onto the cage. I don’t know if I made a noise, or if it was just my movement that woke him, but I wouldn’t have woken him to take it off deliberately, even if it was uncomfortable. But he knew, somehow. He turned over, and a moment later I felt his hands on the cage, at the locks that secure it on. Gently, he removed it, and stroked my hair as I lay my head back down on the pillow. Feeling his hand on me, so tender after the scene earlier, was what finally did it. I had reconnected with him. I fell at once into a deep, contented sleep, all my restlessness gone. I was home.