Marquis
Jack Dawkins
- Joined
- Jul 9, 2002
- Posts
- 10,462
I look back on the events of my life, and it is sometimes difficult for me to tell if I have grown through the significant moments that my memory latches onto, or if these moments are just the punctuation of a gradually increased understanding, like diplomas handed out after years of hard study.
I experienced something last night that has changed me. Or maybe it was just the first time I had looked in the mirror in a while.
When I first got into BDSM it was a way to get out frustrations I had with the female gender, and get them to give me the kinky things I wanted from them. From reading this board I could tell it meant a lot more to many people, and I made a misguided attempt to use BDSM as an excuse to be controlling and possessive. BDSM then became a frame of reference in my sexuality, a schematic that I used to get more pleasure out of meaningless sexual encounters. The first place I ever heard about BDSM was on this board, and I have made all of these phases rather public through my posts.
I don't try to force things, but I have been looking forward to entering the next phase of who I am as a Dominant, and allowing this to have a deeper meaning in my life. While I am still young and I am sure I have many exciting experiences ahead of me, I think I may have taken the sadistic stud thing as far as it's gonna go for me. I have fucked every kind of woman imaginable and imposed my sexual dominance on enough women to last a lifetime.
A few years ago, locked into an unhappy relationship and weighing 60 pounds more than I do now, I wanted more than anything to be a playboy and experience the women of the world. While I don't think monogamy will ever be the right thing for me, I want much more than a cheap thrill from my partners now. It's taking more and more to satisfy me, and I've hit a barrier where a revolving door policy on females is no longer going to cut it, as convenient as that sometimes is.
So perhaps as a function of my desire to move on, or maybe as a result of her excellence as a person, I have been spending more and more of my time with one exceptional female. I have never offered her any commitment other than the promise that I will always be honest with her and never hide anything, something that comes naturally to me anyway. She knows that I am in the process of starting a relationship with another female that I find equally exemplary and she not only accepts this, but is considering being open to a polyamorous relationship despite the beliefs she was raised with. She knows I am not willing to compromise on doing what I think is right, and she submits to my will, even though she often disagrees with it. Our trust has built slowly, as trust should be built, and our relationship has budded and blossomed nicely.
There are however, still times where I think we may be a terrible mismatch. Our differences in age and beliefs, as well as our priorities in life often serve as obstacles that prevent us from being more committed. I think we're both happy to have each other in our lives however, and that is enough.
So last night when she started to have an anxiety attack I was torn on what to do. She was in a state of sheer irrational panic and it was getting worse by the minute. She became incredibly tense, and her heart pounded like a jackhammer. She begged me to call an ambulance. To see her like this was more painful than I could bear. She could've been overreacting but I didn't know if she was going to get better or worse. Every time I approached her she would get even more tense and upset. There was nothing I could do, I had to call the ambulance. I had the phone in my hand when I remembered a life altering experience from 10 years ago.
I was a middle school student at a Jesuit mission school in Nairobi, Kenya. We were on a school trip to Tsavo, land of the lions. Just about all 30 of us had come out. 29 Kenyans of Kikuyu, Luo, Kalenjin, Kamba, Gujarrat and Punjab descent and me. We gripped however many Shillings our parents gave us in our pockets as the bus approached an oasis where Masai would sell jewelry and trinkets to tourists. As we got out of the bus we were swarmed by merchants and beggars in traditional Masai garb.
I promised myself I wouldn't spend my money on anything that wasn't truly unique, and I searched for that item now as I waded past the women and children with their arms out. As I looked around the small collection of mud huts, I noticed a leper sitting in the shade of a tree. His legs had rotten off at the knees, was missing several fingers and he had sores on most parts of his body. I looked over at him and our eyes met. This man certainly didn't speak English, and probably didn't even speak Swahili. Yet somehow when our eyes met there was a great and deep communication between the two of us. There was something in the leper's gaze that let me know he was a great man.
I walked over to him and sat down beside him, to the disbelief of all onlookers. He showed no signs of being surprised by this even though no one had probably approached him like this in years. We looked at each other again, and I handed him every Shilling in my pocket. He took it one hand and raised another to touch my face. I did not shy away. The leper stroked my face with what few fingers he had on his hand, sores and all, and I felt blessed. I knew that I would not get leprosy. Somewhere in between my feeling of generosity and his incredible aura of pride and dignity created a moment too perfect to corrupt. I walked away and never looked back. I did not see him, but I know the leper resumed his daily activities with as much aplomb as I did, even though we had shared an experience neither of us would ever forget.
I put the phone down feeling like I could stop her heart with my mind if I wanted to. I approached her and she looked at me like a stranger, standing stiff as a board, arms straight down at her sides and hyperventilating out of control. I grabbed her and held her tight against me as I looked into her eyes.
"There is no ambulance coming. You are in my care and you are going to be fine. You are going to breathe with me, do you understand?"
She muttered through gritted teeth, "Yes Sir."
I inhaled and she inhaled. I exhaled and she exhaled. For a long time it felt like her heart was going to burst right through her ribcage, but I didn't stop looking in her eyes and I didn't stop breathing. Her heartbeat softened slowly and we continued to breathe. Finally I felt her arms rise to hold me and she whispered into my ear.
"Thank you for bringing me back."
We held each other gently until she felt OK to go to bed.
The first time I had a girl call me Sir it was a shy imitation of what would one day become a deep desire. Soon after that novelty wore off, being called Sir became a sign that I had a position of some dominance during sex, and was a kinky thrill. Then for a while being called Sir was a small symbol in a group of fetishes that get me off; and eventually became a sign of respect in a relationship, a respect that could be demanded inside the bedroom or outside it. But this was a new "Sir".
I'm not exactly sure how to interpret this yet, but I guess it means more power and more responsibility.
I can dig it.
I experienced something last night that has changed me. Or maybe it was just the first time I had looked in the mirror in a while.
When I first got into BDSM it was a way to get out frustrations I had with the female gender, and get them to give me the kinky things I wanted from them. From reading this board I could tell it meant a lot more to many people, and I made a misguided attempt to use BDSM as an excuse to be controlling and possessive. BDSM then became a frame of reference in my sexuality, a schematic that I used to get more pleasure out of meaningless sexual encounters. The first place I ever heard about BDSM was on this board, and I have made all of these phases rather public through my posts.
I don't try to force things, but I have been looking forward to entering the next phase of who I am as a Dominant, and allowing this to have a deeper meaning in my life. While I am still young and I am sure I have many exciting experiences ahead of me, I think I may have taken the sadistic stud thing as far as it's gonna go for me. I have fucked every kind of woman imaginable and imposed my sexual dominance on enough women to last a lifetime.
A few years ago, locked into an unhappy relationship and weighing 60 pounds more than I do now, I wanted more than anything to be a playboy and experience the women of the world. While I don't think monogamy will ever be the right thing for me, I want much more than a cheap thrill from my partners now. It's taking more and more to satisfy me, and I've hit a barrier where a revolving door policy on females is no longer going to cut it, as convenient as that sometimes is.
So perhaps as a function of my desire to move on, or maybe as a result of her excellence as a person, I have been spending more and more of my time with one exceptional female. I have never offered her any commitment other than the promise that I will always be honest with her and never hide anything, something that comes naturally to me anyway. She knows that I am in the process of starting a relationship with another female that I find equally exemplary and she not only accepts this, but is considering being open to a polyamorous relationship despite the beliefs she was raised with. She knows I am not willing to compromise on doing what I think is right, and she submits to my will, even though she often disagrees with it. Our trust has built slowly, as trust should be built, and our relationship has budded and blossomed nicely.
There are however, still times where I think we may be a terrible mismatch. Our differences in age and beliefs, as well as our priorities in life often serve as obstacles that prevent us from being more committed. I think we're both happy to have each other in our lives however, and that is enough.
So last night when she started to have an anxiety attack I was torn on what to do. She was in a state of sheer irrational panic and it was getting worse by the minute. She became incredibly tense, and her heart pounded like a jackhammer. She begged me to call an ambulance. To see her like this was more painful than I could bear. She could've been overreacting but I didn't know if she was going to get better or worse. Every time I approached her she would get even more tense and upset. There was nothing I could do, I had to call the ambulance. I had the phone in my hand when I remembered a life altering experience from 10 years ago.
I was a middle school student at a Jesuit mission school in Nairobi, Kenya. We were on a school trip to Tsavo, land of the lions. Just about all 30 of us had come out. 29 Kenyans of Kikuyu, Luo, Kalenjin, Kamba, Gujarrat and Punjab descent and me. We gripped however many Shillings our parents gave us in our pockets as the bus approached an oasis where Masai would sell jewelry and trinkets to tourists. As we got out of the bus we were swarmed by merchants and beggars in traditional Masai garb.
I promised myself I wouldn't spend my money on anything that wasn't truly unique, and I searched for that item now as I waded past the women and children with their arms out. As I looked around the small collection of mud huts, I noticed a leper sitting in the shade of a tree. His legs had rotten off at the knees, was missing several fingers and he had sores on most parts of his body. I looked over at him and our eyes met. This man certainly didn't speak English, and probably didn't even speak Swahili. Yet somehow when our eyes met there was a great and deep communication between the two of us. There was something in the leper's gaze that let me know he was a great man.
I walked over to him and sat down beside him, to the disbelief of all onlookers. He showed no signs of being surprised by this even though no one had probably approached him like this in years. We looked at each other again, and I handed him every Shilling in my pocket. He took it one hand and raised another to touch my face. I did not shy away. The leper stroked my face with what few fingers he had on his hand, sores and all, and I felt blessed. I knew that I would not get leprosy. Somewhere in between my feeling of generosity and his incredible aura of pride and dignity created a moment too perfect to corrupt. I walked away and never looked back. I did not see him, but I know the leper resumed his daily activities with as much aplomb as I did, even though we had shared an experience neither of us would ever forget.
I put the phone down feeling like I could stop her heart with my mind if I wanted to. I approached her and she looked at me like a stranger, standing stiff as a board, arms straight down at her sides and hyperventilating out of control. I grabbed her and held her tight against me as I looked into her eyes.
"There is no ambulance coming. You are in my care and you are going to be fine. You are going to breathe with me, do you understand?"
She muttered through gritted teeth, "Yes Sir."
I inhaled and she inhaled. I exhaled and she exhaled. For a long time it felt like her heart was going to burst right through her ribcage, but I didn't stop looking in her eyes and I didn't stop breathing. Her heartbeat softened slowly and we continued to breathe. Finally I felt her arms rise to hold me and she whispered into my ear.
"Thank you for bringing me back."
We held each other gently until she felt OK to go to bed.
The first time I had a girl call me Sir it was a shy imitation of what would one day become a deep desire. Soon after that novelty wore off, being called Sir became a sign that I had a position of some dominance during sex, and was a kinky thrill. Then for a while being called Sir was a small symbol in a group of fetishes that get me off; and eventually became a sign of respect in a relationship, a respect that could be demanded inside the bedroom or outside it. But this was a new "Sir".
I'm not exactly sure how to interpret this yet, but I guess it means more power and more responsibility.
I can dig it.
.....and it affirms some of what I have already told you I have seen in you and felt comfortable with for want of a better word. 
