I left a mile-long comment at mouse's place a while back. I try not to do that because, yea--got my own crazy little place to ramble. But, I was sitting here thinking as I have not had much time to do lately (well, that's not exactly accurate, I think all. The. Damn. Time. but business is different). And I started thinking about that uncomfortable feeling that comes when he pushes the edges further out. I mean, I really thought about it.
Before I thought about it, I stood back on the edges and felt it. Not the nitty-gritty little pitfalls of emotion that suck me in, not the jealousy or self doubt, not the emotions that revolve around my concept of self, or the personal perspective of the human sensations an experience evokes. I felt my way around the sensations that come with not being in control. I mean, truly not in control, those places where I would never choose to go but where he can take me if he so chooses.
And I accepted that is my turn-on, my drug of choice, my Achilles heel--the control that is so absolute as to withstand, surpass, and even bypass, my own desires.
More than kisses and sweet nothings, more even than bondage and the pleasure/pain edge, the kink and the physical sensations...Riding that edge of discomfort, the not wanting something so much that being made to do it anyways becomes a turn-on of its own.
I have been pondering my apparent attraction to living on the edge, and my seemingly conflicting desperation for security.
I have come to the conclusion that the two are not a separate as they might appear.
I love hanging off the edge. But only when I know that he is on the other end of the rope that is keeping me from falling to my doom.
I like to play with my demons
to touch my fears
to reach for the fire
and know that he will not allow them to consume me
will not allow them to become me
will not allow it to burn me.