This is Part Two.  Read Part One here.  Read it now.  Because I effing say so.

So… I was confused.  I was drowning in depression and anxiety and had been all my life.  I had no way to see that my submissive tendencies were not just a form of self-harm.  (It wasn’t until much later when I saw the other things – anxiety, depression, etc.  – disappear specifically BECAUSE my desire to submit stayed totally intact and specifically because I had found a perfect outlet in a man I loved(Antonio!) that I began to understand it wasn’t a bad thing to want the things I wanted or feel good because of being bossed around.)

I didn’t go seeking a Master, and Antonio wasn’t looking for a slave.  I didn’t know those things existed outside freaky porn or people who just had strange fetishes. I didn’t know it could be lived as (essentially) a normal life.  When I found Antonio online, we just chatted.  He thought I was funny, and a decent writer.  And it all started when he wanted to see something I’ve written.

Now you’re all in for a treat (I’m being sarcastic; I dunno if anyone ACTUALLY really wants to read all this), because I saved the messages we sent back and forth in those days that followed casual online friendship and preceded oh-dear-god-I-must-be-yours feelings that have followed and never lessened (at least for me!) 

Cutting out all the non-related and stuff-I can’t-share information (and I changed ONE word to make up for a grammatical error because I’ve got OCD), below is word-for-word how our dynamic manifested itself.  In private messages on a forum totally unrelated to BDSM talking about totally unrelated things. I had messaged him a fictional conversation and he decided I was a good writer.  This followed:

ANTONIO, enjoying himself some exclamation points:  Wow, you’re good! I don’t know what you’re writing but whatever it is – I demand to read it! Whenever you feel it’s ready or you think you have something – send it!

ME, brushing his request off:  See, if I had some cojones, I could send people things I’ve written. Unfortunately, I don’t.  But I’ll make you a deal. If you can help me grow balls, I’ll curse you with some of my writing. How does that sound? (Aside from totally gross.)

ANTONIO, bustin’ out the bossiness: Well, I’ve got balls to spare – but you don’t need those, silly. Relax. Take it easy. What genre is it? Mainstream, literary, romance, speculative? And you don’t have to send it right away – unless you already have a piece laying around. Then I demand you send it this instant.  Don’t think about it. Absolve yourself of any responsibility or anxiety by just doing what I tell you and it’ll be done and over with before you know it and next thing you know, you’ll be sighing a happy sigh of relief and realize it wasn’t a big deal.

Trust me.

(Aside to blog readers:  At this point, I’m sure some of you can FEEL what those last two sentences did to me.  At that point he was just someone I was having a LOT of fun talking to and semi-flirting with. It seemed VERY out of character for him to say those things, too. He is a laid-back guy who wouldn’t strike you as the “commanding toward women” type.  He isn’t that type, actually.  He told me later that he was shaking his head when he hit send and wondering wtf had gotten into him, and that he was waiting to see if he was going to get a “How fucking dare you tell me what to do? Misogynist cocksucker!” message in return.  What he actually got in return was this…)

ME, flustered and elated, but STILL trying to escape having to show him my writing:  As for what I write… (I’m so tempted to sit here and bash myself. I’m impressively good at it. I’ll restrain myself because I know how obnoxious it is.) For the time being, I’m waiting for inspiration to strike again. I have a tendency to write a bunch, decide it’s crap, and delete everything. Repeatedly. I know everyone else panics when a document doesn’t save, or a hard drive crashes, but I look at it as divine intervention. I think I lack an ego.

To keep myself busy while I’m listening for a new story idea to whisper in my ear, I write semi-autobiographical short stories and truly frightening poetry. I do loads of editing as well.

Either you have an uncanny ability to read minds, or read people, or you just got really lucky with the last few sentences of your PM. So, because of them, as soon as I have anything polished and ready to go… It’s yours.

ANTONIO, totally not having my bullshit brush-offs:  My words were no accident. You’re a psychology major so you understand the dynamic. Some things are just instinctually recognized.

You say you write semi-autobiographical shorts. It’s simple; I’m going to give you a prompt. You’ll have three days to write a short story. Word count isn’t important at this point. Don’t worry about it, don’t think about it – just do as I say. The prompt is: Tell me of a discovery. It can be something you discovered about yourself, in a book, about a friend/relative, about life, at school, through observation – whatever.

Have it to me by midnight Thursday.

ME, who (despite not taking anything illicit) was so fucking high she would have failed a drug test : This “assignment” is already doing my head in. But I’m happy with that. Nothing like a little irrational paranoid fear to spice up my week… However, I need a word count from you or I’m going to hyperventilate and die.

You don’t want me dead, do you? DO YOU?

ANTONIO, keepin’ it real: Of course not, silly. What good would you be dead? 1500 words.

I sent him the story (I could post it for you guys some day as well, if anyone felt the deep desire to read a non-BDSM non-fiction short) and, years later, I can say the cheesy but true line that the rest is history!

And if anyone out there is wondering how long that first short story was? Well, you can bet your sweet asses it was PRECISELY 1,500 words.  Not one more, not one less. 

Can I follow directions or what?

The other day, Nilla asked me this question in her comments on this post.

See, erotic fiction is what got me here. That might be a meme question, how did you discover your kink?

Interesting question. I’m going to take advantage of it to go slightly off-topic and take up two posts!  Bwahahahaha, I rock!

Kink seems like the wrong word, for one.  I still don’t have the right one. I just… I felt submissive by nature, and that nature had proved itself unsafe and abnormal and dangerous.

I’ll give you an example of how I always sort of KNEW I needed to submit, to be treated a certain way… I remember, distinctly, sitting on the couch with my brother Harrison and a mutual friend, Jackson. We were watching a movie.  I was very comfortable, buried under blankets, and totally settled in. Per usual, I was operating under the pressure of self-hatred, anxiety, and depression. It was not so much a conscious thing, but just my perpetual state of being.  It was simply my whole reality for a very, very long time.

Out of nowhere, Jackson turned to me and said, “Chlo, go put on a pot of coffee.” Now, let’s be clear. I don’t drink coffee. Ever. Jackson knows this.  It was simply not in his brain at the moment that MY needs or desires should matter.

I rose from the couch, without a word and without hesitation, and went to make a pot of coffee. And… I can’t even describe the feeling.  To be vital yet unimportant.  To be useful but not fully valued.  It was the first time in months I had felt like I could actually breathe.  I was buzzing in silent thanks, feeling purpose and direction flood into me.  Yep, over a fucking pot of coffee.  I’m insane – I am aware.

Back then, moments like that made me feel like crap after.  Like I was broken and wrong and disgusting for feeling GOOD about something like that. (Now I know that because, while I cared for the person I submitted to, I didn’t love him, I had no romantic attachment, the tasks seemed empty because I need to feel appreciation and love in order to serve and debase myself.)  I can see those moments for what they truly were. 

I felt a need to be submitting, to be treated that way, and I had no understanding of it and no way to channel the need into a single person who I trusted with my life and my heart – which is really the only way for me to do it.  Instead, that need to submit left me raw and open and at ANYONE’S mercy.  I got hurt, a lot, in little ways and big ways ALL the fucking time because of that need.

So I suppose  my “kink” is less a kink and more of a basic survival need. I’m not someone who wants kinky sex because it’s omg!fun (it is, but that’s not the point).  I don’t want to submit because it makes me feel humble or sexy or used or anything (it does, but that’s not the point).  I NEED to be in service.  I NEED to be submitting to someone.  I can’t breathe or make choices or move forward when I’m not.  My anxiety paralyzes me and I feel disconnected and purposeless.  I begin to care less and less about myself and my life and my future.  The best I can hope for is to tread water, but forward movement is NOT gonna happen.  Trust me, I did it, in all its incarnations, for 20+ years of my 26 years on the planet.  (Come to think of it, more on this later in another post.)

But I didn’t have a name for it, and due to my self-hatred I actually assumed it was a bad thing.  I couldn’t separate that desire from the negative feelings I stewed in all day long. I thought that need was PART of my issues when the truth was the fact that the need wasn’t being met properly or safely or in a loving relationship was one of the CAUSES of my issues. 

So, the short answer to Nilla’s question would be: “I think I was born with this kink.”  I described that here.  The second part of the answer is: “And Antonio is the person who brought it into the light and showed me that it wasn’t wrong or bad or diseased.  And neither am I.”

And that little trip down memory lane will be posted in a moment!