Sadist or Dom­i­nant or Some­thing Else?

For the longest time I thought that I needed to a non-​submissive masochist to con­nect with, to com­mune with, to feed the sadist inside me. I was not even look­ing at sub­mis­sives and I pushed them away, say­ing that they were not of my species.

I have always found sub­mis­sive women allur­ing and blind­ingly beau­ti­ful, but I thought they were out­side my realm. There was no way I would inflict myself on such a beau­ti­ful and mag­i­cal crea­ture; I needed to com­mune with a female of my own species. Also beau­ti­ful and mag­i­cal but with the dif­fer­ence that she would not burn to ash beneath me.

Then a won­der­ful and beau­ti­ful woman appeared in my life. A pure-​breed sub­mis­sive; intel­li­gent, warm, car­ing and very much not into pain. She and I cor­re­sponded and even though she kept qual­i­fy­ing every other para­graph with how she did not do pain and me telling her that she was absolutely not what I needed, we could not stop communicating.

For the time we were together, she taught me pro­found les­son after another; she showed me the sen­sual beauty of sub­mis­sion and sur­ren­der and she gave me insight into myself and how dom­i­nant I instinc­tively become in the pres­ence of a sub­mis­sive woman. I had never really paid atten­tion to that part of me before, but she became a mir­ror for me and through her I saw that there is much more to me than the dark­ness of the roman­tic sadist poet. I am indeed dom­i­nant as well.

The dom­i­nant I am is just as raw and unre­fined as I am a sadist. I am sure that my essen­tial per­son­al­ity comes out in my writ­ing and espe­cially in my poetry; a glo­ri­ous absence of sub­tlety, bru­tally hon­est, a healthy lack of tact, self­ish, arro­gant, and a hope­less roman­tic. Still, there is no deny­ing the fact that I am arro­gant enough and feel enti­tled enough to tell a beau­ti­ful sub­mis­sive woman what to do and sim­ply take from her.

I do not label myself as dom­i­nant, how­ever. I will in fact argue with peo­ple who imply that I am. I sup­pose I feel that the label car­ries with it cer­tain con­no­ta­tions that I doubt I would live up to.

I am not cool and aloof; I am aggres­sive and inva­sive and in your face. I will not dis­tance myself from you; I invade your body and your soul and bite you and lick your tears and dig into you to make you scream in pain. I am not com­mand­ing; I will not tell you to kneel, I will just dig my fin­gers into your clav­i­cle and make your knees buckle by them­selves. And I am not look­ing for your obe­di­ence; I will not stop until I have your surrender.

Hav­ing said that, though, the pri­mary rea­son I chose the sadist label is sim­ply because that is the part of me that col­ors every­thing I am. The empa­thy, the irre­sistible urge to dis­sect the per­son I am talk­ing with to learn what makes them tick, the cursed need to make myself real through the other’s response to me, all that is always present. So the sim­ple truth is that I am a sadist with a dom­i­nant per­son­al­ity. Not that the dis­tinc­tion car­ries much weight with me; when I look myself in the mir­ror, all I see is me.

I have had occa­sion to think about the dis­tinc­tion between a masochist and a sub­mis­sive in the con­text of me, of how these aspects in a poten­tial part­ner fit with who and what I am.

I know that I need the masochist; that is fun­da­men­tal to me. Feed­ing from a sub­mis­sive who only endures pain as a ges­ture of sub­mis­sion to me is sim­ply not sat­is­fy­ing. Feed­ing from a masochist, on the other hand, who craves the pain as much as I crave to inflict it becomes a sym­bi­otic con­nec­tion where she feeds off me too. Her being a masochist is as essen­tial as her being female.

On the other hand, I have noticed that my heart responds pow­er­fully to the sub­mis­sive. As much as I need the masochist, I fall in love with the sub­mis­sive. I have yet to fig­ure out why, exactly, but I know it is true. I sim­ply can­not help it. The desire to please, to obey and to fol­low, a lit­tle bit of shy­ness and the sparkle in her eye when she looks at me, dis­man­tle my defenses before I real­ize that I am being taken pos­ses­sion of.

And the third prong that I am still shak­ing my head at while try­ing to com­pre­hend, is the grav­ity a “lit­tle girl” exerts on me. Not age-​play or role-​playing daddy and lit­tle girl, but I rel­ish feel­ing pro­tec­tive and com­fort­ing when she feels lit­tle and wants to hide and feel safe for a while. Maybe that will develop into Daddy Dreamwalker some­day, he he; I just know that it feels good when she seeks shel­ter under my arm.

So, I have gone from think­ing that non-​submissive masochists were the only pos­si­ble match for me, to real­iz­ing that as I gain dimen­sion­al­ity in my own jour­ney, I seek match­ing dimen­sion­al­ity in my part­ner. And I have real­ized that sub­mis­sive masochists with a lit­tle girl in their hearts are pure Kryp­tonite for me.

The only thing even more dan­ger­ous for my heart would be a sub­mis­sive masochists with a lit­tle girl in her heart, wear­ing a Cash­mere sweater dress.

Swoon.