By Lisabet Sarai
I was sure he was the One. But then I’ve felt the same about so many others—my serial soul mates.
Let
me back up. I’ve written many times here about my initiation into
BDSM, about how profoundly it changed my view of myself and the
world. I may have given you the impression that my relationship with
my Master was all about sex. That’s not at all true. What made the
experience so thrilling was not the physical pleasure (or the pain),
but rather the sense of connection and utter trust. G taught me the
exquisite joy of total surrender. He coaxed me to open myself to him,
mind and body. When I did, I reaped exquisite rewards.
My
love for him was profound, though at the time I believed he saw me
only as his plaything. I didn’t know him nearly as well as he
seemed to know me. I see now that he loved me, too, in his own way,
though he never told explicitly used the words. Now I understand him
much better, almost forty years after that first incandescent fuck
that demonstrated his power. He’s sentimental, vulnerable, an
incurable romantic, despite his sometimes rude or mocking ways. I was
just blind.
So
I thought it was arrogant possessiveness, not love, when he asked for
my promise. He wanted me to guarantee that if I thought I’d found
someone else, I’d come to see him first so he could win me back. I
willingly gave my word. I didn’t want anyone else anyway. Though he
and I lived four hundred miles apart, me in southern California, he
in the north, we visited as often as we could. He was my Master. The
relationship wasn’t easy, but I couldn’t imagine wanting to sever
our ties.
Then
I met M. I was susceptible, alone in the city, working at my
challenging first job as a professional, trying to adjust to living
in a culture radically different from my New England upbringing. M
was sitting on the steps of his building a few blocks from my
apartment. He gave me a crooked grin, invited me out to dinner, gave
me a ride in his sports car, got me high, fucked me with a
single-minded intensity in which I should have recognized echoes of
my Master, but didn’t. I was dazzled, suddenly in love. M took me
over, both physically and emotionally. We fit, physically, and we
seemed to share a kind of telepathic communication, especially when
we were in bed together.
For
more than a month we spent every night and every weekend together. He
told me he loved me. I was head over heels, sure he was the One,
thinking (bizarre as it sounds now) about marriage.
Still,
there was that promise I’d made to G. If I was about to become
monogamous with M, I owed it to my Master to tell him personally. I
flew up to San Francisco, as I had so many times before, though
instead of the usual excitement I felt dread. What would G say? What
would he do?
I
imagined him grabbing me, throwing me on the bed, screwing me as hard
as he could—reminding me that he owned me. Those images reawakened
my excitement. He was my Master. He would reclaim me. I was his. Away
from M, the influence of my new lover faded. Nervous, conflicted, I
hoped that G would help me make up my mind.
Instead,
he cried.
Have
I told this story before? How helpless I felt in the face of his
abdicating his authority over me? How silly I felt for keeping that
promise? Not to mention disappointed, even betrayed? He was my
Master. He was supposed to be strong.
That
was one of the worst weekends in my life. G was sullen, nasty,
self-pitying. I can’t remember if we had sex, but if we did, it
didn’t fix things.
I
returned to my new home, my job, my new lover.
Three
weeks later M disappeared for the weekend. Unable to contact him, I
was frantic. Remember, we’d been spending almost all our free time
together. I worried that he’d been in an accident, that he was ill
somewhere, even that he’d been kidnapped. I didn’t know what to
do.
Monday
morning I found out he’d been in Las Vegas, marrying his former
girlfriend. I grieved. At the same time, I cursed myself for being
such a fool.
That
wasn’t the end of my relationship with my Master, of course. Even
now, we still call one another “lover”. We communicate by email,
talk by phone occasionally, meet every half decade or so if we can.
Still, I think my reckless decision to tell him I’d found someone
else damaged us in some fundamental way. Or perhaps the sight of him
in tears at the thought of losing me undermined his authority as my
Master.
I
sometimes wonder—fantasize, actually—what would have happened if
he’d been more forceful. If he’d claimed me as he’d hinted he
would, when I showed up at his door. Would we still be together?
Would I have been able to give him the devotion he needed, over the
long term? Would we still be playing kinky games, even though we’re
both senior citizens?
I’ll
never know. I kept my promise. What would have happened if he’d
kept his?
