Perspectives of the Submissive

I don’t remember the first time the realization came to me that I was in fact falling in love with my boyfriend. It was almost always a truth. I think the first time I saw him I knew he was mine. In my heart of hearts I felt the connection tethering us together. Sure the first time I saw him would be a couple months before we ever actually had a conversation, but just his presence near me completely melted me down. Even now I giggle and blush at that very first meeting. It’s certainly affirming to know that someone who you care for, sees you truly. To know that what you feel is reciprocated is the sweetest pleasure. 

In all my past relationships our first confrontations meant the beginning of the end. We suited up for war gathering our troops, our weapons, our receipts, and resentments. Every grievance laid out and used to tear each other down. You can lust for someone and care for them, but not respect them. Too often have the men I’ve been with not seen me as a full person. I’ve been a source of ego boosting and lust release. Building up fantasies for these men, of these men. I give and give and give until I’m spent. Until I’m broken down and hungry. Drained of every ounce of hope and every rose colored pair of glasses I own shattered. It’s where my pure disdain for cis men comes from. There’s no oxytocin release to mask the frustration because too many of them can’t even get you off. 

Most men annoy me. Or flat-out disgust me. I hate men. It’s a very central part of my personality. I talk at length about how violent and destructive they are. How inherently evil they are, even the ones you think aren’t complicit, they’re the worst ones. They know better and yet they fall short and participate in misogyny and harassment.  Because the problem with men isn’t always with the individual standing in front of you, it's with a culture that permeates so deeply that it’s practically embedded in their DNA. Every man I met, every ally I made always makes the grave mistake of forgetting their manhood. They lecture or berate you on the dangers of the world and the horrors of living under patriarchy and give you confused innocent gazes when you tilt your head to the side and remind them of the ways they participate in the subjugation of women without even thinking about it. 

I think like most people in my generation I was exposed to explicit content and kink far too early. I recall being 13 or 14 and scrolling through Tumblr forums of DDlg relationships. The aesthetics and pretty pictures drawing in a barbie pink obsessed tween. I had unfettered internet access and I think that despite my early introductions to sex I was a lot tamer than others my age. I didn’t seek out grown men on Kik or Instagram or talk to strangers on Omegle. I have always had a great awareness of how I am perceived by others. 

One of the most talked about tenets of sexuality is shame. Growing in the Bible Belt the eldest daughter of immigrants I am no stranger to shame. I’ve been hiding the deepest darkest aspects of myself from everyone my entire life, often even denying myself the acknowledgement of these deepest truths. I was the poster child for abstinence. screaming from the rooftops about how I was going to wait until marriage. I don’t know how much of this was due to my hatred of men versus how much shame I had exploring my desires. I lost my virginity to a man nearly twice my age and the power imbalance turned me on more than he could. 

In large part the reason I don’t share my deepest kinks is because I know how deep rooted in my own trauma they are. I get defensive when women are in positions of power over me and don’t conform to the sweet docile image the patriarchy too often demands of women. So I begrudgingly follow their commands because I want more women in charge, we’re often far more efficient and qualified and I am not letting my bullshit get in the way of progress. But when a man is above or has some power over me I melt. There are specific parameters for this imbalance of course. The man must in some way subscribe to traditional gender roles or exude an air of dominance that doesn’t venture too far into narcissism. I can get behind a cocky man, but not one whose ego is unmatched with his actual stature or status. I date exclusively older men, but the problem with this is they don’t like to be confronted with the optics of our dynamic. Why else would you as a man old enough to be my father seek me out? Likely the same reason I, young enough to be your daughter, sought you out. 

I once met with a man who in the middle of giving him head asked me why I was into submission or curious about it. He pulled me off and left shortly after I looked up at him, masking my face with a coy gaze and asked, “is it cliche to say daddy issues?” Men don’t like to be confronted with the idea that they’re doing something wrong. I was willing to acknowledge it though. These men weren’t men to write home about. I didn't sleep with any of them. I got to afford some privileges of being in their orbit as their prize and go home pretending nothing happened but filling a little bit of a hole inside me. 

I briefly dabbled with the idea of independence. By independence I mean a months-long fling with a man who wanted me to do 50/50 and girlfriend things while telling me he wasn’t looking to settle down for another decade. This one singular example reaffirmed my mile long list of ideals and traits in my future husband. I am not relinquishing my agency and autonomy, I'm simply seeking a safe place to rest those responsibilities upon. I have been independent since I was a child. Taking myself home from school and making sure that I fed my younger sister. I was the only person in charge of my grade book and deciding what classes I took. I would be completely on my own across the city with no questions from my parents. Just a debit card and a dream. I am tired of being so wound up and anxious and controlling of my environment and body. Submission gives me that freedom. It gives me permission to do what my partner wants without any shame or worry of what my family or community may think. It helps me process my adultification. It helps me feel closer to every nerve in my body and heightens an intimate act that I only feel comfortable doing with my partner. It makes me feel alive. 

But I do worry about the ramifications. I am only 21 and so willing to forsake so much of my agency and life for pleasure. So much freedom that all the women before me fought tooth and nail to gain. I worry about the notion that I may get pregnant and under current abortions statutes in my state be forced to keep the child. And I want to keep the child. I want to be a mother, but there’s a key difference in relinquishing control and not having any power at all. It’s the importance of consent. Every aspect of the dynamic must be agreed upon and communicated thoroughly. It’s why it took me six months in my current partnership to slowly peel back the layers and open myself to him in this way. The hints of how he felt were there. His every kiss a rage of passion pulling me into him as if I could melt in his arms. His embrace is solid and firm and warm. I think instinctively we both fell into the roles we were most comfortable playing. He led and I let him. I liked that he decided where we would go. That he was an encyclopedia of information and experiences. I liked that he wasn’t too much older than me, a respectable 2 years. I liked that we fit so well. Every conversation we have flows naturally and goes on for hours and hours. Finally a partner that understands my youthful humor. That doesn’t eye me curiously when I slip into a fake British accent. That understands my anxiety about the world because they are too starting their venture into it, not decades deep in the American landscape. 

I think these little moments shape the relationship as much as the big overarching themes. How can I truly submit to someone who doesn’t understand me? When I am just a toy for him to play with, a doll for him to play dress up with, and not a full person the ease and sensuality is lost. The playfulness has to mask something more sinister rather than just allow us to be as we are. Two lovers humoring each other not a prey and predator dancing around the roles we are in. I know the wolf is wearing sheep’s clothing. I just wish he tried to make the costume fit. The seams are unraveling and they don’t mask the dangerous glint in his eyes. Because at the end of the day I am submitting myself to the patriarchy. There’s no power in putting yourself in a victim's position. You only reinforce the dangerous ways the powers that be believe women to be. Either truly innocent helpless victims or evil witches entrapping men.

an excerpt from ‘Parable of the Sower’ by Octavia E. Butler

As I write this I sent a rough draft to a close friend who lives in India, who I shall refer to as Ali, and my younger sister, Boots. I asked them if they believed me to be psychotic. Ali, who always sees the best in everything I do, called me an observer. Saying to me, “you always make me see things in ways I’ve never thought about before.” She was one of the first people I openly expressed my submissive desires too. We had a short conversation on the dynamics of consent agreeing that the power comes from the submissive not the dominant. You can only have power over me if I give it to you, but it isn’t something that should be expected. Don’t expect me to just give in because you’re a man, because you’re older. Respect is earned and with me it’s earned through care and trust and honesty.  

Being submissive is a vulnerable position to be in and you can only be truly vulnerable with someone you trust. I didn’t trust any of the men before my current partner. It’s why I only slept with the first one. After just one interaction you learn the subtle way men tick. They don’t need to be the dominant always, they just need to feel like you are below them. You can use them and extract whatever resources you require as long as you play their games. It’s something all good southern church girls learn. You don’t have to stay pure, obey every sermon and verse, or be the perfect vision of mother Mary, you just have to do enough to present an image they want to see. Participate enough, make yourself humble and small enough, share your faults enough. 

In all aspects of my life I was truly groomed to be a sugar baby or housewife or a submissive. I’ve always liked following the rules or doing just enough to get my way. I’ve always been keen on the ways in which you can manipulate men in your favor. Stroking the ego’s of uncles, cousins, and family friends at the bidding of the women in my life. “Ask him nicely and he’ll give you some money,” they would say, nudging me along. I don’t know if I would say on their own these actions are predatory, but coupled with the ways in which I was told I needed to cook and clean and make sure to serve my partner first they are. Learning to manipulate people into doing my bidding for me before I learned how to drive a car or apply to colleges. Even now at 21 I know to respect the delicate balance of teasing my father as children do and propping him up on a pedestal. 

I feign ignorance and play coy allowing others to take over for me. Since going blonde this dumb act has only become so much easier. I can be an intellectual espousing Shakespeare and plath and kafka and butler and atwood, but also looked down on so that I don’t have to truly take control of my own life. I’m certainly not incapable. I lived on my own for a year and for many years before that I was mostly physically and emotionally independent. But if others have expectations of me, who am I to work against them? If you doubt me continue to! Expect nothing from me and I will do nothing. Put me in a box and I will mold myself as best as I can to fit in it for you. Is this a survival tactic? Of course! But when the nuclear bombs drop two things will survive: cockroaches and me.

So how do I face love having these views that exist on a swinging pendulum? There's no bigger hypocrite than me quite frankly. The answer is I don’t know. I’m still figuring my own shit out. I think it's that the mask has to drop. I can’t be the same person with him as I am with everyone else. I think one he’d call me out on my bullshit, but two I can’t even put up the persona with him. I don’t worry about survival or perception when I’m with him. I often forget the world outside of us even exists. The girl who is worried about letting go or everything not being perfect doesn’t exist the moment his lips touch mine. Sure the darkness seeps through and the anxious, jealous, and obsessive parts of me won’t just go away because I have a stable partner, but I feel less of need to be any of those.

I will freak out and hyperventilate and then remember that I have nothing to worry about. I just have to have that freak out first. Every misstep, every time I trip and scrape my knee, everytime I fuck up I broaden my world and the perspectives I have. I am far from a perfect feminist, far from a perfect woman, but on this journey of self discovery it is important to me that I acknowledge all the parts of me for who they are. I am a lover and fighter and kind and a bitch. I can love my boyfriend and still be critical of the patriarchy and the destructive ways of men. I want to be a mother and a wife, but it is not all I am destined for. A full life means holding space for hypocrisy and having a willingness to keep learning and growing. We are quilts woven through experience and knowledge and cared for through the love and nurturing of others and ourselves. 

my april playlist because we still have the freedom to dance, at least for now…