The road to fucked up power dynamics is paved with demands and fragile egos, so if you expect me to submit before your belt is even undone, you’re not going to have a good time getting me under your thumb. I’m no icon of subly perfection. I’m dominant in my everyday life, and I will eat your domly ambitions for breakfast with fava beans and a nice Chianti if your kink is made of ice instead of marshmallows.
Coldness just makes me resistant to power exchange. I’m like a dog with a toy he’s only interested in when someone tries to take it away. I will play tug-of-war if you expect too much from me too soon because submission is a risk I don’t take until I’m ready. And in my world, “ready” means trusting—of your heart, your ethics, and your humility. My submission doesn’t roll of a production line like Pepsi cans. It requires a particular kind of alchemy made up of the character traits I respect.
I don’t prostrate myself in front of someone purely because of his label, and I don’t create a kink framework for relationships in advance. I prefer the framework to grow around us in its own time. I often feel like an imposter for those reasons. I just cannot submit from the “Go” corner. First I want to find out if you sulk when you land on “jail” or if you take your dice rolls as seriously as you do your bacon.
A lot of dominants want their obedience to flow from a tap like water right from the start despite that they never turned the faucet. I can’t promise that to anyone. In one way, I see that as a disability, but on the other, I quite like this aspect of kink. Vanilla sex doesn’t start with a list of everything we’ll be doing to each other over the next few months, and I don’t understand why kink is treated differently. I’m a different kind of s-type with every man. This comes from the way we respond to one another and what you evoke in me.
In other words, I’m more interested in who you are than in what you are, and I think love stories should always be that way.