Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  That was the best he could muster? Something really had him. This was a man who could do raging battle with bare fists. What or who was he afraid of?

  The answer was truly hidden deep inside him. Intrinsically he knew what held our destinies. He was asking my permission to release it? A god needs no one’s permission. How could I possibly convey that to him without squelching him further? I couldn’t give him ‘permission’ to sexually dominate me; how ludicrous.

  He had no answer; I’d hit a brick wall, so all I could do was shake my head and slip down from his tall Mercedes to climb the stairs to my office.

  Yes, I wanted more; but how could I tell him? Oh, dear god, what I wanted! What I dreamt of with him! How I craved his sexual fury, his lascivious lightning! Dreamt of igniting the real bonfires of raw sex!... of his releasing every ounce of pent-up up passion hiding deep in his soul—on me. I wanted desperately to be shown that I was desired beyond all human capacity to reason, through lust and dominance and animalistic carnality of the most base and salacious kind. I yearned so for the unspeakable; but this unspeakable, if I were the one to give it life would simply dissipate like mountain mists in the sun. I couldn’t be the one to tell him. That’s like buying your own birthday present and wrapping it up with a bow.

  No, this Valkyrie flight to our ephemeral realm had to be launched by him; there was no other way. I did not want us to dissipate; not us, not on this journey to Valhalla we had begun. I could only cling to the ledge and wait. More infuriating waiting. God, the waiting was madness!

  All the while I, too, was finding my place. Even if his was not yet actualized, I knew mine, it was to submit, to be an obedient, lovely Geisha; quiet and demure. That was my goal, though my buoyant personality, like a fresh, bubbly stream, kept most people off guard. Effervescence was my nature, but it was even more of an instinctive defense. Subconsciously, hiding behind an unassuming smile always provided protection for my inner child. It wasn’t that way at all with Sir. With Sir I wanted my raw insides exposed—wanted him to reach in and rip them out, bloody guts and all!

  He was just too controlled right now. But by what?

  A momentary distance developed between us, spawned by something turbulent and black and seething, like a storm about to erupt. I refused to push it. I couldn’t, of course, even if I had wanted; even withdrawn, Sir still called all the shots.

  It broke my heart to walk past this man everyday, who I worshiped so completely and leave him alone. But something was going on in Sir’s head; I just had to give him space, even if that space meant waiting a lifetime.

  About the ‘lifetime’. It’s like this: I felt he and I had lived together before, in other lifetimes, maybe many lifetimes. I felt that reincarnation was a fact of life. But giving space and being patient was a lesson I seemingly never learned in any of those lifetimes. In fact I was awful at it!

  Exuberant me had to have all the answers, immediately. NOW! Tell me NOW! It just couldn’t be that way with Sir if there was to be even a glimmer of hope of—of what? I couldn’t realistically define what that was. I simply wanted to, as Jimi Hendricks sang: ‘... stand next to’ Sir’s ‘fire’. I could live another day, somehow, if only I could do that. That’s all I hoped for, I guess, though now it seemed more fleeting than ever with every passing day.

  Had he burned himself out on me, just as I’d said? No. I didn’t believe that. Not in my heart. I still sensed the raw animal pheromones bleeding from him as we passed. What, then? I just had to hang on to find out. Bewildered and confused, I grew increasingly more depressed.

  5—Fire

  “But when it comes right down to it, don’t matter to me.”

  A week had gone by. It was inspection time for the class; a “portfolio review”, in which our completed projects and cases, spit and polished, were to be evaluated in toto. The procedure was for us to drop the cases off at the empty classroom and leave; the individual teachers would then evaluate everything and give us their reports.

  Though I assumed the classroom would be deserted when I rode the elevator up and carted my case down the vacant hall, it wasn’t. There at the far corner of the huge room, at the intersection of the tall walls of windows, sat little Aaron and, more significantly, big Sir. No way could I anonymously slip in and out now, trailing just the ghost of Sir behind.

  Hurriedly, I deposited my case and turned to leave, a move so out of character for me it was obvious something was wrong. Aaron was first to hop up and trot after me.

  “Hey, where’re you going?” he piped, brassy grin blazing like the sun. I was caught. I could hardly breathe let alone answer. Sir, just as out of character, had come up behind the banty-rooster to press me. I could only shake my head with a futile smile that came across as more of a grimace.

  “Stick around,” Aaron encouraged, confused, but still enthusiastic. Ever the 'alternative’ with his short, spiky hair and pseudo-intellectualism, Aaron—like most college guys—was constantly on the lookout for sex.

  Though he’d never made it with me, he’d tried. Braver than most and not without a certain boyish appeal, his ego and hot temper gave him the demeanor of a little hopping chicken, hence, the moniker, ‘banty rooster’. Aaron was both hard to like and impossible not to at the same time.

  “You need a ride home?” Sir offered, Aaron’s enthusiasm contagious.

  I shook my head, tears brimming. Replying now would have spilled them over, so I bit my lip and turned to saunter away. I could still hear them calling my name down the hall as the elevator door closed behind me. I squeezed my eyes shut tight. How could I possibly explain? I could no longer pretend: I loved Sir, this huge Mountain Man who was like no other on god’s green earth. I loved him; there was no hiding it, although there also seemed no hope of it ever being returned.

  I could no longer keep up the ridiculous ‘pretend’ game. I am a sprinter, after all; running marathons was never my forte, literally or figuratively. I ran the 10k once, but never a marathon and I never intended to. That Sir had infinitely more patience and endurance than I was a point I was more than willing to concede.

  I paced myself walking back to my car. The six blocks never seemed so long, even without my cumbersome portfolio slowing me down. My heavy-laden eyes, like the heavy leaden skies above me had started to release their moisture. Why? I wondered at the turn of events—WHY?—then shook my head in dismay.

  There was no ‘why’, I had to face it; it was simply the usual, run of the mill hit and run. He had tired of me, and now I was a just a royal pain. Why would anyone want anything to do with me, anyway? My face burned with self-pity, thoughts of the ingrained inferiority flashing back to my childhood.

  Reared in a house figuratively without mirrors, it was drummed into my head from early on that the biggest blasphemy I—and I alone for some unknown reason—could commit was having an ego. Being young, I didn’t understand that my parents and my second set of parents (my much older brother and sister)—however well intentioned—were simply misguided in their attempts to see to it that I would grow up ‘unspoiled’. While I’d like to give them the benefit of the doubt, there really are few altruistic motives. Oh, I couldn’t have asked for a more loving, self-sacrificing, (albeit weak-willed and suffocatingly religious) mother—but it was freaky how supposedly sane adults could think that standing on a little kid’s head would possibly be ‘good’ for the child. And stand they did. Four adults battering one fragile little head from birth to maturity, nattering on from morn till night, cautioning her not becoming ‘prideful’ is a bitch. Four obviously ‘much-smarter-than-me-because-they-were-adults’ grownups tromping a fragile young ego so thoroughly, to my immature mind simply translated: ‘there’s something terribly wrong with you, kiddo, from tip to tail you’re a reject’. However ‘noble’ their individual motives, and whether it was my twisted perspective or theirs, growing up I could never fathom being attractive, let alone in my wildest dreams conceive of being smart. It was a double whammy: 1.) I was constantly
cautioned against the ‘false pride’ of beauty, and 2.) all through school I was purposely led to believe I was mentally ‘slow’.

  Based on a sad misconceptions with which I was intentionally left by my rock-star-of-the-family older brother, I was sure my IQ was so low it needed watering—that I didn’t have merely an ‘average’ IQ, it was all the way down to
  In grade school I had been singled out with two other children from my entire state, brought to the office and given a sealed letter to take home to my parents (concerning my giftedness, I discovered decades later). Not one word of explanation was ever offered me about that letter, so naturally I assumed the worst. At the time I incorrectly concluded, because we were on the poor side and hardly privileged, that the letter contained a reprimand, a warning, maybe even secrets about some sort of scandal, so I, never being told otherwise, felt terrible shame. I remember my face burning with disgrace at school the next day; sure everyone knew all about it and were pointing and gossiping about me behind my back. Not even a whisper of this incident came to my ears at the house, though it no doubt was the subject of a hushed round-table discussion between the rock-star and his parental subjects. Oh well. Que sera, sera, as Sir always says.

  It’s just that I never knew I was gifted. Not in time. I never knew.

  Pity. … What a waste.

  Whether my parents weren’t bright enough to understand, didn’t care, thought only men succeeded, or truly swept it under the rug ‘for my own good’ persuaded by my brother’s prejudice, I never knew until too late that the letter contained anything positive at all. My only memory was that of growing up ‘inferior’, awash in presumed mediocrity both physically and mentally. After years of believing it, perceived inadequacy is hard to shake; looking back, though, it probably was an advantage: it made me who I am. And at the very least, kept me from being ‘spoiled’...

  Now I knew I was not mediocre; not in brains or looks. Heads turned when I walked, tongues clacked at my beauty, and bold creativity came naturally to me in nearly everything.

  Speaking of ‘intelligence’, I had enough to know now when to leave things alone.

  I walked on, the momentary tears and drizzle, if not the mood, diminishing. I took my time. Sadly, except for my parking garage, I had no particular place to go. I watched the cracks in the sidewalk roll by beneath my dainty heels and then, drawing a cleansing breath, for some reason I looked to my right. My spider sense was tingling again.

  There, two streets over cruised a tall, black Mercedes. In the entire city there was none like it, and I knew without thinking it was Sir. My heart skipped as he matched my pace. This was completely out of character for brooding Sir. What in the world was he up to? I almost didn’t want to know; my ego had taken enough. I am that sprinter, after all, and even the lovesick have their limits. But still the Mercedes kept tracking me.

  My work’s towering building loomed ahead, its protective gargoyles peering down from their lofty heights, sternly admonishing me. Were they urging me to hurry, or slow down? I couldn’t tell. ‘Que sera, sera,’ I thought again, and didn’t change my pace.

  I loved Sir, but there was no sense being stupid. If there was some reason that he didn’t want me or desire me anymore, then so be it. I had long ago made up my mind that he was calling the shots, so I was determined not to manipulate him now… no matter what.

  Timing being everything (had I walked a little slower?) Sir’s Mercedes pulled up just as I reached the maw of the old garage. I hesitated, eyes still diverted, and heaved a heavy sigh.

  “Want to talk?” He called down softly from his perch in the Mercedes.

  Stubbornly I resisted; every fiber of my being fought my leaping right through his door. That wouldn’t do. Aside from my pride holding me back, something was wrong with Sir and I adamantly refused to let my selfishness make it worse. I would be a big girl. I would resist. ‘Resist, damn it!’

  ‘... Oh to hell with it.’ I shamelessly leapt in.

  Sir was compelled to speak at last; but even with my stiff upper lip, I was hardly prepared for what I heard. I might have fallen from the seat had I not been securely locked in.

  “… married,” smacked me upside the head. WHAT?

  Zing! The arrows started to fly. I gulped, but maintained. Sara Bernhard would have been proud.

  “… separated for eight months…”

  Zing!

  “… final divorce decree pending any day now.”

  Zing! Zing! Zing! The arrows hit the bull’s-eye sitting squarely in the center of my forehead.

  What? How could my Mountain Man be married? Who/what goddess could have hooked this prize, and who/what idiot could possibly be letting go of him? It was all too staggering. I pulled the arrow’s shafts from between my eyes as the brains began to leak slowly out of the holes.

  Crazy as it was, my heart somehow nonetheless took flight. Irrationally, I clung to this denial as proof that he still wanted me. It wasn’t that he was tired of me! OH NO! To the contrary, it was obvious he was struggling with this whole not-screwing-me thing too! The brains dripping into my lap drowned out any logic rattling around inside my now nearly hollow head.

  What else was he saying? I had to concentrate...‘You needed somebody, and I needed somebody, too’. Yes, yes, I remembered, in the Mercedes down by the river. And every word was true. But MARRIED? I was starting to reel at the intensity. I didn’t know what to say. So... as usual I said something really stupid.

  “You’ll get back together,” I mouthed solemnly, ever the psychotherapist. “How long have you been… ” I gulped to dislodge the word stuck in my throat, “… married?”

  “… seven years,” he intoned, quietly, wild buck's eyes staring straight at me.

  “Yeah, see…” I began anew (zing! He’d reloaded as I pulled yet another arrow from my now completely hollow head), “… seven years is... is.... hard on a marriage,” yeah, that’s it. … I couldn’t believe I was counseling my lover; “… statistics say you’ll get back together.” Hell, it wouldn’t have mattered if he had said five months, five years, or fifteen years—though he’d had to be twelve at the time—I’d have spewed the same rubbish. What I was saying was true, actually: marriage is hard on a marriage. Marriage is not very conducive to happiness, let alone sexual mystique, and no one on this earth will ever convince me otherwise.

  I don’t believe that all men (or all women either if they’d only be honest about it) are meant to live monogamously. To desire other partners is likely instinctive. To see other men/women and want them sexually seems to come naturally, so why fight it? Though we’d like to think we’ve evolved light years from the primordial ooze, we’re just the same old primitive girl (boy) we used to be, eyeballing the blond while balling the brunette.

  After all, how could prehistoric earth have been properly propagated if all the good, strong, robust men (and women) stuck with just one mate? Only with the disastrous advent of organized religion (organized almost anything is a disaster) did Eve allegorically hide her so-called shame. ‘Her’ shame. OF course, always the woman; the man had absolutely nothing to do with it. How chauvinistic.

  Still, clinging to the fleeting dregs of my good Christian upbringing, I had been br
ainwashed to believe that a ring translated to ‘off-limits’. Granted, there was no ring apparent in this case, except the brass one that I was reaching for, but Sir was now telling me the state of insanity known as matrimony—no matter how close to being over—did exist for him and his—I nearly choked on the word again—wife.

  Sir was struggling to say something else. ‘Pull!’ I heard the call for more skeet. I returned to earth to present a better target.

  “Then why do I want to say I love you?” He was whispering.

  What? What was that word I heard? What, what, WHAT?

  My eyes flashed up to see a tiny tear welling in the eye of this tough-as-nails, specially trained Commando. My eyes widened. Impossible.

  I was supposed to say something here I was pretty sure. I cleared my throat and began.

  “Because... ” I hesitated, “... you… ” the whole thing was throwing me off, “... you just miss her,” I blurted all at once.

  Where was this crap coming from? Who was I, Freud?

  “Besides,” I just couldn’t shut up, could I? “… you can love two people at the same time,” I stated, jaws firmly set.

  “Yeah!” Sir’s face lit up with determination. “I believe that, too. I know that you can.”

  I stared into his eyes. OK, I’m out... my hollow brain echoed. All my cleverness used up, all I could do was pipe, “So what do we do?”

  How subjective! What was I willing to do? Little old hedonist me, upbringing be damned, I was willing to do just about anything Sir wanted. Hell, fuck ‘wifey’, fuck Christian upbringing. Fuck the entire world. Nothing had changed. If he wanted me to simply be his bit of fluff on the side, well, damn, I guess I was willing. If he wanted me to slide out of his car and out of his life, well, I GUESS I could do that, too... couldn’t I? Yes, I intellectualized, I could. Theoretically... hypothetically... I could...

  Realistically? OK. So stepping out of his life would be a bitch. But I wasn’t going to force myself on anyone. Not even this god of a man sitting next to me, so close, so magnetic, so earthy, so... ohhhh god...