Risk.

Taylor and I were talking with someone the other day, I don’t remember who, about some part of the dynamic of our relationship.  The gist of the conversation was that he could pretty much do whatever he wants and I, as his, will endure it.

This is true.  And yet there is more to it, so much more.

I will endure nearly anything.  Not because I have to but because the pain feeds my masochism.  Not even physical pain so much – though that is a large part of who we are.  Emotional pain is the real heart of my inner, deepest, darkest needs.  But also because I belong to him, I gave my consent, I gave my vow and though I could break it, I will not.

And so he hurts me.  In small ways and big ways.

I suppose something has been untangling itself from the twisted workings of my mind since that conversation.  The words spoken have lingered and teased and whispered in my head….

Tonight, I was standing in the shower, letting the scalding water beat upon my head when it hit me…

I do not play casually.  I don’t fuck casually, I don’t do casual S&m, I don’t even really have casual friends.  When I fuck, when I play, when I befriend, it is me opening up and making myself vulnerable to you.  Without a fairly deep well of emotion it is false, a caricature of what it is when I care, love, give, open.

When I play, fuck, love, I am completely open.  Or as open as I am able, as open as you can seduce from me.  The more you feed me the more I open, the more vulnerable I become, the more I belong to you, the more you can hurt me, the more I will revel in the hurt.

But…

But.

The wrong kind of hurt makes me close.  Close myself to you, inch by inch, until you either soothe or lose.

When we had the discussion with our friend I made the comment that, while, yes, Taylor can do as he pleases and I will endure, there can also come a point where it is too much and I will cease to love.  This is untrue.

I can love someone with every fiber of my being and still close to them, still be unable to open, be unable to let myself be vulnerable, let myself give and endure and revel.

This is the risk in hurting me.  Physically, emotionally.

This is the chore of the dominant, the owner.  The immense weight, the infinite responsibility.

It’s not one false move, not two, not one hundred.  But it might be one hundred and one.  It might be one thousand and ten.  It always…  might be.

There is always the risk, the risk that this one thing or this cumulative pile of things will be the one that hurts too much, that breaks me – body, heart, mind…  me.

Broken, all that I am, all that I can be, all that I give and do and share becomes worthless.

The weight of giving yourself to someone is heavy.

The weight of owning someone can only be staggering.

I don’t think we think about that very often.

I don’t know if those who carry the weight always realize just how much they are carrying.

It is not that they must take care of us, coddle us like children, be responsible for us in every way.  It is that…

We must remain responsible for ourselves, despite our vulnerability, despite being wide open, splayed, almost defenseless…

And so it is that despite the intentions, despite the vows, despite the absolute dynamic, there is always risk, huge risk.  Not the ultimatum, “I’m leaving you, you asshole!” risk of relationships less based on power but the risk that the hurt, the inequity, the power and vulnerability that balance each other can topple in an instant or erode over time until there is nothing but two closed people blinking in the dust.

Damn, this sounds maudlin.  It also infers something is wrong.  Nothing is.

I simply realized how easy it would be…  could be…

And am thankful.

Thankful of his mindfulness. Thankful for my good choices. Thankful that I can love, fuck, play from the depths of my soul and rarely think about such things as I have tonight.