When I know I don’t know.

Some things are indelible in the soft clay of my heart. Those moments of connection with someone where it isn’t about verbal communication. Where the lips the teeth the tip of the tongue aren’t in play because you look at someone and you get volumes of information instantaneously.

I love this moment. I have them often. I’m highly empathetic and I am easily read so those feedback loops are readily accessible.

I more often have the problem of receiving too much information from someone. I’m left winded and looking at them thinking “Oh mercy…that is too much for me to feel with you right now….”

And then sometimes there is the opacity. The moment where, in the words of the unlamented Donald Rumsfeld, we realize we may be up shit’s creek.

There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we know we don’t know. But there are also unknown unknowns. There are things we don’t know we don’t know.

~Donald Rumsfeld

BDSM is exactly the path of Unknown Unknowns.

One of my favourite moments in BDSM play is the moments just as a scene starts. Mostly because those moments are so fleeting and often The Look is the only clue you have some Fucked Up Shit is about to go down.

And it is right then I KNOW I have no fucking idea what is going to happen and that makes me so fucking high.

As a submissive, I tend to not be a fighter. Someone who wants constant resistance is not going to be amused by me. Because if you are doing it right and you somehow manage to intimidate me, I’m in. You win.

There is, however, an interesting second breaking point, where I suddenly wake up from that “bird in the cobra stare” and realize I am about to be lost and there is no turning back, and THEN I’ll fight you.

It is that borderline between drowning and kicking to the surface for that one last desperate breath of air before my own submission reaches up from the depths, wraps its mute, reptilian tentacle around my ankle and pulls me back down to the Abyssal Plain of my being. That Cold dark place of tremendous pressures where nothing exists but that faith and prayer that maybe; maybe perhaps, by being still and quiet, I will survive “This.”

If you are one of those who willingly take that ride, and take it again and again, you might know what I mean.

And if you are one of the people who operate that ride, you certainly know what I mean.

Of late I’ve had several very dark fantasies that have felt more like sensememory of brutality that are revisiting me. Depending on your cosmology there may or may not be a reason for these feelings.

Were I in an ongoing relationship I would be interested in talking about these things to my partner, pulling at the edges of that tarp, peeking at what is beneath.  But that isn’t an excavation I can conduct solo. I instead I am treated to ever increasing odd recollections of moments. A look, a scene that viscerally terrified me. A particularly tender moment suddenly recollected yet juxtaposed with a sobbing ecstasy.

And then I leave that room, and shut the door behind me.

But I can still hear the echo.

…clearly I need to get my ass beaten.