One of the Happier Discoveries I made about being a pervert is that lots of the idiosyncrasies, pathologies, fetishes and freakish desires that many people frown upon in the General Public are not only just fine by pervs, but are actively encouraged.
You Like to boss people around? Great! Find yourself a pliant submissive and knock yerself out!
You wanna be degraded and heaped in abuse and scorn? AWESOME. Get yourself at the feet of a skilled top and you can rootle like the pig you are to your heart’s content.
But it is a continuous process, for me, accepting myself.
I have yet to run across a fetish or a play-style that I absolutely cannot fathom.
I understand why people wish to pretend to be children.
I can see why scatological play fascinates people.
I absolutely grok furries.
I have no trouble at all embodying the desire to hurt, be hurt, to hit some dude in the grapes with a ball-peen hammer.
And I can view these things with compassion.
Except in one notable case.
And that is me.
See, I need a boss. A Daddy. A Platoon Leader for my Army of One.
I need guidance, encouragement, a cheerleader, a parental figure.
Someone who will put my picture up on the refrigerator and call me in the middle of the day to tell me how proud they are.
And I see this as a fatal weakness. A character flaw.
I SHOULD be self-motivated. I SHOULD be able to be a “Self-Starter.” I SHOULD be able to motivate myself to do for myself by myself. I SHOULD not need someone to pull me along by the nose, sometimes kicking and screaming, toward what I need. I SHOULD keep my room tidy because that is what Good Girls Do.
That’s a whole shitload of shoulds.
The drawback to functioning so well under the measured guidance of a Boss is that the absence of said boss leaves one at loose ends sometimes.
Now, sometimes I do get motivated. I was quite proud of myself last Friday when I took much-needed time off of work, wrestled the Mighty Kaiser Permanente, asked for help by way of borrowing a friend’s car, saw 2 doctors for 2 different issues, got my Flu AND Pneumonia vaccines, had my scrips filled, fucked shit up at Target, did my shopping, hauled my loot home and up; the the 3rd floor all by myself, went to dinner for delicious matzoh ball soup, and got back to bed in one piece.
On Friday, I had my Big Girl Panties on.
But it fucking stung to want nothing more at the end of the day to have that acknowledged by someone who was present and loving.
The thing about being in service to someone is that it takes you out of your “You-centric” headspace and puts you into a mindset of gleaning joy from the service to another.
And I love that, and I get that.
And I miss that. And it is an unshakable seismic ache, sometimes.
I have no pithy clever wrap-up tonight.
Just me, wondering why I’m built in this strange way.