Two females sit side by side. Each is beautiful, with symmetrical features, long, flowing hair, and luscious, dramatic curves. Their legs are long, their hips are wide, their breasts are firm, round. Each is biologically mature, capable of reproduction. One is fifteen years old, one, twenty-five.
I’ve written before about the confusion my body experiences in the face of this trickery, responding biologically before my cultural, social, ethical, intellectual self steps in and mediates, interpreting my bodily responses, bathing them in thoughts conscious and unconscious, and converting them into actions.
I’m fortunate in this regard. My physical desire pales – and wilts – in the face of such youth. I am fortunate to experience a healthy repulsion at youth. As for many men, young women – and the possibility of sex with them – represents a sort of fantasy of my own vitality, immortality even. But for me, that fantasy is nearly instantly quashed by other thoughts and associations.
I enjoy power play in sex, being given the authority and responsibility to use a woman for my pleasure, to take what I want, to give what I choose. But actual power – the ability to overpower a woman, to circumvent her will and her wishes – is, thankfully (mostly), a turn-off. The thing that turns me on most in such power play isn’t the power, but its transfer. My power to do what I want with you isn’t the point. The point is your wanting me to have that power, your willfully, consciously giving it to me.
I wonder about this: why is it that part of what I seek in my sexual interactions is (my) powerlessness? While I want you to give me yourself, I don’t – ever – want to (be able to) take what you don’t freely give. I structure every sexual interaction I ever have in this way, to feature constant bestowals of this gift from you to me. It’s why at every step of the way I ask for what I want: dress this way, please. Meet me here. Sit this way. Finish your drink. Spread your legs. Undress for me. Kneel for me. Open your mouth. Please.
And maybe this is why “please” and “thank you” also are so important for me. They are reminders – to you and me both – that you have agency, that you are free to say “no,” to do as you wish. That doing as I ask is doing as you wish.
I have my suspicions about why this might be, about why female agency and strength are so central to my particular form of “dominance,” but any explanations lie deep, deep in my unconscious. Is it that I don’t trust myself? That I fear what I might do with actual, untrammeled power? That beneath my desire lies rage? Aggression? Hatred? That I want, that I need to protect us both from what lies beneath my surface. I’m surely not in touch with any such feelings. But I suspect they are there, far, far below.
And this is why, I suspect, even as my body leaps to attention in the presence of nubile flesh, my mind turns away, directing my attention not to the fifteen-year-old, but to her older sister.
There’s much to say, of course, about (my) attraction to younger, mature women, to women a decade or two younger than I am. But that’s very different, I suspect, having more to do with vitality and my fear of mortality than with anything having to do with power. (Though who knows. All that will be the subject for another day.)
Today, what I know is this: while I can appreciate, for a moment, the smooth skin and supple curves of the teen sitting across from me, while my cock may even twitch as my eyes register the hypothetical possibilities, my mind runs in the opposite direction.