Easy come, easy go?

In the end, Nastya made me feel unimportant. Not exactly undesired, just not prioritized, somehow disrespected.

We had two more dates after the one about which I wrote. They were hot, fun, but… emotionally distant. When I thought of Nastya, I thought only about her holes, about her flesh, not about her mind, not about the dynamic between us. Our power exchange had no edge.

When she had arrived the first night, she had made up her mind, before we even met, to give herself to me. In my write-up of that date, I wrote of that decision, “Now this is hot,” but, on reflection, I’m not so sure. I wonder if the fact that I wasn’t present when she decided to grant me her submission, that her submission wasn’t so much to me as to her previously constructed mental image of me, somehow made my getting it just that much less rewarding. It seems I like to earn a woman’s submission, not simply to be granted it. And, I like to witness the moment at which curiosity and interest morph into commitment.


On the day before what might have been our fourth date, Nastya made it clear that, while she had fun with me, my needs most certainly were not her priority.

Once upon a time, I would have immediately set forth to cause her to prioritize my needs. But I have a lot less patience for my needs not being prioritized than I once did. And, as I wrote above, the charge of our relationship was lacking.

So I brought things to an end. Or maybe she did, and I acquiesced, but took credit – I honestly don’t know. In either case, I didn’t fight to win her over. I didn’t struggle to prevent things from coming to a close.

I enjoyed the fun we had together, and certainly would prefer to have more of it rather than never to fuck her again, never to smack her, spank her, fuck her face again. I had only begun to explore the possibilities with her, and there certainly were many – some involving greater violence, some involving more people, and others, too. I’m sorry to see her go, but somehow, it felt ok to let her go.

Here’s something, though, that became apparent in the way things ended: as “ok” as it felt me to let her go, it appears to have felt exponentially easier for her. In my last message to her, I wrote “I really enjoyed you.”

In response, she wrote, “Take care.” I expressed warmth, appreciation. She didn’t. And that’s the last we spoke.

Perhaps she was hurt, or angry, or disappointed, and this explains her tone (or lack thereof).

I don’t think so. I think she was (almost?) indifferent to me, to what was ending. As if what I had to offer her was a sort of undifferentiated cock and dominance in an undifferentiated pile of cocks and dominants.

The only way in which my relationships are interchangeable is that, in all of them, I really fucking care.

Even in this one, which I ended, or tolerated the ending of, so seemingly easy.

This sensation, of indifference, of not caring, is so fucking foreign to me. I feel like I have triumphed in having reached a point at which I can walk away from a relationship when it’s not giving me what I want, when it’s making me feel bad, somehow. But in this case, in which I did walk away (or let her walk away without putting up a fight), it still felt bad to walk away. Not cripplingly bad, not preoccupying-ly bad. But bad.

If it felt bad to her, she didn’t want me to see that.



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