I wrote the other day about some of the challenges I face in writing about some of the women in my life. Readers encouraged me, in various ways, to find a way around the roadblocks I’ve constructed for myself. And this is me trying to do that. I mentioned, briefly, Leanne. I’d like to tell you a little bit about her. And maybe not so much about her, but more, about what she does to me. About what I long for her to do to me.
Leanne oozes sex. And submission. I can feel in my bones her longing to please, to serve, to give. I find myself drawn to her, thinking about her at surprising moments, in surprising ways. Sometimes sexual, yes. Sometimes not. I want to inspire her. I want to seduce her. There are important reasons for me to tread exceedingly carefully.
Years ago, I had a ten-plus year relationship with a beautiful, sensuous woman whom I saw daily, at work. She was a subordinate, from the day that I met her. We became good, close friends. My boundaries were super clear with her. Clear to me. Clear to her. We safely could playfully flirt, even, because our boundaries were so clear.
Leanne and I have a different relationship. I don’t see her daily. And we’re not close. She’s much younger than I am. Outside the “bro code,” even. I don’t, generally, find myself attracted to much younger women. I appreciate them visually, but the intellectual, developmental distance generally precludes real, powerful attraction. In this instance, not so much.
It’s not healthy. I can feel that. I can feel that I’m having a little bit of a “daddy” thing with her. I’ve never been much into the DD/lg thing. Never wanted to be called “daddy.” I’ve recoiled from it, mostly. Though I do have the sense that there might well be some good fun for me to reap were I to find a different relationship to it. With Leanne, though, I want her to look up to me, to respect me. To see me as her teacher.
But I’m just thwarted by her. To the extent we do interact, she always manages to throw a difficult wrench my way. She dresses as I would instruct her to dress. She sits as I would instruct her to sit. She interacts with me, for the most part, exactly as I would instruct her to interact with me. Except, you know, for the part where I would tell her to crawl to me. To place her hands on my thighs and look up at me. To show me her hunger, explicitly. To beg for me.
And here I am.
Thwarted. And paralyzed.
You did good, N.
I’m not done. But thank you!