The first self-described dominant woman I ever met for a date was when I was about 34 years old. She was 59 and a grandmother. I went to her house, and I must have had a look on my face that was a mixture of fear and sadness. She sized me up immediately, and took me by the hand to her couch, where she held me like a small child against her breasts, assuring me that everything was going to be OK. We had a wonderful day together. She fed me, and then she taught me how to please her. She was very caring. Its a memory I will always cherish.
Afterward, she said that she couldn’t see me again, that she was very uncomfortable with something that had happened. I was puzzled, as it seemed like we had such a good time. But at one point, she mounted me, straddling my face for me to lick her, and then she pressed my face against the mattress, smothering me. She later said that she expected me to struggle, and at some point to stop her, to let her know that I was going to pass out, and when I didn’t, this apparently really surprised and disturbed her. She seemed almost hurt by it. It was my first time with a dominant woman, and the first time that I would be rejected for being too sick even for her.
Last Spring, I went on a few dates with a girl who was not dominant, but who knew my secret. I told her my secret because she told me hers: that she liked to be beaten during sex. As she put it, if she didn’t have a black eye and bloody lip after sex, then the guy "didn’t do it right." So I had to admit that I wasn’t going to be doing it right either, but at least I thought I had found someone who could understand me.
Later that night, after I finished pleasuring her, she allowed me to masturbate while she watched. She asked me to tell her my thoughts as I did it. And I did. I told her how worthless I feel, how I don’t deserve to be happy, basically all the things I write about in this journal. And I said it with increasing excitement as it brought me closer to the edge. At one point, through the darkness, I saw that there were tears in her eyes, and I stopped, puzzled by what was happening. She just said that I made her sad.
A few days later, she said that we "had to talk." She had been so bothered by the things I had said that she had to talk to a therapist about it. This puzzled me, as I thought she would understand exactly where I was coming from. Maybe that was the real problem: I verbalized how she felt about herself and confronted her with something she couldn’t admit to herself. She also told me she wouldn’t be able to continue seeing me. She tried to tell me that I did have some worth as a person, but the fact that I drove her to a therapist with my thoughts just showed me what an ugly monster I really am. I am sick, and I am contagious to those around me.
And yet I continued to search for someone who will understand me well enough to treat me the way I feel about myself, so I don’t feel so alone with these feelings.