Now, Voyager

How is initiating a relationship different and the same when the relationship in question is that of Master and slave?

This question, at the moment, is not purely academic. (Yahooooo! Whooopeee! Yes yes yes yes YES! Oh, YEAH! Hoo-HAH!!).

Ahem.

Last night, I sent out email to a collection of folks whose email addresses have found their way into my address book over the years. I can't begin to count the decades of collective experience with Master/slave relationships that this august group can chalk up. I've received a few thoughtful and provacative responses, for which I'm grateful.

Initiation seems so critical. But in a way, it's not. Like so much else that's really important in life, if it's meant to be, it's meant to be, and if not, not. Kismet.

I first laid eyes on Special Guy in an espresson bar on Christopher Street. He was wearing a red tshirt that said 'FIST.' He was damn hot. I checked him out. He checked me out. I was buying a muffin and a latte on my way to work. I left without speaking to him. Two weeks later, I was at the Dugout and there he was. It started going in the direction of a hook up, but then we started talking and things quickly switched gears. We had a lot in common. He had a mind. I wanted to find out more about it. We went to dinner and talked and talked and talked. The next time we saw each other was at a sex party. Mostly his crew, although I knew several of them. I felt 'checked out' and I seemed to have passed the test. Huh. Meeting the family. Our sex was hot. And public, on view to his buddies. I flogged him briefly in the back yard whilst other men ate hotdogs nearby. A few more dates. Then we were trapped in the rainstorm one night on Christopher Street. We took shelter under an awning. He bought me a rose, presented it to me, kissed me deeply, and said, "I wanna be boyfriends with you." We got some time with each other away. Fire Island. Washington DC.

Now it ended in four months, but it remains the most satisfying and happiest relationship of my life, so I look to it as a model. We're still friends. I still love him. And It hink that's mutual.

So it's almost formulaic. We met. Through the fog of desire we ascertained that we had a lot in common intellectually, and in matters of the heart and soul, too. We found that things worked well with each other sexually. Our fantasies and desires were in sync. We managed to spend blocks of time together, seeing how each other ticks in matters of teethbrushing, doing the dishes, dealing with waiters in restaurants, that kind of thing.

Now how would things have gone differently if Special Guy had had that deep down desire to be a slave, to be owned?

First off, there's the movement from the general to the particular: Do I want to be owned by this man? And for me, do I want to own this man? At the risk of being called shallow, Man is a social animal, and we exist in society, and standing in society is as important to us as it is to wolves, chickens, chimps, and other social animals of the more complex orders. So that's a consideration (that Special Guy and I dealt with at the sex party). I walk into a room where all my fellows are gathered with this man on a leash. What do they think? There is, unfortunately, no way of knowing this for sure until you walk into a room where all your fellows are gathered.

Similarly, there's the equally important question of what happens behind the closed doors of the dungeon. Does it work? Does he want at the most basic level what I want to provide?

On this issue, it occurs to me that as a supervisor, I have no patience for details. Spare me the details. I'm not interested in how the wireless network I asked you to build was put together. Does it work and did you do it? Thinking about having a slave report on his practice of celibacy or piss training or adherence to all the other daily prescriptions and procedures that I--in my copious freetime--have laid down... my eyes glaze over just thinking about that. But here's what I am interested in. Keenly. How are you seeing the world differently today? What are your insights about yourself, about the world, about God, about S/M, about slavery, about me?

All about my ego? Yeah. Probably. I'll own that. "Deep in a forest, written on a tree, two little words, "Remember me,'" goes the high school yearbook inscription. That's what I want. And that, I think, is what everyone wants. I want the men I do scenes with to emerge thinking of everything in new ways. That's a good scene. If I get the sense that for you I was just another item checked off on your To Do (or rather, To Get Done By) list, then that strange noise you hear is me grinding my teeth.

And for my slave, I'd want that to be ongoing. If I come to suspect that his deepest desire and that which he fears the most is being dunked in a sewer, better believe he's gonna be smeared in my shit and have that washed off with my piss. (That's just an example. Scat doesn't hold a huge attraction for me.)

Bound and Determined suggested Shock and Awe as a good strategy for initiation. I love that idea. It fires my imagination. And it sounds like a lot of fun. If done well, it could send the message at the deepest levels that it's a whole new ballgame. You're not in Kansas anymore, sweetheart. The risk there is that you're setting up expectations that you will always fall short in meeting down the road. Following Shock and Awe with a phone call along the lines of "Hi. It's me. Wanna go to the movies on Friday?" would not be a wise move.

Rushing things. Rome wasn't built in a day. Yeah yeah yeah. I hate this prescription. Fundamentally, it doesn't make sense to me. Life is so short. So short. Was I ready to become Executive Director of a non profit when I became Executive Director of a non-profit? No. I rushed into it. Overall, it was successful. Did I make mistakes? You betcha I did. But better to have those memories that flit through your mind and make you wince then to dwell forever in the icey frozen hell of ShouldaWouldaCoulda. Look at the fifth act of Hamlet. A stage littered with bodies because someone decided to think things through thoroughly.

But how about the question of expectations? Being on the same page? What if when Special Guy said 'Wanna be boyfriends?' he had in mind 'Wanna be in a monogamous relationship? Wanna move in together this weekend? Wanna stop by the bank tomorrow morning and set up a joint bank account?' and I had heard the question as, 'Wanna fuck tonight?' As it turned out, we did have slightly different ideas, but we worked these out after I gave my Molly Bloom-esque "Yes." But what if Special Guy had shown up at my humble abode with a U-Haul the next morning? In all seriousness, I would have made room in my closet for his stuff. Disaster down the road? Probably. But what if, standing there under the awning at Christopher and Bleecker in the pouring rain, after kissing me deeply, he had said, "Wanna be boyfriends?" and I had said, "Well, that depends on what the meaning of 'boyfriends' is. I have my ideas, but let me hear yours." No no no no no. Just saying "Yes" is a moment I'll cherish forever. My heart was pounding in my chest. It was a jumping off a cliff moment, and I found out I could fly.

In contrast, my seven year relationship, the one that I regret deeply, began with a protracted courtship and endless discussions about what we were getting ourselves into. Before, during, and after each step we took (not seeing other people, moving in together, taking a vacation together, opening a joint bank account... right up to co-signing a mortgage), we talked about it to each other, with our respective therapists, anyone who would listen. Everything was clouded in a haze of analysis. Our eyes were wide open. As a result, there was no faith. We didn't jump off the cliff, we slowly inched our way down the walls of the canyon. There was no myster, and hence there was no joy and rapture. At the bottom of the canyon, I was trapped. The only way out was to risk my life by diving into the rapids of the river at the bottom, fully ready to have my brains dashed on the rocks. I don't regret that.

Now what if Special Guy had asked "Wanna be boyfriends?" and I had given my "Yes," and the next day I had run into Special Guy with some hot boy hanging all over him who he introduced to me as his boyfriend? In other words, what if there had been no follow through. I don't think I would have been shattered. I probably would have thought, "What a dick," and moved on. But that's an important consideration, too. I don't want to be a dick. It's not good to be a dick. Being a dick is bad. So being a Master will need to be my number one priority. In fact, the organizing principle of my life. Now, even the most casual reader of this blog might ask at this point, "Gosh, don't you already have a lot on your plate right now?" And the honest answer there would be "Uh... yeah." But here's the deal. It is my sense that being this man's Master will call forth in me a more rigorous approach to my own life. In essays that Joe Bean developed from talks he gave to an assemblage of members of the Metropolitan Community Church, he discussed the fact that for straights, having a child serves (in most cases) as a big wake-up call, a signal that from here on in, life must be taken much more seriously. I agree. In part, this is probably a function of the responsibilities the parent takes on. You're gonna have to pay for college for this kid. How's your bank account looking? But the more important consideration is probably respect. Will your son and daughter respect you?

I am an officer in GMSMA. I am a writer. I am a skilled, serious and well thought of S/M player. I am a loyal friend. I am a responsible dog owner. I take care of myself. I have a strong and inquisitive mind. My softball team is 8-1 and we're halfway through the season. There's a lot there that's respectable. I would not want to do anything that would tarnish, rather than burnish my image. I want my slave to respect me. And that means I need to be respectable. Self-respect can be chimerical. You're riding that horse and coming into the home stretch, and then the horse stumbles. You find yourself sitting there on the track with your riding silks filthy. A slave (or a child, but not so much, I think, a lover or life partner) can be an externalized respecter of the self. With a slave, that's imparting a lot of power. (Ah, risk again.) But not really. The Master choses to do the respectable thing or not. The slave has no more power than a mirror: you decide to wear that tie with that shirt, the mirror merely reflects the image back at you.

Huh.

"Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each."

I will learn if they will sing for me.

---