So my therapist called me, for lack of a better term, an “alpha submissive”. This phrase has been stuck in my head for the last two weeks since she uttered it, rumbling around bumping up against a lot of other kink related thoughts I’ve been having lately. I want to claim it somehow, but it feels… pokey.
OK, so I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m some kind of submissive. As much as I have a sadistic streak in my heart a mile wide, I’ve never been comfortable in Domina shoes. I love to hurt people, but I’m too lazy for the rest. For a long while I settled on the sadomasochist title. It’s true, but in a clinical sort of way that doesn’t begin to touch my emotional experience. I’ve spent the last two years trying to explain to someone, anyone, what it is I’m looking for when I play. Many times that has gone astonishingly not well. Most times I didn’t have the right to words to even come close, sometimes the words just left me feeling too vulnerable to ever utter. But recently…
I hate floggers. I find spanking boring. I rarely participate in an organized “scene”. If you pull a knife out during play, I will laugh in your face unless I truly believe you are about to stab me with it – and I want you to stab me with it. I don’t lay quietly draped over a St. Andrew’s cross while my top “works on me” – I’m usually doing my best to step on her toes with my heels, kick him in the balls, or bite any appendage that comes too close. I want it to feel primal. I want blood and broken skin and the real possibility of bodily injury. I want terror and rage and hysteria and trembling and crying and maybe even triggers and flashbacks and re-traumatization. I lose all sense of self-preservation. I don’t play to provide service. I don’t play to be obedient, and I will always be an unapologetic brat. I don’t get all smooshy and gooey in subspace. Less and less often I want the obligatory “blanket and a glass of water” aftercare. More and more I want to be left in a snot-soaked mess on the floor while you kick me one last time and walk away. Or maybe left to scream and shoot hate-filled glares at you from a corner. I want to admit that pictures of needles under toenails turn me on, and scenes involving running people over with cars are the ones I secretly aspire to and wish I could handle, like a little girl wishes for ponies and high heels.
So what kind of submissive does this make? I doesn’t mean I don’t want a dominant – I do, in the worst way. But who the hell wants to dominate someone who never wants to be submissive? I don’t play to submit, I play to discover I don’t have to, ever. I play to believe that there is something fundamentally unbreakable about me no matter how broken I am. I want to be owned and protected and guided by someone who is 100% aware of the fact that I am the most high-maintenance, contradictory, wild animal they will ever own. Someone who is willing to endure just as much pain as I am during a scene. I want to be queen of the subby heap. [Please don’t take this to mean I disrespect any other sub and the way the experience submission – I DON’T.]
Maybe this is what an alpha submissive is, but I suspect I haven’t even skimmed the surface of what it could mean. I think I’m claiming it now, nonetheless. I’m planning on growing into it.