Gender fuck

This is one of my most favorite photos of Sir Raven.  She is the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen in real life.  At night, when she goes to bed and falls asleep before me, i have to use a little stool to get into bed.  She knows i’m there, and in her sleep she is clearly male, and clearly has a hard on.  i know because she instinctively goes to protect her dick in her sleep, because i am not known for my grace in crawling over her sleeping form.

i know for sure that if her little boy dreams came true, if she woke up with a dick, that we’d fuck constantly.  So, at least intellectually, i know that this pain is not my fault.  It’s not that she stopped finding me attractive.  If anything, the problem is that i remind her what she wasn’t born with.  Maybe it is because she desires me, likes looking at my greedy mouth on her dick or buried inside me-that she stopped wanting to face it all together.

i have handled it with more grace than could be imagined.  When she rejects me, outright, for any form of physical attention-even a good night kiss-i bounce back like nothing happened.  When she rejects me sexually, coldly asking, what are you doing? when i forget myself and linger or kiss with any passion-i respond with apologies.  i push aside the woman in me.  i shower her with babygirl love and affection and warmth.  The devotion of a child and a slave-but never a woman.

What happens that well and truly fucks my mind up is when i feel like this, open and exposed, nude-that all of my years melt away and it seems that half the men in my path to do my Master’s bidding sees me.  i mean, really sees me.  i am a five year old prostitute trying to hold my family together.  i am the twelve year old whore of a rapist.  It’s amazing and mundane, the sheer number of men who can see it, who want it.

i spend an hour in the grocery store, waiting until the man following me around gives up and leaves.  i buy treats for Sir Raven’s short weekend, snacks she likes, steak and eggs for her breakfast.  Feeling someone staring, i reach instinctively to my throat to touch my collar, my touchstone.  Of course, it’s not there and i want to dissolve into the floor in tears.  Instead, i use every skill i learned in therapy to stay focused, not disassociate, stay in the present moment.  i dig my short nails into my palm, put on hand sanitizer, breathe in the scent of fruit, feel the softness of my dress against freshly shaved legs, mechanically remind myself to use all of my senses and get the job done.

Of course, i get it done, get everything put up, fix my eye liner.  i put a note in the bed and meditate so that i am calm and graceful about it if the answer is still no.  i text her a “happy place” picture of my chest.  i place her strap next to the note, willing to endure even that, because i know for sure it makes her dick hard.

It’s been a long time since i was this forward, other than just asking.  i’ve gotten used to her saying, That’s nice but i’m tired or Thats not going to happen.  i’ve gotten used to her acting annoyed at times when i just want a second hug or kiss, as she did last night.  i think almost any other woman would have fallen apart and i know that i don’t let it effect my service, my attitude, my warmth.   i don’t know how i manage to do that, other than some deeply held belief that the better i treat her, the more she may be inspired to improve my conditions.  Yes, i know what that is-the basic tenant of stockholm syndrome.  No, i don’t care if that makes anyone uncomfortable.  It is what it is.  If i can live it without judgement, so can everyone else.

Yesterday afternoon, i was using her massager to try and relax the painful knots in my hips.  Eventually annoyed with it, i decided on pleasuring myself instead.  i was only marginally aware of her approach, though i heard her say something-clearly aware of what i was doing-and walk away.  i felt a sense of desperation, called out to her, and then felt this flash of hatred before i finally came.  It’s not even satisfying to climax, it is empty.  i am empty.  i need force. Pain. i need it.

The morning before the class i wrote about, i had been meditating for Sir Raven to have a great day at work.  i was thinking of how much we had enjoyed each other in the same hotel, kissed under this beautiful tree.  i sent her a photo of the tree, hoping to remind her of how she desired me once.  i told her how much i needed her.  i said, You are everywhere.

And it’s true.  She is everywhere to me.  Everywhere. Everything.

i’m just the person who cleans her toilet and cooks her meals and makes her laugh and fills her home with love, with warmth like honey.  i wish she could offer me something back, to fill me up inside, to not leave me waiting and relying on some depth of inner strength to keep being and doing and giving.  i scrutinize my own picture, my eyes turned black with emotion.  Would i fuck her? Would i love her? Would she be my every little thing?

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