But I’m getting a little ahead of the story.
Those were dismal days, after Jonah was gone. I seemed to plunge into a darkness that muted my heart, my thoughts, my desire, my outlook. It was not a darkness of anger or anguish. It was nothing so dramatic. No, I didn’t feel pain, or rage, or resentment. I didn’t feel anything at all.
My relationship with Jonah had been a dizzying series of highs and lows. In the words of the poem: when it was good, it was very, very good; when it was bad, it was horrid. At any given moment, I would be soaring the heights of bliss, or else my heart was ripped open. There was never anything in between. My friends were perplexed when I would sob, heartbroken, after the latest fight, or worry during one of his unexplained absences. Loyal to me as they were, their concern was reasonable. Why on earth do you stay with him? they would ask. Look what he does to you. Granted, the bad times were extraordinarily painful. But what can I say? I was in love with him, and that kind of love transcends the immediacy of highs and lows. For me, the good times were so good, that it was totally worth hanging in there through the bad times. I knew those bad times would happen. But I also knew that they would end. No matter how horrible the fight was, I knew he would be back, and that if I could let go of the hurt and anger, and allow myself to embrace the pleasure, the bliss might be even more exquisite than anything I had yet experienced. Hanging on was worth it, because the lows were predictable, while the highs kept on getting higher.
Until the day when they stopped, for good.
The soaring and plunging between highs and lows with Jonah had been exhausting. But even the anguish of the lowest low was not nearly as bad as the deadness that had taken over me now. I felt no relief. I felt no pleasure. I felt no longing. I felt no pain. I felt nothing. I continued to move through life, putting one foot in front of the other, but it was like eating food without being able to taste it. The world had no color. I could not take pleasure in anything. It was the worst.
I remembered that there had been a time before Jonah, a time when Second Life was shiny and new and interesting. Hoping that I could get interested in something, anything, I explored SL, wandering, searching. I shopped, but without enthusiasm. I went sailing, but it was boring alone. I tried to build, but with no one to build for, every prim just reminded me of my loss. I even made a half hearted attempt to date a little, but compared to Jonah, every man I met was a disappointment.
It was unbearable. I became desperate to break free of the deadness, the ennui. I just wanted to feel something. To feel some evidence that I was still alive.
My mind wandered back over my two and a half years in Second Life, trying to remember whether I’d ever done anything else that could potentially shake me out of this state… anything intense enough… even a little risky. I started wandering in the back alleys, the red light districts, the post-apocalyptic ruins, the darkest corners of SL. I threw caution aside and sought out sexual encounters that were anonymous, primal, a little dangerous. The danger caused something to stir inside. I went after it with a hunger for more.
As I searched for experiences intense enough to rouse me from my ennui, I recalled a moment from my distant past, before I met Jonah. In the first flush of realizing that in SL, as long as I stayed anonymous, I could try anything without threat of physical harm, I’d visited a seedy meeting place and challenged myself to flirt with the most dangerous looking man I could find. He was pretty scary, too; he was tall and powerfully built, with an air of dark power around him, dressed in black leather with metal trim. I may have been brazen, but I was still naive; he told me he was a Master, and I responded, a Master of what? He laughed. At that time, I honestly knew almost nothing about BDSM, and certainly nothing about D/s, dominance and submission.
He corrected that quickly. Here, put this on, he said, handing me a collar. I hesitated, a thousand questions spinning in my head. Should I do it? What am I getting into? My heart was racing. The fear of the unknown. The thrill of danger. I took a deep breath. What’s the worst that could happen? I thought to myself. In a rush of boldness, I complied, and put on the collar.
I waited nervously as he typed some information and adjusted the collar. Suddenly, I was kneeling. I struggled in confusion. Why was I kneeling? I didn’t recall wanting to kneel, or touching my keyboard in any way. But there I was, on my knees, hands behind my back. I looked up at the Master. His dark eyes were fastened on me with an intensity that made me shiver. From now on, he said, you will greet me this way.
Then I heard a snap, and the chink of metal; I saw that a chain had been attached to the collar. He held the other end. Come, he said, and turned and walked away, obviously expecting me to follow.
Um, I don’t think so, I thought to myself. I don’t know where this is going, and it sounds like a good time to stop. But to my shock, I could not stop. I seemed not to be in control of my movements. Not of my own volition, I followed, jerking along at the end of the leash. It wasn’t up to me. Every nerve was firing as I grasped that by putting on that collar, I had given control of myself to someone else.
Now, two and a half years later, my memory of the intensity of that brief encounter created a spark of interest in my otherwise dead heart. Those few days I spent with that Master had opened a new world to me. I only had a glimpse of it at the time, but something about it resonated very deeply. I know that the prospect of not being in control scares some people half to death. Others place great value on their freedom and independence and are not interested in losing it. Until I met that Master, I thought I was one of those people. After all, in RL, I am usually the one in charge; the manager, the leader, the chairperson. But not because I want to be. I do it because it is expected. Being in control energizes some people. Not me; being in control depletes me.
Gradually, subtly, that Master taught me to see something in myself, something that goes against the grain of popular culture. That first experience was a surprise; he took control without asking. If he had not, I would never have understood. Once I tasted it, though, I wanted more. I gave up control to him willingly. Each time I did, I had no idea what would come of it. But the excitement was intoxicating.
I came to realize that I feel this thrill because I am, by nature, submissive. It wasn’t a choice. It’s just a part of my personality that I was born with. I had managed to ignore it for my entire life, to that point, believing myself to be a natural leader.
My first encounter with D/s lasted only a few days. I met Jonah not long after. Was his naturally dominant personality part of his allure? He did not practice BDSM in any formal way, but because he was dominant by nature, and I was submissive by nature, our relationship had that dynamic. I ceded control to him in everything. He made all the choices, deciding what we would do and when. He always operated the menus, selected and placed the pose balls; he even designed my avatar, choosing my clothes, skin, shape and hair. Being in control of me was deeply satisfying for him. For him to be in control was deeply satisfying for me.
Now, in my dismal numbness, I remembered those butterflies in my stomach, the sensation of simply letting go, letting someone else be in charge of me, accepting the danger. Would BDSM provide the intensity I needed? I decided to find out. When I felt the thrill in the pit of my stomach as I faced the unknown, I began to suspect I was on the right track.
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the space between 