I’m a sucker for physical objects that represent relationships. I still occasionally wear an ex-boyfriend’s boxers, clutch a stuffed bunny that a beau bought me when I can’t sleep, sigh contentedly at an emerald ring gifted by an ex-girlfriend on our first Valentine’s Day. These things mean something to me, even when the relationships from which they surfaced no longer do. What they mean is this: I loved and was loved. It happened. There is physical proof.
But these are all objects which outlasted relationships. It’s rare, in my life, for a relationship to outlast an object it contains.
When my Sir bought me my first collar – not my first-ever collar, you understand, but the first collar I’d worn as an agreed-upon, mutually meaningful symbol of a D/s dynamic folded into a romance – no discussion was had about how long we foresaw the object lasting, and what we would do if and when it needed replacing. The closest we got was a conversation about what we would do if I accidentally lost my collar: dropped it down a subway grate, forgot it at a restaurant, lost sight of it in a TSA tussle. We agreed that we would be sad in such a case, but that we would soldier on and get another one, because it was the symbolism of the item, not the item itself, that ultimately mattered.
“I don’t think we would get the same one; I would want to get one that was a better reflection of our relationship at that time,” my Sir told me, and those words stuck in my head. He, with his history of fewer but much longer relationships than I had had, believed in our future – in our ability to persevere and grow as a couple. It had been so long since I had done such a thing that I hardly believed it was still possible for me.
Our first collar was suede with a silver heart at the front. We chose it after multiple long slogs through the kinky corners of the internet, fixating on it for its bright cobalt color and its simple, versatile aesthetic. Weirdly, although I knew from past experience the kinds of things that can happen to suede when it gets wet and well-worn, it didn’t occur to me that such things would happen to this collar, too. It seemed as though the symbolic importance of the item would permeate its pores and prevent any harm from befalling it. The night he gave it to me, I wore it to a crowded concert in chilly New York, double-dousing it in sweat, snow, and maybe some stray droplets of bourbon as we moshed and kissed and laughed.
It didn’t take long for the royal blue suede to darken to a formidable navy, especially given that I tended to wear the collar in sweaty situations: sex with my Sir when he was nearby, or nervewracking days when he was far away and I needed some encouragement to get through my work. The collar’s color changed so much that one of its makers remarked on it with alarm when he saw it on me at an industry event. I just laughed; I liked owning such a tangible sign of my relationship’s cozy comfort, its establishedness. But part of me missed that bright blue.
At some point, my Sir and I began discussing the possibility of replacing my collar. We were both, at once, sad and excited about it; the beginning of a new chapter inevitably also brings the end of another. Much like trading in the irrational distractibility of New Relationship Energy for something warmer and sturdier, it felt bittersweet but like a definite step forward, one we wanted to take.
We once again combed the internet for collars. We looked at fancy ones, cutesy ones, over-the-top ones. There were a few criteria: it had to be blue, it had to have a heart on it, and it had to be comfortable enough for all-day wear but easy to take off quickly, because I don’t wear it on a 24/7 or even everyday basis. It was surprisingly hard to find collars that fit these parameters and weren’t ugly as fuck, so once again, we gravitated to that L’Amour-Propre collar we’d chosen in the first place.
I thought it would work better for our purposes if it was regular leather – as opposed to suede – so my Sir reached out to the company to see if they could make that happen for us. They had to visit their leather supplier and pick out a piece for us, which they were happy to do. We pored over the one photo they sent us of the leather, trying to discern whether it was perfect or not quite right. We trusted the process. We started getting excited.
It was easier than I expected to transfer the psychic energy of one collar into another. It helped that we stuck to traditions from last time (we earth signs love our rituals and routines). Like our first collaring, the second one happened on the night of a Hippo Campus concert; my Sir pulled the beautiful piece of blue leather out of an elegant watch case he’d stored it in; he stood behind me as I knelt, and slid it around my neck. We went and looked at in together in the mirror. Tears may have been shed.
My new collar hasn’t had time yet to absorb the scent of my skin, my sweat, and my perfume. It hasn’t yet molded to the shape of my neck, tarnished from use, or rippled on the inside. But it still carries with it the weight of my relationship, my D/s dynamic, my love, so it’s more valuable to me than many objects I’ve had for years.