Behind the Seams: Yellow Shoes & Pink Wine

Kate Sloan

June 22nd, 2018. It’s become tradition that my Sir chooses my outfit for days when he arrives in Toronto to visit me for a weekend. I mean, he chooses my outfits at plenty of other times, too, but this tradition feels particularly salient because he usually sends me my instructions a few days in advance, and then I get to spend those days picturing how he will remove those specific clothes from my body once we’re finally, finally together again.

I had just bought these new yellow shoes so he wanted me to wear a yellow-centric outfit to complement them. This T-shirt is one of many romantic mementos in our relationship because I bought it at a merch stand at Brooklyn Steel the night he took me to see my favorite band there. I still remember swaying sweatily in that lineup, my eyes fixing on this bright yellow tee that looked as radiantly optimistic as my heart felt that night.

As per usual for Sir’s weekend visits, I got ready far too early because I was far too excited. To pass the time until he finally pulled up at my door, I went on a long walk, then sat on a bench in the sun for a while reading Social Creature, a super striking novel that I loved a whole bunch. Then I tottered back to my apartment building in time to meet Sir out the front, kiss him at the door, kiss him in my elevator, and kiss him lots more in my bed.

What I’m wearing:
• Yellow unisex Hippo Campus T-shirt – bought at their merch table when they played at Brooklyn Steel
• Black denim short-shorts – H&M
• Lotta From Stockholm peeptoe clogs in “Summer Yellow”

June 23rd, 2018. It wouldn’t be a Sir-and-little-one weekend if there wasn’t at least one fancy night out on the sched. Sir chose this outfit for me before we hopped in an Uber to La Banane, a gorgeous French seafood restaurant. We sat at the bar (he always wants to sit at the bar, so we’re closer together and he can touch me more) and he ordered me some orgasmic cocktails and taught me how to eat oysters.

After dinner, we walked over to my friend Anais‘ house for a small get-together with some old pals from high school. It was fun to introduce my love to all these people I’ve known for years. He kept my glass of rosé topped up while we chatted and laughed until late. It was a nerdy group, so we got into heated debates about Harry Potter trivia and Mozart music, natch.

As much as I love being out and about with my daddy, it’s equally nice when we head back to my place and I get to melt into little-space, safe in his arms. I think he hit me with a leather bat a bunch when we arrived back at my apartment, and it was a totally dreamy end to our evening.

What I’m wearing:
• Pink hair scrunchie – American Apparel years ago
• Blue suede collar – L’Amour-Propre
• Black/white/pink rose-print dress – CowCow
• Lotta From Stockholm peeptoe clogs in “Summer Yellow”

June 26th, 2018. On Sir’s last day in Toronto this weekend, we went for lunch with my brother at the Lakeview. I ordered an all-day breakfast special, because bacon and eggs are the food of the gods.

Later, after Sir and I had returned to my apartment for lots more sweet cuddly sex (we’re horndogs, okay), I put on this casual outfit for our traditional end-of-weekend debrief over cocktails at Northwood. He ordered me a Lady Grey Sour and then a Southside, and we cuddled on a church pew, talking about our favorite parts of the weekend and when we planned to see each other next. Then we made out in front of the bar like a couple of teenagers while we waited for his taxi to arrive. I only cried a little as I watched him zoom away toward the airport.

What I’m wearing:
• Pink hair scrunchie – American Apparel
• Blue suede collar – L’Amour-Propre
• Black Apple logo T-shirt – a gift from Sir, bought on a business trip he’d recently been on (he told me it makes me look like a hot Apple Store employee who’s too introverted to work the sales floor and hangs out in the back instead)
• Black hand-me-down’ed Danier Leather jacket adorned with pins from Kinktionary and L’Amour-Propre
• Black shorts – H&M
• Lotta From Stockholm peeptoe clogs in “Summer Yellow”

5 Must-Have Props For a Forced-Orgasm Scene

Kate Sloan

Sometimes you finally act out a fantasy you’ve been dreaming of for years, and it’s disappointing and not at all what you expected. Other times, you try something you never even suspected you’d find hot, and it instantly becomes your new favorite thing.

And then there are times when you try something you’ve been curious about for ages, and it turns out to be exactly as hot in reality as it was in fantasy, if not moreso. That’s how I felt about forced-orgasm play when I first tried it.

The “forced orgasm” moniker covers a wide gamut of possible scenarios. A menacing femdom milks her sub’s cock to extract his cum for nefarious purposes. A daddy dom gets his sick little girl off to make her feel better. A mad scientist hooks his hapless subject up to a Venus 2000 to observe what happens after orgasm #5. A Victorian doctor administers hysterical paroxysm via electric vibrator for his patient’s own good.

See what I mean? Hot as fuck.

You can keep it simple when doing forced-orgasm play, and just tell your partner to stay still while you do all the dirty things to them that you know make them come the hardest. But toys, restraints, and other props can add a lot to this fantasy. Here are my top 5 suggestions for products that can take your forced-orgasm scene from “You gonna come for me?” to “That’s my good slut, there you go, just like that…”

Under-the-bed restraints. These are my favorite foolproof way to add an element of bondage into a scene. Once they’re installed on your bed, they barely require any effort to get into: one partner just has to strap the other person into all four cuffs, which takes long enough to build thrilling anticipation but not so long as to get tiresome. Once your partner is all spread out and tied down, you’ll have full access to their bits and can get down to business. (Pro tip: slide a pillow or a Liberator Jaz under their hips before you restrain them if you want a better angle for anal penetration, going down on them, riding their cock, or various other fun things.)

A wand vibrator. Wands are sort of the go-to toys for forced-orgasm play, since their notoriously strong vibrations can add to the sense that they’re “inducing” an orgasm against your will. My two faves for this purpose are the Magic Wand Rechargeable and Doxy Die Cast, although if you want something smaller/lighter/easier to wield, I can also heartily recommend the Jimmyjane Iconic Wand and Doxy Number Three. It’s fun to hold a wand against the genitals of someone who can’t squirm away from the intense sensations. Bonus points if you slide your fingers or a dildo inside them at the same time, overwhelming them with feelings they can’t escape. 😈

A blindfold. Taking away someone’s sense of sight heightens their other senses, which is particularly fun in a scene that’s all about providing an onslaught of sensation. Get a soft one that’s contoured to the face; they’ll probably be wearing it for a while, so it should be comfy and stay put!

Lube. For some people, a little strategic dryness might increase the exciting “non-consensual” element of the fantasy – but in general, you’re gonna wanna keep things wet, especially if you’re doing any kind of penetration. Pick something thick and long-lasting, like Sliquid Sassy or The Butters. If you’re doing some kind of medical-play scene, the slow application of cold lube may even add to the clinical feeling you’re going for.

A Fun Factory pulsator. These are expensive and definitely a nice-to-have, not a need-to-have. However, if you enjoy the fantasy of a “fucking machine” but don’t want to spend thousands of dollars, these are the next best thing. Slide a Stronic toy into your partner’s hole and keep it in place by putting a pillow or a Liberator toy against its handle. The toy will bounce faithfully against their G-spot or prostate, freeing you up to do other delightful stuff to the rest of their body!

Have you ever done a forced-orgasm scene? What toy(s) did you use?

 

Thanks so much to Peepshow Toys for sponsoring this post! They’re one of the companies helping me get to the Woodhull Sexual Freedom Summit this year. Check out their great selection of body-safe sex toys!

Doing It Yourself: On Couples’ Toys and Self-Love

Kate Sloan

“So you’re a sex toy reviewer? That must be fun!”

I’ve heard this countless times, in countless ways. Everyone wants to believe my job is a fun romp, a 24/7 deluge of tactile pleasure and giggly orgasms. And sometimes it is. But sometimes it decidedly isn’t.

Like when, for example, I’m frustratingly single and get yet another offer in my inbox to review the latest couples’ toy.

In early 2017, I went to a training session hosted at my workplace by a We-Vibe rep, and won a brand-new Sync vibrator by answering some trivia questions correctly. “You should review it on your blog!” a coworker chirped at me as I left at the end of the night, and at first I felt buoyed and buzzy at the thought. But as I strolled home with the Sync burning a proverbial hole in my pocket, the knowledge settled with a thud that I had no one with whom to test the toy in a partnered-sex setting.

“Just go to a sex club or ask a Tinder dude,” that same coworker suggested when we talked about it again later. But it wasn’t and isn’t that simple. Contrary to what the creeps who DM me asking to “help [me] test toys” seem to believe, that process isn’t actually a very sexy one. There are missteps and mistakes. There is silicone digging into flesh and metal pinching skin. There’s my endless barrage of questions during and after: “Does this feel good for you?” “Is it easy to control?” “What are your criticisms of it?” I’ll happily get nerdy and overanalytical with a like-minded steady partner, when I have one – but I don’t always have one. And casual partners aren’t always a safe bet for this exercise in vulnerability.

That episode with the Sync wasn’t the only time the concept of a “couples’ toy” sunk me into self-doubt and self-pity. There was the time I requested a sex swing, imagining optimistically that I’d meet someone awesome in time to review it, but ended up pawning it off on a friend and her partner when it became clear that wasn’t going to happen. There was the time I scored my then-boyfriend We-Vibe’s new cock ring and he broke up with me before we got to give it a fair shake. There was the Fleshlight I used to use with a boyfriend, until we split up and it lay unused in a drawer in my bedroom, developing mould. What a potent metaphor for love gone sour.

When you get into a feedback loop where your line of work makes you sad because it reminds you of everything you’re missing in your personal life, you know it’s time to make a change. Long periods of singlehood taught me to embrace taking myself on dates, enjoying my own company, and showing myself the love I deserved – so why not fuck myself like a partner would, too? Including, sometimes, with toys designed for “couples”?

This meant getting more creative than my typical routine of holding a wand vibe against my clit in silence until I came. I took my Liberator Wedge out from under my bed, dusted it off, and began using it to tilt my hips for deeper penetration during masturbation. I slipped my Sync inside me and controlled it from my phone, revelling in the high-tech glee of it. I wore my favorite butt plug on café expeditions or long walks, not because a dom had told me to, but just to give myself pleasure.

I started deliberately prepping for solo sex like I would for hot dates. I’d drape myself in lacy lingerie, spritz on some intoxicating perfume, play sultry music to underscore my moans. I’d touch myself all over before zeroing in on my genitals, wanting the drawn-out tease I usually only got from partners. I’d soak in the tub beforehand, or bring out my most far-fetched fantasies, or watch whatever weird porn I felt like watching – anything to maximize my pleasure in the face of societal messaging that tells us the heights of sexual joy are only for the coupled.

When I did start dating seriously again, I found that my habit of decadent solo sex had taught me to enjoy partnered sexuality even more deeply. I moaned more loudly, felt things more fully. I asked for what I wanted, because I knew what that was. When I pulled out “couples’ toys” to try with a new beau, I already knew how they worked, and didn’t have to rely on my partner to puzzle out the instructions and introduce me to my own pleasure.

Sex toys help me connect with other people, but even more crucially, they help me connect with myself. I don’t know if I agree with the common wisdom that you’ve got to love yourself before anyone else can love you, but I do know it’s a whole lot easier for a partner to make you come if you’ve proven to yourself you deserve to feel that good.

 

Thanks so much to SheVibe for sponsoring this post! Check out their great selection of sex toys.

6 Skills Every Introvert Should Cultivate

Kate Sloan

Any fellow introverts in the house? I bet there are…

Jung defined an introvert as someone who is more energized by the internal world than the external one. That is to say, an introvert expends energy when they have to deal with external things, like other people and attending events, and recharges their energy when they can return to the internal, by spending time alone and on introspective activities.

This is the definition I lean on when people seem surprised I identify as an introvert. Sure, I can be gregarious and chipper at a party; sure, I talk about my sex life on the internet; sure, you may not think of me as “shy” (although I certainly am that, too) – but setting all that aside, I expend my energy when I go outside of myself, and I replenish it when I turn inward and shut out the rest of the world for a while. It’s that simple.

In recent years, I’ve come to accept my introverted identity more and more, by reading books like Quiet and The Introvert’s Way. I’ve developed a skillset – not perfectly, you understand, but I’m working on it – that I think every introvert needs to master if they’re going to live a happy, healthy life that respects their temperament. Here are some skills I think are crucial for us inward-turning types…

Boundary-setting. This is important for everyone, and I use it to manage my energy levels all the damn time. If you’re not feelin’ a party but could do a one-on-one hang, request a coffee-date raincheck the next time a pal invites you to a rager. If you did an extroverty thing last time you saw your best friend, maybe they’d be up for a quiet art-gallery crawl this time. If you know you tend to get exhausted after a few hours with a friend, tell them upfront what time you have to leave by. (It’s okay to use work or sleepiness as an excuse, although I hope your friends are understanding enough that you don’t have to do that.)

Nowadays I’ll usually set a time constraint before I go to anything – “I have to leave by 11 because I have work in the morning,” “I’m gonna take off by 10 because I’ve been working all day and I’m pretty tired,” or even something as simple as “I can stay a couple hours!” without providing any additional details. These boundaries will leave your friends less confused and will make you look and feel like less of an asshole if you have to peace out in the middle of a party.

The art of the self-date. Some introverts are ride-or-die for their beds or bedrooms, as am I, but often I want to take myself out, too. I used to be terrified to do this – I worried people would judge me for being alone at locations frequented by pairs or groups – but after a while, I realized no one really pays that much attention to strangers. Fun fact: Julia Cameron calls these solo outings “artist dates” and says they’re vital to the creative process!

Some examples of self-dates: Go see a movie you’re interested in. Take your journal to a cocktail bar. Read a book on the patio of your favorite restaurant. Peruse a museum or gallery. Visit a bookstore, art supply store, or crystals shop. Treat yourself to a massage, mani-pedi, or facial. Sit on a blanket and people-watch in a park. Take your camera someplace pretty and snap some shots. Drop by a farmer’s market for ingredients and then make yourself a lovely meal. Hole up in the library for a while. Explore a public building you’ve never been in before. Go on a walking tour of local public art. Search on Yelp or Foursquare for a well-reviewed café/bar/restaurant in your area and go check it out. Get a rush ticket to the theatre. Go see an improv/sketch/stand-up show at your local comedy venue. Find an open mic to attend. Drop by a live jazz venue for an evening. Paint some pottery. Take a long walk while listening to your favorite podcast or audiobook. Bike to the beach. Find a balcony or rooftop to sit on with a nice cold drink.

Connecting and compromising with extroverts. This is easiest when the extroverts in your life are well-versed in the concept of introversion (I’m lucky that most of my favorite ones are!). For me, the most important parts of relating to extroverts have been 1) figuring out how to communicate about my mental/emotional energy limitations without hurting their feelings and 2) each of us compromising sometimes. #1 is easy enough: I’ll explain the Jungian concept of introversion outlined above if the person I’m talking to is unaware of it, and I’ll try to figure out what I need at any given time and ask for it specifically (“Can we just be quiet for a while?” “I need some downtime tonight, but I’d love to see you tomorrow!” “I have the energy to watch a silly comedy with you but not to go out to a party”). If necessary, I’ll remind them that it’s nothing personal, and that my issue isn’t with them but with my own energy levels.

The compromise piece can be a little harder, because it requires creative solutions (e.g. “Sure, we can go to your friend’s party, but I’m pretty tired so I might disappear onto the balcony to scroll my Twitter timeline for a few minutes here and there,” or, “Yeah, let’s go to your super-loud favorite restaurant! As long as we can sit in a booth in the back and have a nice focused one-on-one chat”). As is the nature of compromise, there will be times when you agree to do things you don’t strictly want to do. But if your favorite extrovert can snuggle up with you on the couch and silently watch your favorite show with you one night, you can probably bring yourself to accompany them to their chatty happy-hour function another night. Maybe you’ll just let them do most of the talking while you hang back and gaze admiringly at them. And hey, it’s more than okay if you duck out early and they stay another hour to meet a few more people, so long as you’re both okay with that arrangement.

Setting realistic expectations for yourself. I have so often fallen into the trap of shaming myself for not being more social than I am. Feeling suddenly embarrassed about my barren social calendar, I’ll pack back-to-back plans into my week, hoping to feel like less of a hermit/recluse/loser. But I always end up miserable when I do this, wishing halfway through my second or third consecutive Big Night Out that I was in bed with a book instead.

If you haven’t already figured out your ideal ratio of social time to alone time, you should! It’s also okay if it shifts. I’m more social in the summer than in the winter, for example, but not by a lot.

Paying attention to your energy levels over time – and perhaps even tracking them, in a journal or an app (my partner recommends Gyroscope or Day One) or however you prefer – can help teach you what tends to drain you dry and what tends to feel okay for you. For example, I used to sometimes double-book myself – “I’ll go to this family function and then drop by my friend’s birthday party across town!” I’d posit, ambitiously – but now I know that one Social Thing per day is pretty much my maximum; maybe two if they’re spaced out and I can get some downtime in between. It’s nice to know that about myself and be able to make plans accordingly!

Tapping out. Sometimes you think you’re gonna be okay at a social event, but then you spend a little while there and realize you’re… not. It’s awkward to leave before it’s socially acceptable to do so, but there are ways to do it smoothly and politely. I usually fall back on “tired” as my adjective of choice when doing this – it’s true, though most people tend to assume I’m tired in the “didn’t get enough sleep” way, which we for some reason see as a more legitimate excuse than social/emotional fatigue.

As with any instance of delivering potentially upsetting news, it’s good to bookend your “I’m leaving, byeee!” with more positive declarations. For example: “This party has been really fun! I’m tired and gonna duck out early, but let’s get together again soon so we can catch up properly.” Or: “I love talking to you, but I’m just not in a good place to be social today. Can I take you out for drinks next week?” It’s important to be kind and polite whenever you can – and you usually can.

Recharging efficiently and well. Taking introverty time to yourself is pointless if you don’t actually use it to replenish yourself and make yourself feel good. That’s the whole reason you’re doing it, so might as well do it right!

While sometimes my idea of introverting is mindlessly scrolling my Twitter timeline in silence for half an hour, generally I find that social media drains me instead of filling me up. As resistant as I may be to putting my phone down, sometimes that’s what I have to do if I want to recharge properly. There are few sweeter gifts I can give myself than an hour with my phone on airplane mode and my nose in a book (or my journal, or pressed into my pillow as I lie in bed in thoughtful silence). The more fully I revitalize myself during my time alone, the more kindness and exuberance I have to offer my friends, family, and partners when I spend time with them again. So I owe it to myself and to them to take good care of myself!

Introverts: what are your best tips for setting boundaries, connecting meaningfully with extroverts, respecting your introverted nature, and replenishing your social energy?

Long-Time Listener, First-Time Collar

Kate Sloan

I didn’t want to buy my own collar. I was a single submissive, unowned, unneeded, and unmoored. As much as I might want a band of evocative leather around my throat, buying one seemed as gauche as buying one’s own engagement ring before even meeting a person one would like to marry. But I wanted one nonetheless. (A collar, that is; not an engagement ring. Although, for some kinksters, that’s a distinction without a difference.)

My best friend Bex bought me my first collar. They presented it to me on my 24th birthday, in the front seat of their car, while we zoomed from Pennsylvania to Wisconsin on the middle leg of a road trip. It was exactly perfect: the Aslan Leather Nicki collar, made of berry-pink leather banded with black.

I gasped. I cried. “I can be my own daddy,” I mused, clutching the leather to my chest.

“Exactly,” Bex said, and I knew they understood me more deeply than any best friend I’d ever had.

Later that day, somewhere in Cleveland, we pulled over on a side street and got out to go scavenge for lunch. “Do I have to take my collar off because we’re going to be around vanilla people?” I asked, tugging self-consciously on the metal ring at my throat.

“No,” Bex said.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive, little one.”

We strolled along that sunny side street and our glamorous friend C. added, “If anybody catcalls you or says anything about your collar, I’ll hit them with my parasol.” Thankfully, they didn’t have to.

Sometimes you don’t know how badly you want something until you almost-but-don’t-quite get it.

My first daddy dom told me five days after we met that he was available to be the primary partner I wanted, then told me weeks later, by which time he was juggling three partners, “I don’t remember saying that, and I don’t think I would have said that.” He promised to turn an old telephone table into a spanking bench painted my favorite colors, but only got as far as sanding before giving up on the project and on me. His idea of love and care was “I thought about bringing you chocolate, but I ran out of time.” “I almost texted you, but then I got distracted.” “Really? Did I say that? That doesn’t sound like something I would say.”

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when he promised to make me a collar and that never happened either.

I was so excited when he made this offhand vow. I went home and started Googling collar pictures: collars with chainmail, collars with filigree, collars with hearts. I wanted one with a heart, I knew. There was never any question in my mind.

There was never any question, either, about whether he was the right person to put my first capital-C Collar on me, the first person to have that degree of power over me. “Fuuuck,” I wrote in my journal. “How have I known this person less than two weeks and already I want him to own me?” He wasn’t even “boyfriend” yet and already I wanted him to be Daddy, Sir, owner. How like me, to give my heart away with the force and velocity of a six-year-old playing a game of Hot Potato.

One hot July night, he cancelled our plans to go to Tell Me Something Good together at the last minute, playing the “tired” card – another broken promise – so I went with a gaggle of pals instead. I got up and told the crowd a story about a spanking gone awry, and garnered scores high enough to win a prize at the end of the night. My eyes swept across the prize table, trying to select my reward, when I saw it: a silver heart-shaped padlock, glittering with rhinestones. I seized it in my eager paws, daydreaming already of the chain he would thread it onto, the words he would say as he clasped it around my neck.

The next time I saw him, I intoned modestly, “I’ve got something to show you,” and produced the lock from a drawer. I thought he’d know immediately what it was for, but instead he just looked at me quizzically. “It’s pretty,” I think he said, unsure what I was getting at.

“I thought you could use it when you make my collar!” I finally explained – and even then, his eyes did not light up. I wonder now if he’d changed his mind about wanting to own me; if perhaps I had already lost my lustre, the way shiny new possessions inevitably, eventually do.

He ended our relationship two weeks later. For months, I couldn’t look at that heart-shaped lock without comparing it to my own heart: given unreservedly but unwanted; relegated to a sad, dusty drawer.

In December of that year, I met a boy in New York. Nine days later, I was calling him “Sir” and asking him which collar I should wear to the theatre. What can I say; when I fall, I fall fast. It’s a character flaw. Or maybe a superpower.

I texted him a selfie from my seat in the Young Centre, my hair tumbling over the turquoise suede he’d told me to wear. “Hiding your collar!” he replied immediately, to which I retorted – drunk on one beer and new-relationship adrenaline – “It’s there, I promise. Reminding me of whose I am.”

Alarm bells sounded in my head even as I typed the words. Too fast too soon too much. Remember last time? But I wanted the risk, the rush. I wanted to believe.

“Fuckkkk. That ownership language makes me feel very fucking special,” he thumbed back in a blur, and I felt the internal stirring and whirring of a hope blossoming into a wish.

He asked me to wear the turquoise choker again the following day. I did, to a nearby café, pulling nervously at it the whole block-long walk. “Maybe next time I see you in person, we should go buy a collar together,” I suggested. A test. A dare. I didn’t want us to keep using collars I already owned as symbols of our burgeoning power dynamic; they made me feel dirty with past associations, like going on a first date wearing an ex’s sweater that still smells of heartbreak.

“What makes you think I won’t have one in my hand?” he replied. I nearly dropped my phone on the icy sidewalk. Too fast too soon too much, I thought again. And also: I want more.

Sex nerds, kink nerds, and psychology nerds all like to talk about their intentions and motivations. Both of us are all three. We talked a lot.

“What does a collar mean to you?” one of us asked the other, and we each threw out phrase after phrase, “yes” after “yes,” ascending a tower of assent. It’s an intensifier. A motivator. Ownership. Affection. Pride. A solidification, a sign of safety, of commitment. (We weren’t even ready to call each other “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” – and yet. Love is absurd.)

I listened to him over the phone while he made the purchase: a royal blue suede collar we’d chosen together. We giggled resolutely, and then I heard nervousness creep into his voice. “I want to make explicit,” he began, wavering, “that I don’t want you to wear it with anyone else.”

It had never occurred to me to wear it with anyone else. It was his collar. His gift to me, and mine to him. His symbolic hand wrapped around my throat. I’m staunchly non-monogamous, so there are times when my lips and my cunt and my submission are for other people. But that collar was not for other people. Only for him.

We wrote the rules of the collar together, in our shared note of protocols entitled “Sir and little one.” There are only a few rules, but each is important.

  1. Whenever Sir and little one are together, he will collar her. She will not use their collar with anyone else, put it on without being ordered to by Sir, or allow anyone else to touch it.
  2. When ordered to wear her collar, little one must continue wearing it until she completes any assigned tasks or work and receives permission to remove it.
  3. Little one may temporarily remove her collar without permission if necessary to protect herself or the collar.

I swooned as he drafted the phrasing for each decree. The care and love he poured into this exercise – even before we were calling this thing between us “love” – was so evident, so huge. No romantic symbol can really mean anything unless you’re certain it means the same thing to both of you – and I knew that this one did. It was as clear as the words in our respective Notes apps, black text on a backlit screen.

He put it around my neck on a February night – the same night he kissed me in the lineup outside Brooklyn Steel, and danced with me to my favorite band, and told me he loved me for the first time. Every time he looked at me, all night, his eyes dipped to the collar around my neck, then narrowed as his expression hardened into what I can only call “the dom face.” Every dom has one. His makes me shiver and bite my lip.

He would get distracted and trail off mid-sentence when his eyes caught on the collar. “Sorry, it just… looks really good on you,” he attempted to explain each time. He meant, I knew, not so much that the collar looked good on me but that submission did. Being small and compliant looked good on me. Being his looked good on me.

We’ve talked a lot about our collar since before we even picked it out, and we still talk about it. What it means. When I should and shouldn’t wear it. What we would do if I dropped it down a subway grate by accident. What we would do if we broke up.

There’s a lot in this world of which I’m uncertain, and a lot that frightens me in its uncertainty. But this collar – for all the time I spent hoping for it and wishing for it – feels certain to me, fixed, decided. I know what it means; my love and I swing this shared meaning between us like a tether.

If I can’t know anything else for sure in this world, at least I can know that I’m owned by someone who loves me; that he loves me enough to have put a piece of sacred suede around my neck; that he loves me enough to go all dark-eyed and dom-faced whenever he looks at the collar that means I’m his.