Stripped

For the longest time, I saw crying as a personal sign of weakness. So I didn’t cry. Over the last several years, though, that’s changed. It started changing before I met M, and it’s changed even more since meeting him.

I was used to the idea of crying when I was upset, but the first time I cried in front of M, it wasn’t because I was upset. We’d just had a very heavy extended bondage session. As M started to pull gear off of me and put things away, I curled up into a ball and burst into tears. As soon as he realized what was happening, he held me and asked what was wrong.

I didn’t know. Nothing was wrong. Everything was right. It had never been more right. But as I sobbed into his chest, I couldn’t articulate that. And it was so weird.

I know I felt that M was pretty special before that, and it would be months more before I’d dare utter the L-word, but that night still marked something special. That scene touched something I didn’t know existed… that I didn’t know could exist.

M’s made me cry like that a few more times since then. If the scene is just right, and I get into the right headspace, afterward, when M starts to strip away the gear… I’ll curl up and cry. But now we both understand it a little better. And instead of being freaked out by it, I try to let myself sink into it… enjoy it, even.

It’s pretty special to have someone that can do that to you with a little (well, OK, a lot of) latex and leather.