Proof

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of meeting one Maitresse Scarlette Stangata (a fiery and fascinating lifestyle Mistress) through our mutual friend Patrick.* I can tell you she's fascinating just by the single meeting because I've also checked out her blog since then ... I'd link to it, but it's an invite-only deal, so you'll have to take my word for it as I take my moment to gloat about how I'm a member of the cool kids' club and you're not.
Anyway, meeting her and reading her blog were another main factor that both got me thinking more about what I wanted as far as the whole lifestyle aspect of things and also answered a lot of questions that that particular thought process had raised for me as far as how to balance everything ... because a part of me really does still have my guard up. Then again - Brooke's training as far as not showing weakness in front of submissives notwithstanding - I'm pretty much notorious for my guardedness ... kinda goes hand in hand with that whole being famous for dysfunctional relationships thing I have going on.
But reading Scarlette's blog helped me realize that the balance is possible. While the undeniable dynamic force that she is comes across in every word, whenever she talks about "her boy," there's also this sweetness and vulnerability that comes through and kinda calls to mind that famous movie moment where Julia Roberts tells Hugh Grant, "I'm still just a girl standing in front of a boy." And I'm okay with the fact that I'm drawing that analogy, because even if I do know the line, I don't actually remember what the movie is ... so I am, thereby, still a tough little Domme.
Point being, I got to take comfort in the thought that it is, in fact, possible to command a room, bring grown men to their knees, and still allow for your own humanity to come through without it being weakness. I certainly felt anything but weak the times I curled up in bed with John when the rest of my world was swirling chaotically around me ... if anything, it made me stronger because I was able to breathe easier and get through it.
I'm still working on being one hundred percent comfy with all that though.
I drove out and saw my little boy this weekend for the first time in a couple weeks. By the time I was about fifteen to twenty minutes away, I was in the best mood. Soon after I had walked through the door, we were on the bed making out like a couple high school kids, me raking my nails over his chest and back, holding him by the throat, and throwing in the occasional bite to that sensitive spot where collarbone and shoulder meet for good measure.
"I missed you," he told me after a few minutes of this.
"Mmm.. you'd fucking better have," I replied, catching his lower lip between my teeth.
But underneath all that flippant bravado ... I was still just a girl. And a cynical girl, at that. I had gone back and forth on exactly how many of my latest "secrets" I wanted him to know before I went out there, telling him he should check out this very blog, then taking it back and saying to wait.
See, I wasn't sure whether or not his reading it would result in his getting weird, breaking plans, and doing that whole dropping off the face of the planet thing he does so well for the billionth time. And that would've sucked. So now that I was there, I needed to pull back, just snuggle, and beat around the bush a little bit (okay ... a lot) before I was about to entertain any notions of setting the truth out in straightforward black and white. And getting a few drinks in me first couldn't hurt either. So we went out with two of his good friends. It was nice to finally meet them. And ever notice how everything's somehow less intimidating after you've spiked your bloodstream like a prom night punch bowl? Yes, confessions intimidate me ... my own confessions, anyway. Shut up.
And even then, it was still like pulling teeth to get it out of me. I've really got to give John credit for his patience in that department, even though it was pretty self-explanatory where I was going with it. Before we left the house, I casually mentioned that I had recently figured out what I wanted as far as the whole lifestyle aspect of things. Naturally, he inquired as to what that was ... and I helpfully informed him that, "It's in the blog I wouldn't let you read."
Halfway through my second glass of wine while his friends were involved in an animated banter over some inside joke or another, I leaned over and elaborated, "I want this ... with some modifications." Still no prying; he let me take my sweet time on things. I don't really know if he did that because he gets me or if it was just another aspect of this silent, stoic, internalizing thing he sometimes does, but it worked either way.
In the dark back in his room later that night, I pulled back for a moment, "This isn't what I went to L.A. for," I told him, "And this isn't why you emailed me. Remember? You emailed me volunteering to be my guinea pig."
"I'm still your guinea pig," he told me.
"But you've already fulfilled your obligations in that department," I murmured, "And now I want more out of you. So ..." I finally asked him, "How far will you go for me, little boy?"
"That's up to you," he replied.
I shook my head. "That's not an answer." And I repeated my original question: "How far will you go for me?"
"All the way, Mistress Kay," was his answer this time around.
After we had both paused to giggle at the unintentional rhyme, I replied, "I guess we'll see about that, then, won't we?" Then I told him I wanted him to be three things: reliable, accessible ... and mine. The last of these was delivered as a purred prelude to a kiss, and in the morning when I asked him if he remembered his three things, he repeated the first two back and claimed he hadn't quite caught the third.
Given his response in the moment (did I mention that I really dig how intense his reactions to me are when I get sensual?), I'm not entirely sure whether that was actually the case or if he just wanted to hear me say it again.
At first, I told him it didn't really matter because as long as he pulled off the first two, the third would follow. But then I relented and murmured it into his ear in between bites to his neck and nipples.
"Okay. I'll be yours," he said.
"Not just like that, you won't," I told him, "Prove it; you're not mine just because you say you are ... you'll have to show me."
I take that track a lot. I've been fed too many beautiful lines of bullshit in my couple decades and change on the planet. I can't do anything with easy, pretty words; I want them backed up by deed. My one exception to the "never say never and never say always" rule is that I will most likely always ask for proof.
Of course, John pointed out that he was still here, and wasn't that proof? "I'm not going anywhere," he told me, "I'm content. I don't want or need anything else." Which was nice to hear. Certainly a promising start ... but now? Keep on showing me. Prove it. And don't stop or slack.
So, hopefully I wasn't too vague for him, what with all that beating around the bush I did.
We'll see what happens ...