The Point Is

Something that a lot of non-BDSM, or non-collared, people don't understand is that we slaves choose slavery because it makes us happy to do so.  We are not a bunch of broken and lost-cause people who can't think for themselves.  It is commonly understood, in the BDSM world, that a bottom with no opinion is an energy sucking bore for a capable and thinking top.  A strong top needs a strong bottom just as a sadistic top needs a masochistic bottom.  The point of BDSM is to live on the edge, to live life in the extreme.  The point, to reiterate, is to live large.

My man often says this thing, which sounds very Navy-hoo-rah to the cynic, but is valuable to those interested in living really interesting lives:

If you're not living on the edge, you're taking up too much space.

Before my man and I got together, I was a successful young professional.  I lived in a big city, had my own fabulous apartment, and wide circle of diverse, attractive, and compassionate friends (most of whom I'd at least made out with).  On the outside, it looked like I was doing really well for myself.  But on the inside I knew I was no where near my potential, and getting further from my dreams every day.  All day I dreamt of writing, digging gardens, climbing mountains, finding poetry, and star gazing.  I dreamt a humble life full of nutrition and connection and honesty.  What I was lacking, was a driver.  I wanted a partner who'd support my goals and help me feed the fire of more.  I wanted someone who was self sufficient and strong in and of him/herself.

I also wanted to get tied up, slapped, spanked, and verbally degraded.  My dream partner needed to be extraordinary, because I am extraordinary.

The reason consensual slavery works for us is that I know I am a vehicle and my master knows he is a driver.  I am a helper, a fountain of ideas, an organizer, a reminder, a teacher, and a soothsayer.  He is a go-getter, a creator, a seeker, a builder, and a learner.  I am the bowl and he is the food.  There are many beautiful metaphors for our union.  Since I'm warming up my writing chops after a brief hiatus, and since I'm a poetry seeker, let me tell you about a fascinating occurrence in the ocean.

Pyrite is a mineral, nicknamed fools gold, which often acts as a replacement mineral in fossils.  I don't know what "replacement mineral" means scientifically, I just learned it on wikipedia.  I can guess it has to do with how pyrite has a tendency to fill holes in the ocean, making fossils.  Sometimes the things being filled are shells, which are symbolic spiritually and mathematically, which my man enjoys geeking out on.  To me they're compelling and breathtaking.

There are shells which find themselves vacant of previous tenants rolling around in the ocean.  Iron pyrite will sometimes fill the void in a shell, making something once functional and pretty into something spectacularly beautiful.  My man somehow came to possess such an artifact and gave it to me when I became his.  "You are my shell," he told me, "and I will fill you and make you shine."

I am a slave to my master because we are a good fit, a good match, and because he does make me shine.  He hears my dreaming and helps me make it reality.  I hear his seeking and I find him answers.