I Hate It…

My wife and I are fighting.

We’re making Big Important Decisions about our future — what my career is going to do, where we’re going to live, especially in light of the recession — and we squabbled a bit tonight. And what kills me is, I feel like I need to be Big Strong Alpha Male and just push through an agenda, and take charge, and make my way and drag her by the hand. You know, the part of me I’ve been calling Daytime Me.

But when we fight, and I’m laying in bed, the submissive part of me just quails at the idea that I might disappoint her or hurt her or anger her. We didn’t go to bed angry tonight after our phone call, but we didn’t go to bed as in synch as we normally do, and it tears me up. Because I feel split down the middle — Submissive Pet and Man of the House. How do I reconcile them? How do I balance the competing needs? Because the real problem is, the more I try to be Man of the House, the more urgent the urge to submit gets.

I feel like — and this is going to sound dramatic, but I have to say it because this is how it makes sense to me — I feel like the Submissive Pet part of me is a demon that needs frequent exorcism, and once he’s been taken care of, through pain and pleasure, then my head is clear and I can be Man of the House with no fear or regret or doubt. The pressure inside me builds and I just want to be hurt and dominated and crushed and then, when it’s all over, my head is clear and I can think again.

That pain and humiliation opens my head. It makes me strong by proving that I am strong.

The worst part is, my wife has issues of her own right now up there, and I know that nothing would make her feel better than to hurt me. I know that if I could just hand her a whip and present my back, she’d flog me and she’d relax. She’d melt, the tension leaving her, the world outside being left behind in a fog of my moans and her sweat as she works to stripe me. During our vanilla days, orgasms would take forever as she fought to stop thinking about the world outside — bills, our daughter, her family, work. Now that we’re into BDSM, there’s a purity and a focus to her thoughts during sex. The world doesn’t intrude. It’s just her, and me. The Evil Queen, and her willing servant.

I had this idea — to give her a bunch of lancets, the kind you buy at a pharmacy for diabetes kits — and just let her stick them in my back, writing a word or two, the lancets all sticking up and spelling out some word, my name or her name or the word “Pet.” She would leave them in, maybe pat them or touch them once in a while, jar them a little, each movement against them making me writhe. She could twist them in their sockets. She could pluck them out, saying, “He loves me, he loves me not…” like I was some bizarre flower with bloody petals.

I know I need to be strong and step up, and I will. I will do this. I’ve been working my ass off the last two days to catch up on all of my work, to get my head clear and my schedule open so I can take a minute or two to really just start working on hashing out our future. I want to carve out that future and take care of her. I want to be the man she needs. But it’s a simple fact that the man she needs occasionally needs to be hurt and tortured and fucked and pissed on, and once in a while, maybe used as a pincushion, her sitting on my back as I hold myself up on hands and knees, popping lancets in and out of my skin, one by one…