If my inner Goddess is a lioness, why do I still love the dominatrix?


Making sense of not feeling submissive.

I have been puzzling over this loss of submissive feelings.  At first it really scared me, because it is so bound up in my sexuality, or rather has been, that I was worried that it was a by-product of testosterone suppression.  I have now been able to live with it for a while, and clarity is beginning to emerge.

The intractable question

Over lunch the other day with a professional dominatrix, she noted, “I’m trying to make sense of you.  On the one hand, you say that you have lost your submission, but on the other, here we are.”  I had explained to her the connection to oestrogen and the journey posted about.

“I don’t understand it either but let me try.”  What came out was totally garbled and made no sense at all.  In the end I gave up and just smiled.

The fact is, when I am with a dominatrix that I like, one that I know I will respond to, all of a sudden my brain doesn’t work in the same way anymore.  Electrical short-circuits and buzzing sounds.

So, here, I will try again.  Recap.

Boy me internalises male bad behaviour.  Being attracted as a man to a woman triggers boy-based guilt in trans-non-binary me.  Submission is a form of apology…an offering…my refusal to “take” a kind of way of saying, “I am not like other men.”  Well, boy, have we proven that in dramatic fashion.  ‘It’s’ going to come off.  I know that now.

An Aside on Chastity

I have always loved the concept of chastity, but never the physical aspects of putting a cage on it?  Why?  Because no matter how small or dainty the cage is, it always made me feel like my whotsit was more present for me.  And since I just wanted to forget of its existence, having the weight on it, was just too much for me.  Still, I love the idea.

That said, my kind of submission is not brat.  Disobedience is not part of the make-up.  Being obedient, extremely so, thoughtfully so, is enough.  If a domme I admired and served asked me to be chaste for a period, it would come to me as easily as a glass of water.  I never needed to get off as much as I needed to obey.  

A divine dominatrix pointed out to me, “chastity isn’t about my command.  After all, who is he hurting if he takes it off or pleasures himself?  He is hurting himself.”  She is so right.  The command is not necessary.  But that is the voice of an extraordinary person.  An enlightened and very special Domme.

Permanent Chastity

Taking puberty blockers is akin to chemical castration.  After a while, it becomes permanent.  I don’t know how long, and it varies by person.  On some level, this is so many sissy man fantasies…the fantasy of forced feminisation.  I might have had those fantasies, but I can’t remember.  Fantasy in the sense of erotic.  My fantasies were more just existential questions.

I’m not answering the question—so here goes

I am not submissive because I don’t have anything to apologize for anymore.  I’ve always felt that submission for me was something that I wanted to be proud of.  Two key words there: ‘want’ and ‘proud’.  The connotations of pride as arrogance are not in this mix, but rather one of self-acceptance.  But ‘want’ in this context is what is gone.  I don’t want it anymore, because it’s there.  And that is the nub of how I am coming to terms with the way submission is re-entering my life.

I feel myself the lioness.  She is strong and fierce.  

Being a healer

But I also know that my journey is taking me on one of healing…not of myself, but of others.  I haven’t written much about it yet, but I am a witch.  I am now a qualified witch, a practitioner of medical herbalism.  I will receive a license eventually.  My favourite therapist does not believe in licenses (she, by the way, has every qualification under the sun), but I do, because there are plenty of things that I need to be able to buy (and sell) which require such a license.  

The same goes with food and nutrition, a topic which I have recently been studying as well.  I have now obtained a certificate as a nutritionist and can diagnose and recommend on dietary issues.  That is quite convenient given a book that I have written recently that draws on such topics.  It also fits my political mood.

And lastly, I have begun a long journey into energy work, a kind of body therapy, which allows for a unique person-to-person connection in trauma and stress held within the body.  This will take me another three or so years…but if you are a friend of mine, you get the treat of getting experimented on.

That was not a digression

It might have seemed like such, but it wasn’t.  I have always been a “service” submissive.  What I discovered in the hands of a dominatrix was that I am a slave, something which had never crossed my mind before.  In fact, I thought, definitely not.

What has changed for me is that I no longer sexualise submission in the same way.  Instead, it has become the root of a sense of belonging.  And it is not at all confined to the bedroom, but has gradually started to define my interactions with everyone.

I have told a number of friends of my slave existence.  And while most of them process that as something far out, or impossible to understand, most have accepted that it moderates the way I engage with them.  Staying at someone’s house might mean that ‘guest privileges’ are soon cast aside—I cook, I clean, I care for.  Doing things for people is part of my wiring.  Healing is part of my wiring.

The Domme’s Question

Why did I reach out to her when I don’t want to submit anymore?  Because I love being in the company of overtly dominant women.  If there is a sisterhood, I crave it is that one.  And while many women might deny my femininity, or never accept a trans woman as a woman, most of them still regard what I am doing with my body and my mind as a kind of sacrifice.  Very few of them still look at me as a man.  And that sure feels nice.

I love women.  I feel for women’s sacrifice.  I feel for social discrimination.  I feel for injustice.  I feel for inequality.  I may be giving up everything and still find myself not accepted.  I don’t care.  I willingly give my life to supporting femininity, to supporting feminism, to supporting equality, equity, and women’s rights.  And I do so, whether all women want me or not, regardless of what they believe about trans people.

And yes, I love sex workers.  I respect them, I respect the career choice.  I admire their strength.  I admire the skill.  I admire the emotional talents.  I admire their ability to wade into the world of sexuality, and in particular male sexuality when that is the last thing I would ever be capable of.  And it humbles me.

You will find me by her side.  Kneeling.  Wishing for nothing more than to support her.  Wishing for nothing more than to see her succeed in her work.  And yes, there is a spiritual element to it for me.  There is also a lot of politics in it.  But mostly, there is just a quiet joy.  A sense of self-acceptance.  A place for myself.  A container.  A base of strength.

And yes, we will probably play from time to time, because no matter what, I am still kinky.  I am kinky in new ways, mostly to do with touch.  But mainly, I’m just happy to be in such fine company.  And who knows where this will lead me.  But what’s mine is hers.

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