There are parts of myself Iβve hidden, even from people who loved me. Especially from people who loved me. I donβt mean secrets like forgotten childhoods or mistakes I made once and learned from. I mean the kind of truths that sit in your mouth like a coin you never manage to spit out.
Now Iβll talk about bondage.
In a previous relationship, I was introduced to it. Bondage, impact play, and the power exchange. And I liked it. I liked the ritual, the intensity, the control. It unlocked something in me. I carried that with me into other encounters with other people β but I left it out when I was with her. My girlfriend. The one I told myself I loved the most.
I didnβt just withhold my preferences; I withheld my body. My honesty. Myself. I felt ashamed of what I liked. I told myself she wouldnβt understand. That Iβd seem like a deviant. That she was too good for the things I craved. I put her on a pedestal, but in doing so, I made her smaller. I decided she couldnβt handle my truth β and I took away her right to decide for herself.
She found a box once. Full of floggers, whips, paddles and sex toys (with and without batteries). I told her it wasnβt mine. I lied β flat out. Said it belonged to someone else. I denied ever having those desires. I shrank away from the conversation, blamed the argument on her curiosity, and closed the door on an opportunity to be honest. I shut down sexually. I stopped initiating. I made her question if she was even wanted.
And maybe the worst part wasβ¦ I gave parts of myself to other people that I never offered her. Flirting. Playfulness. Sexual attention. All the things that tell someone you are seen and you are desired. I didnβt give her that. I withheld it because I felt like I didnβt have the right. I had already hurt her in other ways β and I let that guilt turn into avoidance.
I convinced myself she was βpretty, I guess.β I was half-present in our intimacy. I didnβt feel confident, not really β I was borrowing the sexual self that past lovers had helped me build. Wearing it like a costume, only taking it out when I thought it would land. Not when it mattered most.
And then, as if that wasnβt enough, I told her our selfie was boring. She was the only one holding the weight of our desire. I let her do all the heavy lifting. Emotionally. Sexually. Romantically. I made her feel unwanted β and then did nothing to fix it.
Itβs not easy to write any of this. But itβs harder still to pretend it didnβt happen.
