Submissive caring bottom

“I haven’t had sex for ages,” I complained to Damian.
He had picked me up from the station in his baby Benz, and sped us to his house which he shared with his boyfriend and four cats.

“You know, I’ve realized Big is like my goose with the golden eggs,” I continued.
Mr. Big was my secret lover, who I only saw when he saw fit.
Which he hadn’t in a long time.

“If I didn’t have Mr.Big I wouldn’t have anything interesting to write about.”

“These nights won’t help,” Damian agreed. “We ate ice cream, we watched Madonna videos,” he mimicked Madonna’s helium 80s voice when she did a little sketch of how she started out.
We laughed really hard, and my dream came true,” I finished it for him.
Damian laughed
“If this is what you dream of we can’t be friends.”
He drove wildly over a speed bump.

Damian was the only friend who had foreseen I would need a Plan B if my cat Max would die. About two months prior, he suggested that I should visit him and his boyfriend, and more importantly, their cats.
It took me quite a while before I took him up on it.
But now we had weekly date nights on the couch, and sometimes a second date as well, going to a movie or such.

We never skipped my weekly dose of kitty, in favor of a normal date. In fact we never skipped it at all. And although I initially came to cuddle with the cats, to be in the company of two men turned out to be a great substitute for not seeing Big as often as I would have liked.
“I love being with you and Daniel,” I confessed. “It’s so good to get this male energy.”

I wasn’t angry with Big. After three and a half year, being a secret mistress had become a conscious choice. I knew I would never be satisfied having a relationship with someone who was available.
Not seeing Big much was the downside of an otherwise perfect arrangement. Or maybe it wasn’t even a downside. Maybe it was what made seeing each other so good.
“I do wonder what void I fill with you guys,” I asked Damian. “It’s not like you need female energy.”
“You’re my alibi for weekly ice cream,” Damian answered.

We always had vegan ice-cream. Damian ate vegan, whenever it was easy and available. But I appreciated it, and now preferred it over regular ice-cream. It didn’t make you feel so heavy and it contained 30% less sugar.
Which might explain why I ate about a hundred percent more of it.
In the first few weeks, Damian offered to split the pint of peanut-butter cookie dough ice-cream, and I was all like:
“Oh no! That’s way too much for me!”
But after a few weeks of then agreeing to a second portion, and basically eating half of the pint anyway, my objections just became a running gag.
“I begin to see what you’re like in bed!” Damian would mock me. “Oh no! That’s way too big, I can’t take that!

Lately, Damian stocked two or three flavors of ice-cream, and we had lost our natural limit of one jar split in half. So now the jokes about second portions were current again.
“Just force it into my bowl. I don’t want to have a say in it.”
“You know I don’t do that,” Damian would then dismiss it, and open a detailed conversation of how many scoops of every flavor I wanted for my second portion.

Damian was a bottom, just like me. Which meant he didn’t like taking charge.
He had been the first with whom I really, really, shared what I was like in bed. I even told him more than the guys I was with, and I never discussed my sex life with my girlfriends.
Not really.
Even then – before #metoo – powerplay and play-rape were almost political subjects. You couldn’t go around claiming your entire sexuality came down to wanting to be penetrated in all your holes without consent.
And if you did you were supposed to engage in defending and explaining, that yes of course, there had actually been consent. And of course not, would you like real rape.
A draining conversation.
For both parties I assumed.

So for years I only talked real sex with Damian. And even now, he was the only one who understood, that if you (a bottom) had to make the first move, you did it so reluctantly and basically held it against someone. The other person better make that up to you, by immediately taking charge and making the next five moves and beyond.
So that we could go back to the comfort of being bottoms.

The only time Damian and me were inclined to be versatile, was if the guy was way younger and age put us in charge. Then we’d make an exception, which we saw as “taking responsibility”.
But it wasn’t ideal.

Damian was living with Daniel, who was versatile. This meant that Daniel could play multiple roles. Damian and me tried to categorize the cats as well. The bitchy lady was a dominatrix (we immediately agreed on her); the male cat with the cute small face was gender-neutral (Damian disagreed), and the two giant male cats were “just into anything naughty” (according to Damian).
“I would say versatile,” I said.
“That’s the same thing,” Damian brushed it off.

We went into the kitchen to get ice-cream and Damian filled our bowls, contemplating out loud how much he should leave in the containers for Daniel.
“Does he want ice-cream too?” I asked.
I didn’t recall seeing Daniel eating ice-cream. He was at his usual spot at the dining table, gaming with his online friends. Daniel could hear our conversations and occasionally contributed.
“We just had dinner,” Damian said. “Daniel can’t eat, if he’s just eaten.”
“I don’t understand that,” I said.
“Of course not. You’re a bottom. We can always take more.”

We settled on the couch, with cats, ice-cream and Madonna’s Confessions tour. Damian was the only one who cuddled with his cats in the same way I did. He was always completely taken aback by how cute they were, and showered them with compliments as he kissed their little heads, and faces. The cats were completely docile, because they were so used to being handled.
The two naughty ones were of course very naughty. Something Daniel tried to correct.

“I m the bad cop of the house,” he complained, as me and Damian were completely devoid of any desire to do anything about anyone.
“Just let them!” I defended the cats, whenever Daniel asked me to help out when the naughty ones tore up the couch or bullied each other.
Daniel rolled his eyes; “Promise me, you’ll never get a dog.”
“I promise.”

Damian and me talked about how I had looked for job opportunities in taking care of elderly people or mentally disabled people.
“It’s like with cats: I give love and care. I don’t need anything back, the reward is in the giving.”
But so far the response from recruitment had been lukewarm at best.
“And that’s okay, you know. I believe in divine guidance. If a door doesn’t open, it’s not my door. It’s like with dating. Either you’re super eager to see me. Or you’re not. But I m not going to sell myself.”
“Of course you’re not,” Damian agreed. “You’re submissive. A loving caring bottom.”

On screen Madonna was dancing and showing off her gorgeous body. As if he was reading my thoughts, Damian said:
“She’s 47 there. No, 48.”
“That gives me two years to get that body,” I sighed, patting my chubby belly. “Originally I said I was going to lose it all, by July 5th.”
“Why July 5th?”  Damian asked.
“I don’t know. I just came across it, in a blog. Now I’m waiting for a miracle.”
“Maybe you can pray to Ganesha,” Damian suggested.
“Ganesha? I think we need something stronger. Like Kali.”
I need something fierce and dominant, to whip this bottom into shape.

Preferably without consent.

An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living


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