journal entries

These Eight Years

Eight years ago, you offered me a blow job and I didn’t usually date boys but you were so fucking cute. We immediately had chemistry and I immediately wanted to make you wince and melt, and I can guess what you wanted, so we had a scene.

Seven years ago, we were still talking. Getting more serious. Navigating the other partners we both had, navigating my crippling grief, navigating long distance D/s turning into M/s and what does that even mean how could we ever use those words. You were about to leave California and spend the winter in Texas, a slower life, with your dog and your horse and your family ranch, chopping wood and sending me photos of you topless with leather gloves and an axe. I came to visit you four times that winter, for weeks. We finished writing and signed our first temporary contact.

Six years ago, we were settling in to our first apartment together. My cat your dog all our baggage together. My moods and unresolved grief, your deep desire to serve. We made caramel apples and went to a pumpkin patch and I found out you love dressing up for Halloween. You set up a peg board in our bedroom with hooks for all the toys, a hard point in the wall for me to chain you to, a hand-made sling. We had a beautiful collaring ceremony and I told all of my closest folks that I was your owner, and what that meant to me.

Four years ago, I was recovering from some major physical health challenges. A digestive issue had me on a medical diet for six months and was way harder than I expected. A breast reduction surgery was easier than I expected, but significantly changed what I could do – soon, for the better. These changes were helping, they changed things. But it wasn’t enough.

Three years ago, we were in the depth of it. Deep trauma demons clashing in ways that I was pretty sure would be the end of us. My terror up against yours. We still don’t agree on the story of what happened, but that’s how I see it. It would get worse before it got better. But first, I would formally propose.

Two years ago was the summer we got married. It was a leap of faith and my deepest heart’s desire. We can manifest together so well. We visioned, we created. It was so much more beautiful than I expected. We were still in the deep battles, but they were more often our own, and less often each other’s.

One year ago, I was starting to see the forest and not just the trees. I was back to myself. We were still repairing, are still repairing, but we were ourselves again, and better. We were already preparing to run for the leather title in spring 2019 and spending a lot of time talking about our dynamic, our foundation. I had to revisit everything. I had to relearn everything to apply to where we now were, what I now knew. About myself, and about you. In some ways, we were starting over. In some ways, we were stronger than ever.

This year, it has been eight years since our first date, seven since our first contract, six since you were collared, two and a half since we got married. You have stayed past the trauma monsters that have shown up in every other relationship – of course they have – and you have persisted. You have turned toward me again and again where others have turned away.

I have witnessed you change and grow and evolve and strengthen. You are pursuing just what you want: your work, your relationship with the wilderness, your storytelling, your friendships, your community. Your family has grown, your work has grown.

I’ve never passed this precipice before, so I don’t really understand what comes next. How we just keep going, keep asking ourselves what our needs are now, keep asking each other. But apparently that’s ther plan. And I plan to carry it out, until I can’t.

I’ve learned so much about me and us and you. You continue to excite, entice, and enliven me. You bring my life so much joy.

Thank you.

Happy anniversary.

Published by Sinclair Sexsmith

Sinclair Sexsmith (they/them) is "the best-known butch erotica writer whose kinky, groundbreaking stories have turned on countless queer women" (AfterEllen), who "is in all the books, wins all the awards, speaks at all the panels and readings, knows all the stuff, and writes for all the places" (Autostraddle). ​Their short story collection, Sweet & Rough: Queer Kink Erotica, was a 2016 finalist for the Lambda Literary Award. They identify as a white non-binary butch dominant, a survivor, and an introvert.

Leave a Reply