unexpectedly, "Are you happy with the way we are now?"
"What do you mean?" I temporized, sighing inwardly. Now I'd have to come up with a rational, coherent answer that would satisfy him. In those days, rationality and coherence felt like improbable dreams.
Richard explained that he hadn't particularly been satisfied with how he'd dealt with me before he left, but hadn't had time for anything better. Now, he thought the situation was "healthier." "What do you want from this?" he asked seriously.
I want the strength to walk away from you, | thought unclearly. J want you to actually care about me. I never want to see you again. I hugged my arms to myself, resting my hands gingerly on swelling skin. "Um," I said slowly, "nothing in particular?" I took a breath and gathered the one overriding fact: J want you to keep hurting me. "I don't expect anything from you," I told him, "and I don't want you to expect anything from me.”
I knew from his smile that my answer was the right one. I could only hope it was accurate.
TK OK ok
The summer passed, Richard away again for the end of it, then returning in September for the beginning of the school year. I, however, was leaving the city soon, and would be gone for some time. Those days were my last chances to see him for a while, and I was acutely aware of his nearness: I felt oriented towards him, as if I were a compass and he was North.
But I still felt the rage, lurking under the surface of my mind like a submerged monster. And though I ached with disturbingly intense thoughts of violence, it seemed that I was staying away from Richard, closing him out when I ran into him. He finally confronted me and asked, blunt as ever, if I was avoiding him. I denied it reflexively. How could I avoid North?
"I'm still figuring out how I feel about you," I told him as we walked late one night on the waterfront. I'd started to come to terms with being a masochist, had begun to assimilate that into my self-image, but that didn't explain why it had taken him to force the knowledge on me. The man I'd known in 2003, for instance, made no impression -- though he'd obviously seen exactly what Richard saw, and had taken almost exactly the same approach. And I'd known heavily, formally BDSM-identifying folks for years. I'd even experimented with light bondage in previous relationships -- being gently tied up, for instance -- though I hadn't found it especially compelling.
Was it that I'd been drunk the first time I encountered Richard, my careful rational mind turned off? Was it that nothing less drastic than the bruises he'd left could have forced my understanding? Was it simply that I'd been romantically unhappy at the time, whereas I'd been content when that other man pinned me to the floor? Even in the midst of my now- constant confusion, I couldn't stop myself from analyzing it all to bits. Now I concluded that I ought to know how I felt about Richard if 1 wanted to get to the roots of myself.
It had taken me a while to call my openly-BDSM friends for advice, but -- maybe around the same time I really started acclimating -- I had. One of their offhand comments came
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