I don’t know if I’ve blogged about this before. Probably not because it’s one of my top ten least favorite moments in time. It came up in conversation at the party over the weekend, I think Master likes to poke me about it just to keep me from ever attaining super slave status (as if I don’t do a well enough job of that on my own, right?), and Jack kind-of, sort-of dared me to blog it.
Alternately titled “What Not To Do”.
(Like What Not To Wear. Ha!)
This happened several years ago. We were deeply enough into M/s that I knew better, but new enough that we were (apparently) still learning each other.
We were in the car, he was driving, I was in the passenger seat. We’d gotten into an argument, though over what I can’t remember now as it wasn’t even a serious argument. But I’d said something snarky or unslave-like (who, me?) and he reached across the seat to pop me in the mouth; the physical equivalent to ‘STFU, cunt’.
That move, in and of itself, wasn’t an issue. Standard issue around here. However:
Neither of us know exactly what happened when he reached across the seat. Maybe he miscalculated the distance from driver’s side to passenger. Maybe he misjudged the force he swung with. Maybe I leaned forward just as he reached and the forward momentum added to the impact. Dunno.
All I do know is by the time he made contact, that ‘pop on the mouth’ turned into a knuckle punch to my face.
I had never before, and have not since, had an instantaneous reaction like I did that day in the car. I did not even know that person resided in my being. But some… thing… burst out of me, climbed across the car seat and waylaid him. In the head, the face, the shoulder…. wherever my furious little fist could land.
Like, srsly. I punched him in the head. More than once. While he was driving.
Not my most shining moment of submission.
And then I sat back in absolute shock and terror.
He very calmly informed me, as he righted his glasses and smoothly maneuvered the car back into our lane (thank god for no traffic) that should I ever think to do that again, I could find myself ejected from the car through the closed passenger window.
I proceeded to try and disappear into the seat. Mortified. MOR-TI-FIED.
We can look back on that moment now and chuckle. Well, he can. I’m still just as ashamed as I was when it happened. Losing control, as good as I am at it, is not something I like about myself no matter what the trigger was.
But, as in everything, there was something to be learned from it.
I suspect that I spent too many years and worked too hard to get away from people who lashed out in anger by way of their fists to my face. When he accidentally ‘sucker punched’ me, especially so early on in things between us, when the s&m was new and the interactions were still scary, I had an immediate and instinctual realization that being the recipient of ill-intended violence was absolutely not okay with me anymore.
I was not aware I had that demon inside of me at the time. I did not know I was done being the person who accepted ill-intended violence until right then, when he made contact with my face. I didn’t know I possessed any amount of self-preservation at all, let alone in enough abundance that I’d fly across a car hurtling down the interstate at 70mph and attack the only person I’d actually given permission to to hit me.
He learned that perhaps it’s best to pull the car off the freeway before administering discipline, especially if your subject is an unstable cunt like me.
He also learned that I had triggers, that I had memories, and a past I couldn’t deny that would rise up and bite both of us on the ass without warning, and that I was not (am not) a one-dimensional fleshy lump who will stoically take whatever he dishes out- which, prior to that moment, I may have been.
If that same sequence of events happened today, if his knuckles made contact with my face, whether intentionally or not, I would not have that same reaction. We’ve exorcised that demon from my existence. I’ve made peace with my past and the events in it and the choices I made, and I’m confident that *he* is not *them*. He never will be them, he cannot be them and his intentions do not mirror theirs.
Intent behind a punch is very important. It’s not the contact, not the pain, or the resulting bruise or bloody nose or fat lip or black eye. No. Just the intent.
He still likes to poke that button of mine, to catapult me backward in time to those other men, to grab me up and mimic their actions, their movements, their looks, and hiss in my ear “Is this what they did? Is this what it felt like?”, and I flashback to the bitter-tasting spurt of fear of the days of old. But I’ve only to look into his eyes and see what I see. I see the thing that sets a sadist apart from an abuser. I know his intentions.
So, no. No, Sir. This is not what it felt like. This? Is not bitter. It’s really quite delicious.