Much respect to bell hooks, but she has it wrong. At it’s core, aren’t love’s extremes are a violent vortex of peace and of passion? Violent emotions that exist perfectly balanced in the chaos of paradox. Violence that makes us act irrationally – willing to give up our lives to protect those we love or consumed with rage when love has done us wrong.

And him. He was damn sure a member of the Illuminati, because he absolutely summed her up in 160 characters.

“All I want is to fuck or beat or tie someone up until they are completely emotionally vulnerable so I feel comfortable dropping my guard”

The clarity by which her past relationship history flashed before her eyes overwhelmed her. She knew, with unflinching certainty, why everyone before him failed.

Because they weren’t violent enough. Not a physical violence that is birthed from insecurity and lives in hatred and anger, but the emotional violence that coils through our spirit. Like the satire of Kung Fu Hustle, she needed someone to completely dominate her and force her to submit completely so that she could unlock her chi, chakra, aura and id.

Domination without humiliation. She always said she wanted an alpha male. Someone and knew could absolutely handle it all – her analyses, stay ten steps ahead of her quick turning mind, the way others demanded she take care of their lives, romance her with sentimental claptrap that means so much to her. Yet, being an alpha male was necessary, but not sufficient to releasing her yoni. He needed to have the need to tie her down and fuck her until she cried mercy. Until she released years of “on her own” and “independent woman” labels she hated, but wore out of necessity. Force her not to make any decision, except to keep breathing slowly and experience, with every synapsis, the pleasures across her body.

But it hadn’t happened and she settled for very poor substitutes, gamma males at best, and wrote dozens of pages in her journal for the last six months to understand why, but it wasn’t until he distilled to his 160 characters, that she had the epiphany.

She had never been tied down before. Unable to do anything but surrender. Surrender to his will, his thoughts and his desires while knowing her own would be fulfilled. Surrender and be unable to jump him and make a decision on how pleasure would be created and shared. Instead, she needed to be forced to wait. When she wanted his tongue on her nipple – wait. To beg to have his dick in her mouth denying his pleasure to elicit complete trust between the two of them.

To completely trust would completely be the most frightening thing she ever experienced.

Even with her overactive imagination, Érotique Noire never prepared her. Stuck. She couldn’t imagine what he would do once she was safely tied up. Masturbation fantasies were limited to an imprint of emotion, caused by foreplay through 0’s and 1’s, words and voices.

It wouldn’t have been understood by the outside. And wouldn’t be required every time. It happened when necessary. The paradox of the violent domination and submission flipping again because it wasn’t what they wanted in their outside lives. He loved to see her in those executive suits, as much as he loved her in a blindfold and heels. She bragged about him being so compassionate and that silly cat keychain he knew made her smile every time she opened the door to their home. Like the graham cracker, that started off to suppress lust but was now used in the most luxurious desserts, both were transformed.

And through the transformation, the paradox continued. The violent and the yin yang of dominance and submission, they cemented their relationship stronger than any vows.

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