Before I knew what I was, I found myself always wanting more–sexually. Every woman has the fantasy of being made love to in a sensual setting, and having every part of her explored. I too held on to these fantasies for some time, but after a while my fantasies began to turn on me. I no longer had visions of being laid out amongst strewn silk sheets, or watching our shadows dance along the walls in the candlelight. My “fantasies” started to go dark. A hand morphed into rope intricately tied, sweet coos of “I love you’s” evolved into harsh words of derogation, and I no longer wanted to exist as a single entity.

I ignored my urges for some time, hiding behind multiple partners (safely) under abnormal circumstances, but that too wasn’t enough. My urges went past sex. I wanted to give my being over to someone, and feel safe in knowing that I was now a part of them. I wanted to be renamed, for I felt that my birth name was not of me. I wanted to give up the control I displayed at work, and in parenting, and be weak. Weakness for me was not about helplessness as “we” define it. For me, I had power by letting go of mine.

It wasn’t a want for me to have this type of union. It was a need that could have easily replaced nutritional sustenance. But I had to keep this a secret. See, I am a single mother of African-American and Cuban blood. By birthright, I am supposed to be strong and independent. For those in my circle, for me to say that I wanted to give myself over for someone else to control would be a travesty. When I started to research this “thing” that started to take precedence over my life, I saw others like me, but the reasons they shared weren’t in-tune with mine. Sure they talked about love and sex, but I didn’t see “me” in their stories.

One day I found myself looking online at some personals. My search criteria changed from woman looking for woman to submission, slave, bondage, and discipline. As ads popped up, my search list grew, and that is when I realized what I was; submissive born. I went into sensory overload and ended up on the floor in tears, screaming out in an agony whose source was unclear to me.

The next day I was back on-line searching for explanations. I found tons of information from personal blogs, podcasts, e-books, and clubs. But the more I researched, the more hungry I became. For every overseas video I saw on BDSM, I found myself masturbating and longing. It got to the point where I was ravenous, and decided to close myself up in the house so that I wouldn’t do anything unsafe. I wanted to be fucked in an alley by a stranger, and feel concrete ripping my flesh and a fist deep within my womb. I wanted the filth, the danger, the pain, and torment. And because of this I knew I was in no condition to be amongst others. It would have been easy to find a random fuck, but to find one who understood where the source of my need came from, and would protect it and me from myself, wasn’t an easy find.

Some of my past lovers claimed that I was weak and easy to run over and manipulate, which made me unattractive to them. While others simply thought I was a freak. There was one man, during my “erotic entertainer” days, who showed me glimpses of the BDSM world. He would bring me magazines and catalogs, and let me ogle over the pictures. We continued our talks in a hotel room on some deserted road every Monday at 6pm. Those sessions with him never included intercourse, but instead were filled with punishment unlike anything I had ever experienced. And afterwards he was kind, so very kind. He held me taunt and explained to me what we were doing, and made sure that I was okay. But even then I didn’t understand. I thought we were just two closeted pervs. And there was no way that I could tell my friends what I was doing with this Sean Connery look-alike. It was my secret.

I went back to that time during my confinement. I also reread a lot of my poetry and other writings; I even took out a few drawings and paintings that I had forgotten. Then I came across an article on submissive frenzy. It wasn’t like the articles you see now-a-days that solely talk about the frenzy. It explained about submissiveness and showed me traces of the trait throughout my life. And I looked at all of my artistic outbursts in a different way. There were submissive parts of me that tried to show themselves, but I didn’t recognize them for what they were at the time of creation.

I will never forget calling my best “kink” friend, crying and ranting about how I finally realized that there was never anything wrong with me; I was just submissive.

“There is nothing wrong with me, I am just submissive”. Seems simple, sounds simple, right? I envy “pain-sluts” and dream of being collared. I work as an executive assistant because it is the closest I can come in real-life to submitting, but I struggle with it because ultimately I am always given control. I hide within poetry and fictitious stories of submissive super-heroes and lost little subbies. I try to live my life normally and find myself constantly straying away from this path to seek out others like myself.

I am comfortable with who I am. It is natural for me to submit. The quality runs through my words and dictates my actions. My sexual kinks are just an addition to it. The one thing I wonder about is finding one who understands one like myself.

I have had the pleasure of coming across great mentors and teachers, but never one specifically for me. I have also had the misfortune of coming in contact with misrepresentations of what a true dominant is supposed to be.

If you believe in the submissive’s prayer, which I have memorized and plastered in all my journals, then you identify with the connection and purpose mentioned in it. When I close my eyes, I see myself transforming into a root that nourishes a strong and prosperous tree. I feel my limbs taking in water and nutrients in the form of training and knowledge. And in my soul, I understand that one is not complete without the other.

People look at me and think I am just a freak, or the product of abuse. Although these things are true, they don’t make me who I am. I was born submissive before I could understand mistreatment, and I knew of kink before I was ever touched with consent. It runs within my blood. My eyes do not lower, nor my head tilt, or my hand fold simple because I choose.

I believe that every submissive has an owner, and I will remain unclaimed until I am found. It can be a sad place, but in my waiting room I am not alone. It would be wrong of me to just fall for whomever. But I believe that my soul will sing when my true dominant encounters my life. And I am okay with that…the waiting.