What does being the Other Woman have to do with D/s?
That said, I’m involved in a relationship that has strong D/s elements because it is with someone who is having an extramarital affair. I’m the Other Woman. Have you ever been in an affair like this and noted that it comes along with control and power dynamics that push it into the realm of kink? Tell me about it in the comments!
My friend asks me if I will see anyone else while in Barcelona. It lands as though he is testing my polyamory.
I can’t give a short or straight answer, but it all comes out as no.
I’m consumed with my Favorite Lover. Owned by him whether or not either of us like it. I’m not sure I like it.
Not sure I don’t.
He’d rather be with me in the short-term, but in the long term he’d rather be with her.
I’m the Other Woman.
She comes with his child.
I come with baggage.
He makes time for me in the margins. Ekes it out. And when he does I jump to be ready. So, I don’t want to book out any time in Barcelona doing anything else because if I do I would cancel it for him. I would rather be with him than do anything else. It’s the reason I’m here.
I know polyamorous people aren’t supposed to compare, but how can I not? He’s my Favorite.
Don’t know whether it’s because he’s unavailable or in spite of it. Really don’t know.
But if I can have the best, most transcendent, longest duration sex in the world – I don’t want anything or anyone else. I’ll wait. The Other Woman waits.
I’ve tried seeing other people while here. Never get anywhere. I can’t even kiss them because his kisses are still burning through every nerve ending in my system weeks after they happen. There’s no attraction I can generate under the cloud of my stormy desire for him.
It scares me. What if I’m monogamous and he is The One?
My friend asks me why.
“Why is he your favorite?”
“The sex.” I say.
My friend waits for me to laugh, to contradict myself.
“It can’t be just the sex.” he says.
“Can’t it be? Does anything else matter?”
“I’m madly in love with you” I tell him.
“I don’t know why.” he replies.
“I don’t either and I don’t care.” I say.
Not quite true. I know it is him. The core of him. The way he vibrates and exists just as he is. That specific stroke strums my strings and makes me wet. Being near him makes me wet. It’s just the way he is. That essential himness under everything else that I feel so strongly during sex. How he resonates within this plane is just perfect for me.
And it comes in a fucking him-shaped package. Excruciating. He is unavailable in so many ways.
And an alcoholic.
These things hurt like hell. Should be dealbreakers.
I’d rather sit next to him passed out drunk snoring like a pig than eat or drink water because even in stinky, pained slumber my body hums and sings to be near him. Just sit there, feeling my clit throb and my cunt clench as somewhere in the back of my mind runs a script telling me that I really shouldn’t sacrifice everything just for this.
In the absence of him I make him more than he ever could be to fill the void he leaves. Then when he is finally present he is more than I could make him. He is more than anything I could make.
He tells me pretty lies and makes promises he can’t keep.
There is such a big void of him. Deep and wide and empty.
I’m on top of him, for the first time. Still wearing the short, black dress I bought, so tight around the bust, pushing my breasts up until they spill out of it. He so politely remarks that this is indeed the first time I have climbed atop him in this relationship of ours.
It is. As we struggle to fit together in this angle I mumble that maybe he sees why. It’s not my favorite position.
But he likes it.
Especially as I lean down atop him, trying so hard not to put pressure on his fragile, injured body, and squeeze my pussy around him. Sucking him, pushing him, dancing around him, flicking him, using every muscle I have to show his cock a good time. He moans.
“Are you for real?” he says, stunned.
“I’m yours.” I reply, swiveling my hips, devouring his cock over and over, rocking atop him, fucking him without holding back.
He stands me up. Doesn’t show up. Doesn’t answer my messages. Leaves me with the Other Woman blues. He’s terrible at timing and does what he wants to do when he wants to do it. Then when he is in my arms he is full of excuses and promises. Tells me that he wanted to be with me…
For him I seem so often out of sight, out of mind. For me, my mind is haunted with him. Always.
I spend time analyzing it. Again back to the essential question: Do I want him only because he is unavailable? I come back to this: there are millions of unavailable men and millions of those that would kill or die to bed me. I don’t want them. Want him.
Such strange intimacy, being the Other Woman. We know little of each other’s lives. Hear and tell stories, but we never touch lives. We meet in the space in between our lives.
We have partners. People with whom we share our lives. His child’s mother. My partner of ten years. These people that we get through life with. Those that dominate in some sense our experience of life as we are locked into it with them.
We do not do that to or for each other. I long ago said that I wouldn’t want to hold his rope.
Sometimes, lately, I wonder. I wonder if I couldn’t provide him the kind of nutrition and stability he needs to heal. I wonder if she has ever tried.
“Yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes
I thought it was there for good so I never tried”Leonard Cohen
And of course I wonder further: if he were whole and healed would I be interested? Is it his wounds and the circumvents to avoid reopening them that draw me so? What if he were available, sober, and present to me.
Would I want him?
Such strange intimacy, being the Other Woman. We know so little of each other’s lives. We haven’t met each other’s friends. I don’t know his child. And yet we fuck in the raw. I’m not on birth control. He pulls out every time.
I trust him wholeheartedly and I know he does me. We hold each other’s secrets. Go deep precisely because we have already carved out a secret space outside of our lives for us to live in together.
We are there, eternally. Fucking in the orchard he tends when he is 80 and I am 75.
I can hear, as I type this, the default agreements about relationships resounding. I know you, dear reader, are like “no, of course, you both have terrible self-esteem and are locked into co-dependent patterns. It’s not love. It’s not trust!”.
Myself I’ve spent so long in that agreement it was difficult to launch out. But I am sure now.
It is love.
It is trust.
We’re in a long-term relationship.
If I were not the submissive, if I had control, what would I do? Do I need him to leave her?
If she were good for him I’d be fine with her. She isn’t. She’s abusive. He’s not happy. She’s torn him down to nothing. And now that he’s down there, what will he think of me? Someone attracted to him at his worst? At nothing? How will he assign me value and worth?
I have wished she would disappear.
And what of power and control? What of his side?
I hold the power to ruin his life. To completely destroy him.
As the Other Woman, I risk nothing by being with him, and he risks it all.
He has no resources or papers. I can show up on his doorstep from anywhere in the world within 24 hours. He can’t leave his doorstep to find me if I run.
I said I would come back but I did not.
Who is the D and who is the s?