You’re A Wolf, Girl


Here’s one, I said guiding the conversation like it was a recruitment event, watching their careful chemistry.  A friend of ours told me that in (X Culture I don’t remember and isn’t important) people are divided by whether they are a Dom or a Sub, and not only does it define their romantic relationships, but it also defines who they are and how the function in society. They nodded, sipped their drinks, and I continued.  So which are you, a Dom or a Sub? We went on for a while like that, discussing whether we preferred the bottom or the top, giving orders or taking them, and how surprisingly difficult it sometimes is to choose.  I confessed I wasn’t sure which I was.

The tricky thing is I tend to prefer men who are dominant.  I like powerful men – cheetahs – ones who are the fastest, smartest, strongest, and generally the best at whatever it is they do.  That would appear to make me a Sub, and if you have been listening to anything I’ve said about the men I have loved in the last four years, you would probably agree.   I have always considered myself a lamb in love in these formative college years.  Bright eyed, sweet, and affectionate, I have loved without abandon and it seems to have gotten the better of me.  There are names we say with callous and those we do not say at all; they are the wolves, and theirs are the teeth who have cut lessons into my heart.  I am like the lamb, or a little lost girl wandering through the dark woods with my red hood, looking to find a sick Grandmother and finding him instead.

You know me, and you know how the story is always told.  There I am walking red-hooded through the wilderness, and I get to Grandma’s house – just in time.  And there in the bed he waits, pleading help me, Red, help me.  I’m so weak, Red, and I can’t feel my heart.  I need you, Red.   I ignore his stubbly snout and crawl into bed to kiss him, but in my story no brave lumberjack bursts through the door to save my innocent self (or if there is, that’s a metaphor that’s going too far for tonight). Oh woe is me, the Sub, the lamb, the little girl.

But an email I got today made me think twice about how my story is told, and indeed, how I think it should be told.  A little back story (brief for now):  A couple weeks ago I met a man on an airplane.  Stars aligned, galaxies collided, he kissed me before we even touched the ground in Detroit.  The weather stranded him and we spent the night talking in an airline-compted hotel about everything that ever happened to us, I drove home watching the sun rise, and a few days later he emailed me a quick and sweet hello.  A week and a half later, today, he emailed me again, hurt by my lack of response.

I had every intention of responding.  I like him a lot, and made notes in my head more than once of the clever and charming things I wanted to say to him.  But I just didn’t.  I responded today apologetically, but frankly, weakly.  What could I say?  I like you, but I couldn’t make 5 minutes of time to respond to you.  But really I do care… My stomach is still turning over it, and not only because I neglected to reply until today.  I realize this is not the first time I have been guilty of an offense like this.  When I think about the men I have loved, I see myself at the receiving end, but when I think about then men who have loved me, I realize how often I am the offender.  How many men have loved me who I have written off.  Or tried to love and failed.  Men whose calls I have ignored, whose praise I have shaken off, and whose gazes I have dodged.  The embraces I have squirmed out of or the white walls I have watched while they whisper my name.

I am beginning to think I have been telling the story wrong.  Perhaps I am not the Sub, the lamb, the sweet redhooded girl – perhaps I am the wolf.  If we merely count notches on the bedpost, I have have hurt twice what I have been hurt, and that does not even count the times I shot someone who outdrew me.  I hate to admit it, and it scares me, because I do not even feel when I do it.  I know my intentions are good, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Old gypsy woman spoke to me, lips stained red from a bottle of wine.  The one that you are looking for, you’re not going to find her here…  You’re a wolf, {girl}, get out of this town…



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