I know your biggest fear.

I know your deepest insecurity—the screaming silence that festers in the untouched part of your core as you begin discovering and giving language to that submissive side of yourself. The part of you that knows it's more than just a kink.

I'm familiar with that gut-wrenching feeling when you look at your "vanilla" partner and think: "What if this submissiveness is something she is unable to accept? What if my way of loving is unacceptable to the person I cherish most?"

Is it no wonder then, that we might cling to fantasy to preserve our submissive identity instead of risking it with another? Is it not obvious that we might compartmentalize it as a sexual proclivity rather than how we might experience intimacy?

I mean, the society we inhabit largely looks down upon just the thought of a submissive man, so the realization that you are submissive as a man already bears with it more than just a hint of shame. A shame breeds an insecurity that self-sabotages connection and trust within a relationship. But that's only an excuse, really...

Yet how horrifying it feels trying to share something so intimate and delicate and... bewildering about yourself with another—let alone someone who means everything to you. And something you barely have language for; something she couldn't possibly understand. And so we tell ourselves, if this is unacceptable to the world then how could we burden someone we hold so dear to accept it? To touch it? To love it?

Therefore we grip firmly to our fantasies, with clinched fists and bloody nails. And we keep close our secrets, safely tucked away and protected. Perhaps we "serve" our partner in secrecy; or "submit" without disclosing our true intentions because if feels safer. But it never feels quite right; it never quite fulfills the need we have for connection. So maybe we share a sexual fantasy to test the water—at least the rejection of a fantasy isn't a rejection of who you are as a person. Not quite, anyway.

Is it any wonder then that we choose to not explore the depth and intimacy and beauty of submission? Is it any wonder that we remain fixated on what makes us feel submissive rather than understanding how to embody submission as love? Because a fantasy only requires the self, and love requires another who sees us.

Then perhaps, on an instinctual level, we know that a rejection of our submissiveness in that context then becomes a rejection of the very essence of how we experience intimacy and love. And that rejection is simply too devastating to bear—especially from someone whom we believe we love.

Thus, our ego tells us that the fantasies must be accepted in order to be loved. To our ego, the fantasies are our submissive identity. But for our partner who isn't familiar with these dynamics, the fantasies are but a wall preventing true vulnerability—a crude mask hiding what it means for us to love and be loved—a hindrance and distraction for a connection beyond something transactional.

The depth of submission isn't found in fantasies or weakness or brokenness. The depth of submission is found in finally being seen—inside exposure, inside vulnerability—having that expression of love recognized, received, and given to someone to be held and rest in.

But that depth can't be reached inside a fantasy.
It can't be seen in secrecy.
It can't be known without vulnerability.
And it can't be truly offered to another until it's something that we love within ourselves...

So the question to ask our partner isn't, "Will You dominate me?" The question we must learn to ask our partner is, "Can my way of loving exist before You?"

But this way of loving can't blossom shackled in shame. Nor does freeing ourselves from shame undo the hurt we caused her while bearing its mark...