The other day I set down my Kindle e-reader, midway through a novel about a pandemic that destroys civilization, and asked my partner Matt, “How many books should I be reading in a typical month?”
What followed was a pause, the type of pause that always feels to me like a trust fall, like a momentary wobble on a tightrope, the audience gasping and unable to tear their gazes away until this endless instant concludes.
Kink is a trust fall; you’re constantly hoping and wishing – or, if you’re lucky, trusting and knowing – that your partner will respond to your request or command or flirtation with an enthusiastic “yes,” however that “yes” happens to manifest. Even years into relationships, when you know the rhythm and parameters of your dynamic, it can be easy to forget that the person you want also wants what you want. I’m not always good at remembering that the ways in which I like to be controlled, guided, taken care of, are not flaws of mine in my partner’s eyes, but instead, opportunities for creativity and connection. They want what I want and I’m grateful for it every day.
Their thoughtful pause came to a close with a simple pronouncement: “Four. Four books in a month is a good amount for you.” It was, I have to assume, a calculation borne from my typical reading habits, the speed at which I can reasonably consume words. Part of being a dominant (so I gather) is not only listening to what your submissive tells you about their desires and limitations, but also observing those things firsthand, to help fill in the blind spots we all have about ourselves. I may know I physically can’t kneel for long periods of time, but it’s my dominant who’s likelier to know exactly how long I can typically kneel for. I may know I can read several books in a month if I want to, but it’s my dominant who’s likelier to know the sweet spot for me – the maximum number I can read and still enjoy and absorb the material, without tipping over into resentment or overwhelm.