“I mean,I do. But I care more about my emotional boundaries. I just…I don’t want to end up with a Shawn again.”
Ophelia cocked her head. “So say that. You’re the domme. You’re in charge, D. You make the rules.”
I made the rules. She was right. And it was time for me to be clear and precise about my boundaries and my limits.
I took out my phone, pulled up the Seekers’ Club app, and spoke into it, letting the app translate my words into text. “Hard limit,” I said. “Emotional manipulation. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Don’t try to twist my feelings against me. I don’t want to engage in a scene with you only to find that you hate it and you resent me for it later.”
I re-read it, and then hitsend. Ophelia pointed at me with her makeup brush. “Nowthat,” she said, “is hot.”
Ophelia left for the club. I cuddled up with Spud and opened a bottle of wine. Halfway through the bottle, I thought of another one.
Me:
Hard limit: gaslighting. If I’m trying to express how I feel, listen to me. Acknowledge my feelings. Don’t try to rewrite my narrative to match your own.
And another glass of wine in…
Me:
Hard limit: man babies. I am not your mother. I won’t coddle you. I won’t do your laundry. I won’t do your dishes.
I spent the night venting. It felt cathartic to get all my “hard limits” out. It wasn’t until I finally crashed out in bed that my phone buzzed back.
DoriNYC:
Read and received. I’ll respect your limits.
DoriNYC:
It’s a good list. Makes me want to rethink mine.
Me:
Update your limits at any time.
Me:
Let’s make this a changing thing.
And the next day, he took me up on that.
DoriNYC:
Hard limit: people who don’t use the Oxford comma.
That made me grin. It became a running language between us. Every now and then at random, one of us would send a new limit.
Me:
Hard limit: cutting in line.
DoriNYC:
Hard limit: dog earring pages of a borrowed book.
Me:
Hard limit: Men in their twenties.
