taking off the collar

Sir and I never did a formal collaring ceremony, but I do have a collar. We have a collar. Or rather, who's collar it is and what kind of possessive pronouns to use for it is another post altogether, so: there is a collar. He puts it on for me, takes it off for me, I wear it. I made a protocol post a while back that explains a little bit about how it functions for us as defining space, as defining play.

It's also a pretty powerful symbol, for me. It makes me feel safe, contained, acts as an undeniable marker of Sir and I's relationship, of this part of myself as strong and excellent and right, a stop gap for all of the doubts and insecurities that inevitably come; I look in the mirror, and there it is, a strip of black and red leather with a hard metal lock: quiet brain, quiet worries, quiet, you've no place here right now. Sometimes, especially recently (we've hit a bit of a rough spot; not huge, but it's been hard. Again, another post), I've been wearing the collar just to bed, with no play beforehand. And even if there were play beforehand, the result is the same: I go to bed, wrapped up in this gorgeous part of myself that feels honored, cherished, and as always, full of dirty, dirty thoughts. I go to bed feeling whole and effervescent about all sorts of things, and not just the kinky parts either, as if feeling solid in this part of my life allows a certain perspective and confidence for other parts of my life.

And them morning comes, as it inevitably does. We do the coffee shuffle and the getting dressed shuffle and somewhere in there, the collar comes off. He usually has to be the one to remind me. He holds his keys in his hand, the smallest, silver and rounded at the base, pinched between his fingers. I kneel, or bury my head in his chest, exposing the back of my neck and curling my hair out of the way in gentle fists. He unlocks, a click, and hands it back to me.

The moment the leather leaves my neck, there's a rush.*

*The language here is getting flowery, but it's not meant to overdramatize; rather, I'm grasping at something I don't fully understand, and in that grasping, I'm talking around it a lot.

The rush is dazing and a little bit sad. Sometimes I cry, and usually I get pretty spacey for a few minutes. I don't know if it's me ascribing more worth to that collar than is strictly necessary, or if it's just how much I love, really love, being in that place. Being there with Sir, it's such a relief, a long breath of stale air out, and I can swim in the fresh, contended with pretty much everything, for a while.

This is starting to sound like the rest of my life, when I'm not collared, is riddled with anxiety and hopelessness. It's also starting to sound like every moment I'm collared is perfect; neither of these things are true. But put those opposites on a spectrum, and the gradient below them is about right. It's not as absolutist as I'm putting it, but there are marked trends.

Which is maybe what's scary, in part, about taking my collar off, and how much I feel in that moment. How much my "real life," (whatever that means) is unappealing, and how much my "kink life" is better. What does that mean, that I need this thing, to be okay? What does it say that, after a while of not playing, I sometimes (not all the time, but sometimes) get antsy and anxious and weird? What does Sir think of all this, and will it scare him, and is it too intense, too serious-about-kink? Can I also be playful, bratty, and funny about my kink? And why can't I just drop the whole thing, be normal, be content during kinky times, during collared times, and during regular times.*

*like right now, for instance, sitting at work. Yes, I'm blogging at work. As a great latex-maker said on his blog: "This blog isn't safe for work, unless your work is AWESOME." And while I'm not sure my boss would exactly approve of this blog, my work is pretty awesome).

When Sir takes my collar off, there's very little I can do to keep from missing myself. Not missing as in, not-seeing, but missing as in longing-for. Like, there's this part of myself that I'm so comfortable with, when I'm collared, and I don't know how to carry that part of myself into everyday life. It's that split again, that meandering divide between a kinky self and a "regular" self that, even as I try to challenge its squirmy, icky division, pops up again and again.

There was a morning, a while back, when we just forgot to take it off. I was wearing a sweater with a high neck, and I think we just didn't notice it as we left the house. When we got in the truck, Sir caught a glance, and we laughed and remarked what would have happened if we'd both missed it until we got to work. I sat in the cab, and he leaned across the mountains of sound gear and coffee cups and unlocked me. But those moments before, I can't imagine I'd been happier about a day beginning in a long time. I don't actually remember, and I didn't know I was still wearing the collar, but there was no letting go, no missing, none of that part of me slipping away. There was no mourning. Because that's what it feels like; not as much, and I'd never make a comparison, but it feels a distant kin to that kind of grief.

Who knows. Maybe that morning was the same as always.

I've been talking to a friend at work (did I mention yet that my work is really cool?) who's an incredible craftsman and jewelry designer about making a formal collar (her work can be found here). Fancier, but also more subtle, one I could wear as a necklace and/or to balls or leather dinners or what have you.

And I'm excited about that, but I think it's also important for me to remember that I don't need the collar. That the collar, whatever collar, is a symbol. That what's actually going away is a certain unity; what I actually need to work on is keeping that partition down, or questioning the partition's existence in the first place.

So, now that I've said the same thing about five different ways, I think it's back to work with me.

Happily bruised, as always,

The Good Girl