People tell me I’m strong. Powerful. My therapist calls me a boot-strapper. When the going gets tough I pull myself up by the boot-straps (whatever those are) and rise to the challenge. I get it. In general I tend to kick down roadblocks. I’m comfortable discussing sex, politics, religion. No trouble speaking up for myself or my family.
I’m also an extrovert. This means I recharge by being with people. I have the ability to clear my head in the eye of a social hurricane. If I haven’t slept for three days and I’m given the choice between a quiet hotel room and a rave, I will most definitely choose the rave. Always. It’s what a person like me considers a little down time.
I have friends who are similarly strong, extroverted. Ladies who get the job done. It’s good. We’ll probably be reasonably valuable in a zombie apocalypse. In the meantime, we suffer a couple of drawbacks. For one, we appear so capable, so in control, so in the driver’s seat, it never occurs to anyone to take the wheel. (It’s OK, we’ll keep right on driving, God forbid we pull the car over). Secondly, we’re so caught up in our self-reliance that we don’t know how to recognize that we actually need help let alone ask for it (this, a problem of extroverts and introverts alike). See the pattern.
Sex therapists say it’s the reason why, if we’re honest with ourselves, many people who yield a lot of power in life are submissives/bottoms in the bedroom. After being in charge at work, family, home, etc., etc., all we really want to do is relinquish our control, to forget everything else in the world for a few minutes, to be told what to do. It’s not a very popular theory amongst feminists.
But this feminist couldn’t agree more.
At the end of the day I go down fighting. Because the battle never ends. There’s always more work. Laundry. Life. But most of the time what I really want is for someone else to decide. For someone else to carry me. To tell me where to go. It hardly ever happens.
It’s not easy to approach a moving vehicle.
There’s risk involved.
We might crash. Burn.
But if I were the one making the approach, I might just come up on her slowly. I might take a handful of hair at the nape of her neck, and let her feel my teeth against her ear when I say, “Slide over, Lover. I’m driving now.”
But that’s just me.