I know this is a long read. It wasn’t written for entertainment or for clicks—it was written because my therapist asked me to go back to the beginning and lay it all out. Every detail, every crack, every wound. This is part of my work, part of the process of seeing it clearly, instead of through the blinders I wore for so long. If you made it this far, thank you for witnessing it with me.

We met on Fetlife. He reached out to me first, and after a little back-and-forth, we decided to meet. On the surface, we had a lot in common—movies, music, things that made conversation easy. He didn’t love bomb me the way some men do. Instead, he became my friend. He built this friendship carefully, in a way that made me want to invest and let him in. I told him things I thought were safe—my struggles, my stories, even my vulnerabilities. Later I realized he was collecting all of it, not to hold space for me, but to use against me. At the time, though, it felt like connection. It felt like someone was legitimately interested in me. Sure, there were guys in my inbox, but they only wanted sex. He made it seem like he wanted more, and I believed him. My friends warned me he was preying on me, and they were right.

At first, we made out here and there, but there wasn’t much more. He never showed real sexual interest in me, saying he had ED from years of porn and chronic masturbation. That explanation killed me inside. It hurt to feel like I couldn’t turn him on, that I was somehow lacking. Then came the night he asked me for oral, only to tell me afterward it was a horrible experience, even asking if I’d ever done it before. I completely internalized it. We were close by then, and I thought, why would he lie to me? So I believed it—I must have been horrible, and no one had ever told me. I withdrew, felt awful about myself. Something I once thought I was good at, suddenly I wasn’t even capable of doing that right. It tied back into my childhood, how my parents would tell me I couldn’t do anything right. The difference was, I held space for him when he shared his traumas. He used mine to tear me apart. A part of me knew how cruel it was, but instead of walking away, I swallowed it and stayed. It was the first of many times where he would set me up to fail, then use my supposed failure as proof that I wasn’t enough.

And the truth is, I still carry that wound. To this day, even with Sir, I catch myself becoming self-conscious, second-guessing my worth, my body, my skills. I can feel inadequate, like I’m not enough, even when he’s never once made me feel that way. Those moments with my ex rewired something in me, and the echoes haven’t fully quieted. What he said, what he did—it planted seeds of doubt that I still have to fight against every time I let someone close.

By May, we were spending more time together—playing D&D with friends, sitting on his back porch, talking about life and about our dads. I shared things I thought were safe, only to realize later that he used my own words to pull me closer. One night we had just been making out on his porch when he suddenly asked if I thought one of my close friends would go out with him. My heart shattered. From the very beginning, I had been clear with him that my friends and I don’t play together—that those boundaries exist to protect our friendships. He already knew that when he made the remark, and still he said it. It wasn’t just heartbreaking, it was deeply disrespectful. It made me feel unsafe, like my boundaries didn’t matter at all. And yet, I disregarded it. I stayed. He said I was too upset to drive and insisted we needed to talk. That’s when he told me he didn’t find me attractive, didn’t like my body type, but saw me as his “true companion.”

That word—companion—became a hook he used repeatedly. To me, “companion” meant security, partnership, a significant other all rolled into one. The way he said it always alluded to that—like while he may have desire for other women, I was the one he wanted to build a life and memories with. Later, he twisted it, saying he only ever meant friendship, that I had read too much into it. But he never once said “friend.” He used “companion” in a way that made me believe I was the person he ultimately wanted. I should have seen it for what it was—an insult dressed as intimacy—but I clung to the word anyway, because I wanted to believe it meant something. He controlled me with words, dangling them like crumbs, just enough to keep me from walking away.

By July, the dynamic really started. Up until that point, we were just two people hanging out, but he kept me pulled close enough that I wasn’t looking for anyone else to play with. He had decided he was a Dom, even though he had no real understanding of BDSM. He bristled when I called him more of a vanilla swinger, though that was closer to the truth. From day one, he maintained he was a Dom, but he admitted he was new to BDSM. The first night we decided to enter into a Dynamic, there were no rules other than he wanted all the pervy details from me about anyone else I was with—essentially to get off on them. Again, it never made sense because he said he wasn’t attracted to me. That contradiction alone should have been enough to make me walk away, but instead I let myself be pulled deeper in.

What unfolded was awkward and, at times, dangerous. I was essentially teaching him, topping from the bottom, giving him knowledge he later used to claim credibility in the scene. But as someone who is strictly a sub—not a switch—it felt wrong. It was emotionally hard on me to step into a role that went against everything I wanted and needed, but I did it anyway because I had blinders on. We started doing impact play in July, and while it wasn’t terrible, it was nothing like the care, skill, and intentionality I had known from more seasoned Doms, Sirs, and Daddies. He didn’t know what he was doing. He could have hurt me physically. But I had blinders on and didn’t see it at the time.

Once he realized I had the very real possibility of being with other men, everything changed—and fast. That’s when the rules came. At first, there were none—I could see or talk to whoever I wanted, as long as I came back and told him the details. But when he saw the attention I had from others, the restrictions began piling up. He made me put on my Fetlife account that if anyone was interested in me, they had to contact and be vetted by him first, and only with his permission was I allowed to play. It was degrading, like I had to carry a sign saying I belonged to him while he stayed completely free. Meanwhile, I had no say in who or how he talked to women and couples. I could sleep with other people, but only vanilla sex. No BDSM, no intimacy that mattered. Whoever I slept with had to wear a condom, but since he had problems with ED, he didn’t have to. There was a list of things I wasn’t allowed to do, and I had to share pictures with him. Meanwhile, he had no restrictions. He insisted he needed to be free because he “struggled” with connecting to others, and therefore had to allow himself opportunities to bond emotionally in order to sleep with women. It was a double standard. And even when he declared we were supposed to be “closed,” he would still talk to other women—or couples—sneak off to meet them in the middle of the night, and only afterward would I find out. Each time, I was left blindsided, told it was justified, while I was expected to follow every rule he imposed on me. He broke every rule he set for me, then justified it by convincing me I was the problem.

He pushed for couple swaps and orgies, things I never felt safe doing with him. He met one couple on a Monday and pressured me into dinner with them the very next night. I knew right away they weren’t my type. Not to sound snobbish, but I am selective about who I share myself with—and these weren’t it. They were low-rent at best, and on top of that, the guy was Black. I’m not into Black men—it’s not personal, just not my type—and he knew this. He pushed it anyway. There was even a suggestion of semi-public play at Troy University in Dothan. I shut that down immediately—I have a professional license to protect, with a vague “moral turpitude” clause. I wasn’t risking years of hard work for his reckless fantasies. We ended up in a hotel room, and I put the brakes on everything. I didn’t know them, didn’t trust them, and wasn’t going to participate. So, I left. Later, he told me my refusal ruined it for him, that my not participating made them not want him either, and he was angry about it. Every instinct told me to say no from the start, but I ignored myself and went anyway. Consent was supposed to be mutual, but with him it only applied one way—his way.

I leaned heavily into service-sub behaviors with him. If his glass was empty, I’d fill it. When he asked me to walk his dog because he was away at out-of-town gigs with the band, I did it. That’s when I’d also do little things around his house—wash the dishes that had been sitting for days, tidy up the messes I couldn’t stand to look at. I thought I was helping. He told me to stop. Said it made him uncomfortable, that it made him feel worse about himself. I sent him memes, words of encouragement, reminders that I was thinking of him. He dismissed them as “mushy” and told me to cut it out. Each rejection stung, but I kept trying, because every so often, he would give me just enough to keep me tethered. Each time he told me to stop, I felt smaller, but I kept serving him anyway—hoping one day he’d see it as love instead of a flaw. Even the smallest acts of care became another way for him to control me, because he knew rejecting them cut me deeper than any whip could.

He often talked about wanting to host a battle of the bands–style event, something that would raise money for local veterans. The idea mattered to him, and I wanted to help make it real. I sketched out plans on the spot, showing him how to get sponsors, build a committee, even secure a location. I told him he could start with his band buddies but would need to involve veterans and active-duty military for credibility. I thought I was helping him see a path forward, giving him the tools to bring his dream to life. Instead, he shut me down. He told me I was being “too much,” that it was just an idea, not something he ever intended to act on. What I saw as encouragement, he framed as pressure. What I offered as partnership, he rejected as overwhelming.

By late October, early November, I planned a beach trip for us. He loved penguins, so I booked a special encounter at the Gulfarium where he could hold and pet them. I thought it would bring us closer. I poured effort, time, energy, and money into making it special for him. He seemed happy that day—maybe the happiest I’d ever seen him. But when we eventually broke up, he told me that day at the penguin encounter was the exact moment he decided he no longer wanted to be with me. Now that I reflect, maybe that’s what he was truly happy about—not the penguins, but the relief of knowing he was already done with me. Even though he had already checked out, I kept pouring myself into us, desperate to create something worth staying for. I poured myself into us, and he punished me for it, turning my effort into evidence that I was exhausting.

My birthday came soon after, and it was one of the worst times of my life. He hinted at big plans but did nothing. He wouldn’t let my friends celebrate me at the bar where his band was playing. He wouldn’t even let them sing “Happy Birthday.” I spent the weekend at his house, isolated, unwanted, untouched. When I left Monday morning, carrying my own things to the car, he complained I hadn’t asked for help. I reminded him I didn’t rely on people because they always left. His parting words as I was leaving—“Well, I’m here and not going anywhere. Get used to it.”—ended up being the last real conversation we ever had.

Months later, when he came back around trying to make amends, he told me something that made the whole weekend even darker. He admitted that he had bought a collar and had planned to collar me on my birthday—even though, by his own admission, he already knew he was going to break up with me. The collar had seemingly gone missing, and he said he was relieved it had, as if that somehow excused the cruelty of what he’d intended. Hearing that, I realized just how twisted it was: he was willing to bind me closer with a symbol of permanence, all while planning his exit. It was never about commitment. It was about control.

The following week, I went to my annual counseling conference. During that time, his messages dropped off. He claimed he was sick. I was busy but still checked in, still sent him memes and encouragement, but he gave little in return. When I came home that Friday before Thanksgiving, I thought he would want to see me. The weekend passed with excuses. By Monday, I knew. We were still supposed to go to Thanksgiving with his best friend, but I pushed him to be honest. We broke up at midnight on Tuesday morning. That’s when he finally unloaded everything he’d been holding back: that he was never attracted to me, never wanted a relationship with me, that I was simply too much. I did too much, I was too good of a girlfriend, and he couldn’t keep up. He told me I was a good person, but not someone he wanted. He added that he seriously doubted any man would ever truly want me, because I was exhausting. He drove those points home as if he wanted them branded into me.

I was heartbroken, numb, and angry all at once. I wanted him to hurt the way I did, so I did something completely out of character. Wednesday night, I slept with someone else—someone I’d known for a while, a vanilla man, with the agreement it was a one-time thing. After leaving his house, I went straight to my ex’s to drop something off. He looked at me and commented that I seemed tired. I told him flat-out it was because I’d just left someone else’s bed. In the year we were hanging out, he and I had never had sex, so I knew the words would cut. It wasn’t my proudest moment, but my Scorpio nature is to sting when provoked, and I wanted him to feel it. I knew it would wound him, even though he adamantly said he never wanted or desired me.

On December 21, just shy of us knowing each other for a year, he called to say he wanted to end the friendship too. I simply said “ok” and hung up. I had nothing left to give. The breakup aftermath wasn’t what I expected. At first, there was loneliness, but it didn’t last. It felt nice, actually, not having him around. Nice that he wasn’t at the munch. The only time I saw him was once a month when the kids met for D&D, and even then, I tucked myself away in my office, avoiding him. My presence agitated the hell out of him, so staying out of sight suited us both.

But his damage lingered. He tore me down in so many ways—my appearance and my self-esteem most of all. Before him, I had my struggles, but never like this. He reminded me constantly that I was “less than,” that I wasn’t a fantasy, that no man could truly want me. If someone on Fetlife showed interest, he’d sneer that it was just because I had boobs, not because they genuinely found me attractive. He discouraged my writing, saying my pieces were too long, that he lost interest while reading. Anything I did, he found a way to tear down, to make me second-guess myself. And the hardest part is that I still carry those echoes with me. Even now, I catch myself hesitating to share my writing, or second-guessing when someone compliments me, waiting for the hidden insult. He planted that doubt in me, and even though I know better, sometimes it still whispers.

Therapy was the turning point, though not immediately. He was the one who pushed me into therapy, though his reasons weren’t about me at all. He wanted me to work through my “issues” that kept me from accepting his one-sided open relationship. But what he meant as a way to fix me for his benefit became the one good thing I took from him. I found an incredible therapist who saw right through him, who told me bluntly: that’s bullshit. For a long time I resisted her view, blinders still on, but she was patient. Only a year later am I fully seeing the damage he did, how he used my vulnerability as a weapon.

After he left in December, I didn’t fight it. Months later, around April or May, he came back, asking to make amends. But it wasn’t about me, not really. It was about access.

Since January, I had been hosting the local munches on my own. I had scouted the locations, arranged the details, and built the gatherings from the ground up. These events mattered—they gave people in our area a safe place to connect. And while he had been completely out of my life at that point, he suddenly wanted back in. The real reason he came to make amends was so he could attend the munches I was running—munches he later tried to claim credit for as “co-founder” simply because he had once uttered, “We should have a munch here.” The truth was, he dipped out and left me doing all the work alone—every bit of the planning, the hosting, the follow-through. He re-entered because the neighboring munch shut down, leaving him without a place in the community, and mine was the only thriving option.

And me being who I am, I agreed to make amends. I’ve never liked throwing people away. Even though he had done so much damage to me, I told myself we could be civil, coexist, maybe even work side by side again. Only lately have I realized just how deep that damage runs. He managed to convince me that the cracks in me were all childhood trauma, when in reality, it was him projecting onto me—using my past as a smokescreen so I wouldn’t see the harm he was actively causing. I don’t care if he claims co-founder. Hell, he can claim the whole thing if he wants. I know my heart. I know what I put into those events every month. If someone thinks they can do better, by all means, let them try. The people who matter know the truth. My friends and I exchange eye rolls whenever he tries to puff himself up. The community barely engages with him anyway.

At first, he kept a low profile. By then, I had moved on. I had met Sir, who was slowly becoming a force of nature in my life in the best way. My friends loved hearing about Sir. But one day, my ex pulled me aside and told me to stop talking about Sir so much in front of him. He admitted it stung to see me so happy while he was still struggling. I was in awe that he had the audacity to say that. I didn’t answer to him. I didn’t have to censor my happiness for his feelings.

It drove him crazy that Sir’s identity remained a secret. He pretended it was about “making sure this person was safe” for me, but it was jealousy. He even had the nerve to suggest that I ask Sir to mentor him and allow me to be used for impact—something he had tried once before after we broke up. The contrast was stark. Sir is, in so many ways, exactly what my ex was not: grounded, successful, attentive, careful with me, responsive to my brat side, encouraging of my writing, and openly attracted to me. He makes me feel wanted in ways I didn’t think I could anymore.

But because of the scars my ex left, I still find myself becoming self-conscious with Sir. I catch myself second-guessing if I’m enough, if I’m doing things “right,” if I’m somehow inadequate. Those doubts aren’t about Sir—they’re the echoes of being torn down before. So I over-respect the silent boundaries, watching carefully for unspoken lines, giving space where it’s not asked for. And while I know there is genuine care and connection between us, I sometimes tell myself we are simply people who sleep together, because we have never named it. It’s not because that’s how I truly see it, but because it feels safer to downplay what exists than to risk being blindsided again. It’s damage control, a way of protecting myself after everything I went through with my ex.

Everyone who knows me sees the difference between them—even my therapist, even my friends. When I buried the hatchet with my ex, every single one of them told me the same thing: Don’t let this idiot mess up what you have with Sir. They saw what Sir brought out in me. They knew the difference between real and fake.

The week leading up to Pride is always hell on me—mentally, physically, emotionally. He knew this because he had been there the year before. That week, he popped up, trying to slip back into my world. He messaged me, telling me to stay hydrated, even trying to tell me when to go to bed—playing at being a Dom, trying to mimic Sir. That didn’t last long. I shut it down immediately. Pride day came, and he showed up anyway, hovering, offering his truck, trying to tell me what I needed to do better, telling me to eat, to drink water. Finally, I asked him outright why he was even there. This event had nothing to do with him. He left with his feelings hurt, but by then I finally saw it clearly: he was still trying to low-key undermine me, still trying to wedge himself back into a place he no longer had.

What he underestimated is that I am no longer the woman who sat on that back porch, swallowing pain just to keep someone close. I am no longer the woman who believed that being “too much” was a flaw. Because the truth is, “too much” meant I was willing to give more than he could ever hold. It meant I was ready to be a partner, to help someone build, to lift them up, to accept them—flaws and all—and still stand beside them. That isn’t weakness. That is depth, care, and love he wasn’t capable of meeting. He once thought a collar would bind me to him, but now I see it for what it was—control disguised as devotion. One day, if I am collared, it will be because it is real, mutual, and deserved—not because someone is trying to trap me. I can’t yet say I’ve risen above all the damage. I’m still learning, still healing, still carrying echoes I wish I didn’t. But at least now I see it clearly, and maybe that’s the first step.

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