No, I cannot do that, I mustn't do that, it seems as if I lay blame on you. But it is not you. It is the great and terrible way in which we live. Any man can hold a whip. That is what a teacher once told me. I didn't believe him, but now I do. That is why there are the great masters, the ones whose names precede them, for whom men and women alike would do anything to serve. Men with whom I once counted myself. It might seem to you that we men had the power of choice among those proteges, and that we held all the power because we held the whips and fastened the ropes. But I do not think you as naive as that. You must know how we depend on you. Without you, what are we? What could we do? Slave is an archaic term, one used for the quaint images it brings to mind. But you are not slaves, and were you, we would not want you. Or at least, I would not want you. You are submissive companions, and you differ from slaves by the conditionality of your relationships. Never spoken, but always there: Please me.
Oh, Thomas, I know I pleased you, and you me, and that was all. But there came a moment in time when suddenly I could not take any pleasure from what I did, for worry and fear. Searching your face for every trace emotion that I longed to rouse in you, be it pain or ecstasy or both. Every time I came before you was passionless, no matter how I tried. To see your come on the floor was like relief washing through me: that you had enjoyed it, that I was still of value to you in that much. And even then it was worse, as I wondered if even that was enough proof, or if you wished for someone else, someone more skilled, a better top. I always took such pleasure in my work, in crafting scenes, in the particular art of how to build layers of eroticism in pain and pleasure, humiliation, negligence and tender care and attention. With you it became a chore I dreaded. My creativity withered and dried up. I cursed your name.
I do not curse you now. I am far wiser now than then, for I see that it is not you but me. You have not changed, you have been unerring in your ways, as dedicated and sure as ever. It is I who became riddled with self-doubt. I could not bear the weight of responsibility that fell on my shoulders every time I stepped into the room to play out a scene with you. There was no cure; not spontaneity nor other bottoms. I sought them, yes. I found the throwaways and rejects, the newly initiated and the timelessly fascinated-but-horrified. I would not know it until far after that I chose them specifically for their flaws. I did not want to matter to them, Thomas, the way I mattered to you. They bore the brunt of my affliction, for I treated them badly. I became the sort of sadist that we insist we are not, the kind sweet suburban housewives cringe to think of. Every orgasm with them was intense, and every one, hollow.
I wonder now, here in the dungeon, surrounded by the tools of my trade, if perhaps you brought this about in me. How much of a sadist am I before I am a man? For when I think of the crippling fear I experienced with you, it is rooted in the fear of you leaving. Bottoms come and they go, but I could not bear to fail you for the thought of you going. Pride, reputation, my confidence- all swung in the balance of whether I was a good enough top. But with them, Thomas, my heart. Don't the straights, the vanilla sex couples, the rest of the world outside of us- don't they have a vision of love as a leap? That one must take the leap, fearful as it is, in order to love completely. The risk of fall is the price of landing safely. Perhaps we are not so different, sadomasochists and the rest of the world. I could not validate my fear with you. I could not leap to love, or whatever version of such that our kind share. You have been so much more than my slave, and in the end, ironically, it is the very slavery that rendered me impotent before you.
It is written here- my love, my fear- and the solution must seem obvious to you, Thomas, but it isn't. Your affirmations will do nothing for me, you see. You might assure me all you want of your desire for me, of your dedication, of your love. But it is I who stay on the other side of the cliff. To take your hand is not the same as jumping; don't you see? I would ever require your hand. The problem is mine and I cannot fix it. That is why you mustn't try to find me. By the time you read this, I'll have been gone, and you cannot try to find me. Take the letter of recommendation and find another master who can treasure you as you deserve to be treasured. Do not think of me; nothing will come of it. Every scar I have left on your body would be a reminder of my imperfection. For someone else, they will be nothing. Let them flay your flesh anew, let them anoint you with your own blood. It is my last command. Take care, Thomas.
Vincent
