Why not both, all?

My journey as a provider is vast and colorful, littered with connections that range from vanilla and traditional, to the kinky and avant-garde. While my memory of these complex morsels of pleasure serve me well, I seem to have lately developed a habit of splitting myself in two. As a provider, I am a creator. I am fed by the discoveries of my clients, inspired by how we slither into unspoken desires, or unfurl new ones. Sometimes I want to slide my strap-on into another human, and use my body (or implements of choice) to restrict, to beat, to taunt as we sweat and heave with animal lust. Other times, I love to traverse the calmer waters of vanillla sensuality, floating to and through each other in an intimate, gentle rhythm.

When I think about my own pleasure pursuits, I can see and feel my multitudes with undeniable clarity. I’m acutely aware of how layered my desires are, and the constellation of modes within which I experience pleasure with others. Up in the clouds—on the wing of my fancy, as they say—I weave in and out of sultry passion and carnal danger with ease. Upon returning to Earth, however, I feel the cement pooling around my ankles. I know all of this about myself; I’ve come to love it, in fact (as have many others). So, what’s the problem? Why do I feel such immense pressure to choose? The intimacy I propagate among lovers as capable of tenderness as it is of wanton chaos, which is about as “me” as it gets.

So, why here? Why now? The trepidation snuck up on me, like bruises from a week-old spanking. In my most constricting moments, I find myself catastrophizing an instance where expressing my adoration for power exchange, domination, and sadomasochism scares away someone who may lie on the more traditional side of passion. The fact that a great deal of my own preferences exist on the fringe of palatability is something that affords me a great deal of pride, actually, until I start to imagine that it may frighten a vanilla client. My chest tightens at the thought. In my most enlightened moments, however, I find myself wondering why not both? Why not all? At what point do we swap “or” for “and”?

Dichotomies are not an enclosed box, as our ever-compartmentalizing world demands. In fact, all parts of our personalities and proclivities maintain a symbiotic relationship. My softness is amplified by the firmness of my hand. The sting of the flogger tingles more with a following forehead kiss. Providers of all kinds deserve to be celebrated for their talents, whether honed or natural, and I refuse to capitulate to a structure that forces me to rupture my complexity in order to survive. Being pigeonholed is more than just uncomfortable and disingenuous. It’s impossible.

So, why not both, all? Why pick myself apart because that’s what the world wants me to believe? Why attempt to withhold the exploration and discovery of others for the sake of fear? Why forsake my own pleasure in deference to fear?

No more.

I am both. I am all.