#craving-connection

Today, I want to be owned. Not in a performative way—not for show, not because we signed something—but in a way that feels real. I want the symbolism to matter. I want someone to look at me like I belong to them, like they know where I fit in their life and plan to keep me there. I want to feel held by a gaze, tethered by intention, claimed not with words but with presence. I want to be told what to do—not to feel small, but to feel anchored.

There are days when the world feels too loose, too formless, and I start to drift. Craving ownership isn’t always about wanting control—it’s about wanting to be seen in the specific, saturated way that only power exchange seems to offer. I want someone to learn me well enough to guide me. To notice when I need more structure and when I just need to be held. I don’t want to be micromanaged; I want to be understood.

Stillness. That’s the word that keeps coming to mind. When ownership is right, it makes something in my chest go quiet. Like a warm hand against my cheek, steady and sure. I want the symbolism and the ritual. I want the eroticism of rules and the gravity of being known well enough to be bound. I want to hear the sound of a collar buckle sliding into place. I want to kneel—not because I’m weak, but because someone asked me to and I wanted to say yes.

There have been flashes. A hand at the back of my neck. A single command spoken with care. Even the way someone once buckled my shoes before a scene started. I remember those moments because they didn’t just direct me—they acknowledged me. They said: I see your need, and I’ll hold it without punishing you for having it.

I almost had sex on Friday.

He was hot — like the kind of hot that makes you feel lucky just to be in the conversation. Tall, confident, flirty. An OnlyFans creator with a steady stream of women calling him daddy on FetLife. And somehow, I had his attention. For a while, that was enough to override everything else. I thought, maybe this time I can handle it. Maybe I won’t fall apart after.

But I’ve been here before. With men like this.

Guys who give you just enough eye contact to feel chosen. Who praise your body in a way that feels addictive until you realize they say the same thing to ten other people — and mean it just as little. Guys who make you feel wanted in the moment, then evaporate. Or worse, linger just enough to leave you craving more.

So yeah — I wanted him. I wanted to be touched, devoured, validated. To feel the high of being seen as desirable by someone who could have anyone. But I also knew the crash was coming.

Because I’ve been trading short-term closeness for long-term insecurity like it’s worth it. Like I’m built to withstand the emotional fallout if it means I get to feel something for a night. But I’m not sure I am anymore. I’m tired of trying to feel chosen and ending up feeling less than.

Seeing all his FetLife interactions — the comments, the scenes, the women fawning over him — it flipped something in me. I felt myself shrink. I started rehearsing how I’d be more, do more, make myself memorable. I started planning how to be enough for a man who never asked me to be anything at all. That’s when I knew: I was already bleeding out before anything even happened.

So I canceled.

Not because I didn’t want him. But because I finally want myself more. Because I’m not in the mood to abandon myself for attention I won’t even recognize the next morning. Because I deserve sex that doesn’t echo the exact same wounds I’ve spent years trying to stitch up.