Gay Blog: Master Salve

He paid. I don’t remember the walk to the car. I remember the cold air hitting my face, and then the blessed silence of the leather interior. Julian drove. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t speak. He knows that touch and sound are fuel for the fire when I’m in the white-hot center of a panic attack. He just drove us home, his presence a solid, silent planet in the driver’s seat.

Tomorrow, I will ask him, “Is it wise to buy that rare copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray ?” He will probably roll his eyes and say no. And I will listen. And that will be its own kind of love.

“So here is your consequence,” he said. “Tomorrow, we are going to sit down and write a new protocol for social outings. You will not be allowed to refuse the pre-game check-in. And for the next week, before you make any decision larger than what to eat for lunch, you will text me and ask, ‘Is this wise?’ You will not act until I respond. Do you understand?”

The collar—the titanium band—was cool against my throat. It is not a symbol of my bondage. It is a symbol of my freedom. The freedom to be weak. The freedom to fail. The freedom to be caught when I fall. master salve gay blog

It’s about the radical, breathtaking intimacy of being truly owned. And owning, in return, the keeper of your peace.

Julian noticed. He always notices first. His thumb pressed gently into the pulse point on my wrist. A question. Are you with me?

I tried. My eyes skittered away.

Goodnight, blog. Goodnight, world. I am going to go be held.

He turned me around. His face was grave, but his eyes were soft. He cupped my jaw in his surgeon’s hands, those miracle-working hands, and tilted my face up to his. “I am your Master, Marcus. Do you know what that means? It means your panic is my panic. Your fear is my fear. When you hide it from me, you are not protecting me. You are stealing from me. You are stealing my right to care for what is mine.”

“Marcus,” he said, his voice dropping to the register he uses in the OR. Calm. Absolute. “Look at me.” He paid

“Come in, treasure,” he said, looking up from a thick medical journal. His eyes softened when he saw my face. “You’ve got that look. The ‘I found a literary unicorn’ look.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Did you let me?”

I let go of the shame. I let go of the performance. I let go of the idea that I had to be a certain kind of partner. I was just Marcus. Kneeling. Breathing. The only sounds were my own breath and the quiet movements of Julian behind me, tidying up, giving me the space to fall apart without an audience.

“Yes, Sir.”