hurt me, that it left me cold. Maybe I wasn't sure it would register: he hadn't appeared to believe me when I first told him to let me up. And maybe something in me agreed that such a response was incorrect. Eventually, I got away. Stupidly, confused, I mentioned the incident to my boyfriend. Of course he was furious; I had to calm him. For my part, it hadn't occurred to me to be mad. That didn't feel as bizarre as it sounds -- on some level, I felt that the whole incident was reasonable, even if it hadn't turned out to be what I wanted. Not then. Not with him. ok After I cried my heart out in his bed, Richard was very kind. He brought me a glass of water and listened as I said a lot of bewildered things. When I finally ran down, it was late; he invited me to sleep over, but didn't put the moves on me. The next morning, he told me he had work to do. Straightforwardly, I asked when I could see him again. He smiled, said to email him, that we'd work something out. The next few days -- weeks -- time, I don't know; however long it was, it felt like being put through a shredder. I couldn't think about anything but that night and how, through my turmoil and tears, I'd found a kind of exultation. I had been sober, prepared and clear- headed. I couldn't find a way around the brutal, uncompromising revelation that apparently, I wanted nothing more than to be subordinated, used, hurt. I actually wanted to be a victim. I wanted to talk to someone, but wasn't sure how to frame my words. I was positive it would help to talk to Richard, but he was busy, and busy, and busy. I had a number of friends who I suspected were into hardcore BDSM; I could have called any of them. But it was one thing to be fine with other people doing it, and quite another to discover such a desire in myself. In another situation, I would have thoroughly deconstructed my obvious double standard -- but just then, it was a minor irrationality on top of one big chunk of insanity. I considered asking my lovi