I was made to be played with in a particular rough way but he is new to me, a strange influential sort that will decide how best to tenderly motivate me; I don’t want all the dirt to wash off.
I was made with arms that were not meant to bend back but when he pulls me out of the box he makes the effort; a little further back every time. If I am incapable he certainly enjoys watching my discomfort and that I try because he asked it of me.
He doesn’t shy away from letting me know he sees my anxiety and I hate it that he is right. I wouldn’t be so willing if I wasn’t curious to see how the game ends with both of us winning.
He makes me uncomfortable in subtle ways; not with cruelty. I am not new to the concept but new to being on the receiving end. My instinct is to stiffen up and do as I have always done but he has no interest in my just letting him play – he wants me to want it – and I do.
I wonder how he will play with me should my stiff arm pop out of it’s tight plastic socket; one piece of a whole in his hand unable to be put back together again exactly as I was.
What possible joy would he get from me when I smile and I ask him to do it again.