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The Bar Moves

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It moves, the bar. It starts at chin height.

Are you the right age? The right area? 

Do you like brats? Do you understand

what it means to hold the responsibility 

of my submission? Would you cherish it?

Do you smile and say hello, or introduce 

yourself and your dick. Is it sex first, or

trust first? All right, let's chat. 

Do you want to know my secrets? My

vulnerabilities and fears? Do you want me

to share my body and my fantasies? 

Do you want me to obey? To call you Sir?

The bar inches skyward. Are you respectful?

Do you command my respect? Are you

intelligent? Interesting? Is figuring you out

a mental challenge that I can't put aside?

Are you simply more? 

There. Right there. That's the level. But

you and I both know. It goes higher. Further.

Can I trust you? Not the trust that runs

beneath the surface and says 

I won't hurt you. Lie to you. Betray you. 

The other trust, that whispers I have you.

I know you. I see you. I understand you. 

And I can stay one step ahead of you. 

The trust that would allow me to let go.

Be free. Relinquish control. Let down the gate

to the fortress in my mind and invite you in.

That bar? It's a dot in the sky, a silhouette 

so slight I might lose it in the sun's glare.

And here's the real truth. That bar? It's not

for you. Not really. It's for me. 
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