Page 21 of A Good Girl's Guide to Dominance
“Andnowwhat are you talking about? I swear, Nia, it’s starting to look like you're searching for reasons to sabotage this thing we’re trying to build.”
“It’s the complete opposite,” I answer. “I want it to work, but I also need it to be real. Being a Dom isn’t an act or a role for you to play. It’s who you are for real on the inside. It’s a part of yourrealpersonality, and it doesn't have to be forced. You don't put it on and take it off whenever the mood suits you. ArealDom acts like it even when they don't realize it. They give off Dom vibes every day, all day without thinking about it at all. In fact, other people see it wafting off of them even before they do. That's what I want, Marcus, and unfortunately, tonight has shown me that that’s not who you are.”
“But it is who I am,” he tries to explain, but I raise a hand to cut him off.
“It’s not, and that’s okay,” I tell him as I prepare to get up from my seat. “Someone who doesn't know the lifestyle in and out like I do will be fine with you wearing the skin of a Dom every now and then, but that doesn't work for me. I appreciate your kindness over the last few days, but this isn't going to work between us. I’m sorry. I’m going to go.”
“Are you serious?” he asks as I stand.
“I am. Take care of yourself, and good luck in all of your future endeavors.”
While Marcus stares at me in disbelief, I grab my wallet off the bartop and walk away. I thought he could be the one, but time will always reveal a true Dom. Unfortunately, it will also expose the fake ones. You just have to be paying enough attention to recognize the red flags.
Dear Diary,
What is it about fake Doms wanting subs to drink water all the time? Is that written in some bullshit book about how to act like a Dom to get what you want out of women? I don't understand it, and I'm so goddamn tired of having to deal with these boys.
I know Marcus was trying, and at first it was appealing. I liked that he was putting forth so much effort, but then the TRYING was all I could see. He was trying so hard that it became obvious how unnatural it all was. I don't want my man TRYING to be a Dom. I need him to just be it. Be himself!
I’m on a torturous merry-go-round that will not stop spinning. Every revolution is the same, showing me the same thing over and over again—the same boys with the same flaws playing on repeat. It feels like a never ending loop of shit, and Ijust want it all to end. I felt so close with Marcus, but continuing to talk to him would've required me to make concessions about what I'm looking for. I would have had to settle, and listen to him command me to drink fucking water when I'm not even thirsty.
Maybe I'm being too picky. I can admit that, but I can also admit that I don't care. I'm a thirty-year-old single woman who has been through a minefield of bad relationships, stepping on them and blowing myself to smithereens too many times for me to count. I will not stop being picky just to allow some moron who watched two of the threeFifty Shadesmovies and didn't read any of the books to take command of me. My submission is too important, and I cherished the lifestyle too much to operate within a tainted version of it.
So, Marcus is gone and I'm back to square one. Back to wondering if true Doms exist and what it takes to find one.
The saddest part about all of this is that I feel like I've been near someone who feels like a true Dom to me. I've been in the presence of a man who makes me shrink with just a look, while also making me want to be under his control. I've looked into eyes that pin me in place, and watched a man command a room like a general. I've seen someone act like a Dom without claiming that he is one, and I know how it made my insides feel.
But he isn't in the lifestyle and he isn't mine, so there's no point in mentioning him here. I’ll see him at work and that’s all, so I can’t allow myself to dwell on it. I’ll just accept the fact that I'm not even in the talking phase with anyone, and hope that it all gets better.
What am I talking about? There's no fucking hope.
Twelve - Rome
When the expansive gray door opens, my best friend and I just look at each other for a moment, both of us glad to see the other but unaware of how to show it. Nikola Collazo stands in the threshold of his gorgeous, three-story home and stares at me, a tiny smirk pulling up the side of his mouth before he snatches me into a hug.
“Why haven't I heard from you in so long, huh?” he asks in my ear. He squeezes me, emotion seeping through his flesh.
“Sorry,” I say in a low tone, because I don't have a solid answer that will satisfy him right now. However, that’s why I'm here. I needed this—to see him after everything that has happened. If there is such a thing as completing the grieving process, being at Nikola’s house would be the final step to the achievement.
After another fifteen seconds, he takes a step back to look at me. I’m not dressed in anything fancy—just black sweats and a white T-shirt that is soaked with sweat.
“You look good,” he says. “But you smell like shit.”
I grin. “I just came straight over after a run. Sorry I forgot to change into my Gucci shorts, button-up, and sandals so we couldbe twins. I know that I’ve failed you. Will you ever be able to forgive me?”
“Maybe one day, but right now all I can do is wallow in disappointment.” Nikola stares at me blankly for a moment before both of us laugh. “Shut the fuck up and get in here, Rome. You want a drink?”
“Nah, I’m good,” I reply as I step inside, Nikola’s hand still on my shoulder, sweat and stink be damned.
“No? Okay. Let’s go out back then. Isabella will kill me if I let you stay in here with that stench wafting off you.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Oh, it is. Come on.”
Nikola leads me down an eggshell hallway that eventually curves and goes through his living room. After all his ridicule, I do my best not to touch his lavish off-white couches or even the light-brown tables surrounding them. I turn sideways and slide past the plants that he has watered by his housekeeper every day, and make sure to only look at the tan paintings on the wall. Never touch. Isabella’s rules.
Once we make it outside, Nikola pulls out a white chair for me to sit on before adjusting one for himself, and we both sit at the black table with a massive obsidian umbrella opened above us. A gigantic shadow covers us entirely as we lean back in our seats and smile at each other.
