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Posted by / 22-Oct-2017 03:07

As I was nervously looking out the window and fumbling around with my phone, I made sure to tell Benji that someone knew where I was. He tried to make small talk but I was unable to speak.

So he told me to wait while he disappeared into what I assumed was his bedroom.

I even received a response warning me, telling me that this was a dangerous ad to post, that I should delete it and get counseling.

I had a new god that I was passionate about and it left no room for me to worship at Benji’s dark altar.

I grunted in disapproval but he didn’t spank me again. When he pulled me up again, I had tears in my eyes. I had no experience with tenderness after violence. His show of affection after the spanking led me to a place inside myself where I was free from other people’s opinions, but I was not alone.

It was a refreshing difference from being abandoned afterward, like when my father would leave the room as soon as he was done disciplining me. I lived with my parents at the time, and my house was an oppressive environment. I knew there must be something wrong with me if I willingly submitted, with no safe word, to a man with a closet designated only for canes. ” I still remember the intensity of this scene fondly.

Top it off with the austere religion like Seventh Day Adventism that didn’t allow for dancing and jewelry-wearing and all I wanted to do was get away. I had read literature that described how people felt good, welcomed, and loved at home. When Benji punished me, I knew what it felt like to be forgiven, to be cleansed. Sometimes we had dinner together, and this encouraged my romantic fantasies. * * * ix years after I met Benji, full-blown alcoholism and reckless behavior drove me to therapy, where I began to reexamine my relationship with him. As I developed self-esteem in therapy, I stopped enjoying the ways Benji degraded me.

But mostly I decided that to be loved is to be owned like a pet. I want to be loved like a prized possession, fiercely and delicately, never to be thrown out. I became Afro-feminist because of my admiration of certain women on Twitter. I didn’t even know the term “Afro-feminist” existed until I started to read blogs and tweets. I didn’t like the way he spoke to me, or the way he treated me.

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My father and Benji shared many qualities: higher education, good looks, and a mean temper. My mother constantly commented on my weight and the portion size of my food. I felt like I was all wrong and I needed to be punished. I wanted to belong to him, like a piece of furniture. As a budding potential alcoholic, the idea that I would promise never to drink again was a testament to the amount of power Benji had over me. I didn’t realize how strong a control he had over me until that moment.