[Request]Starting a new program, a new school, isn’t quite like submitting to a new lover for

[Request]

Starting a new program, a new school, isn’t quite like submitting to a new lover for the first time. 

It is, in fact, exactly like submitting to a new lover for the first time.

Think about that heady feeling of excitement right when it begins, that tight knot of nerves and anticipation twisting in your gut as a man with a blank expression (blank only because you haven’t learned to read it yet) says your name, and you either drop to your knees or raise your hand and nod. You resolve right then, as your new master/magister slides his pencil down the roll or his zipper down his fly, that it will be the last time he says your name disinterestedly, the last time he says it without the subtle affection that comes from knowing he’ll be pleased.

You’ve gone through all the motions of the first time: the inevitably slightly awkward getting-to-know-you conversation with the other members of your class in the lounge or with him over dinner; the looking suitably impressed as a lineup of assorted vice chairs and associate program directors tell you how lucky you are to be here or as he finally shows you what you’ve been making it clear you’d be lucky to see. And so at the end of that first session, something thick and massive is pressed into your hand, and you spend hours that night studying it, learning every last stipulation of each rule in the three-ring handbook (you’ve always been so good with rules, and found their solidity reassuring) or every last ridge of each vein on his six-inch shaft (you’ve always been so good with dicks, and found their solidity reassuring). By the beginning of the next day, you’ll have the whole thing memorized.

There are, inevitably, many questions about orientation.

It’s not just a similarity of mechanics, though; all the same feelings are there, or will be eventually. There’s your desire to be patent, to be laid open and bare; there’s the anxious uncertainty of not yet being known for the special things you’ll be known for, whether it’s that you have a far firmer grasp than most of your cohort about the detailed points of Chicago style, or that you have virtually no refractory period when you’re especially turned on and so, when you’re firmly grasped, the line between milking and edging gets blurred as your vision does. There’s your desire – it borders on the masochistic – to be evaluated, to be emotionally ravaged, to be left with your cheeks and your papers red. 

There’s also the competitiveness, this driving force of petty narcissism that makes you want to be better than anyone else he’s worked with, anyone else he’s trained. So you look up – always up – when you notice he’s asked a question in seminar but everyone else is staring pointedly at their laptops, and your eyes meet his, and his are as soft and gentle and encouraging as your tongue is when you take him into your mouth. You raise your hand, and you answer, and he beams happily; you beam even more happily as you realize it was entirely expected that you’d be the one to talk. 

Which all feels, it turns out, in no way different than when you’ve been slavishly worshipping his cock, notice his nuts are drawing up closer to his body than usual, pull back so he can watch himself cum on your tongue like you’ve learned he likes, and then he tousles your hair afterwards.

And the pride you feel at having picked up on all that detail is the same, too. The pride at having learned his special vocabulary, his little lexical preferences, which words it is that he uses, over and over, and which ones he avoids: whether he likes to be called “sir”; the way when, after you’ve been texting with him all night and you’re naked except for your glasses as you fist your dick on your bed and he finally, finally gives you permission to shoot, he writes “come” and not “cum”; the fact that he tends to use “foreground” for “emphasize.” You start to make that language your own, to consciously adopt it, so that you can subtly mirror it, parroting it back to him in your breathless declarations of his superiority and in your twenty to twenty-five page papers. You hope it shows how closely you’re paying attention, how well you fit in, how well you’ve gotten on with the program, since you know that appearing to internalize what you’ve been taught is the best way to really push some buttons.

And just like that you start to get to know him and the program better, until all those little details you’ve collected are all you live and eat and sleep and breathe and jack off to, until in some strange application of Heisenbergian uncertainty you feel yourself attracted to what you’d been trying to take the measure of. A moment will come when you’re having a heated debate – with a cohort member, with the part of yourself that sees that the sheer number of times you think about him during the day (and during the night) is excessive for what was originally going to be an idle fling – and you’ll find the attack strangely personal, and you’ll realize that you’ve drunk the kool aid. You’ll find you’ve suddenly become the sort of person who wears the authorized logo T, screen printed in the official school colors. 

Because when it comes right down to it, it’s not about figuring him out, not really. And it’s not about him figuring out who you are, either. Submission, like all education, is ultimately about figuring out who it is you’ll be.

And admit it: you want to be the type of boy who does well. You don’t want to merely satisfy him, if it’s going to mean you’ve been merely Satisfactory. So even though you’re maybe a little scared – and the first day of something new is always scary – dress up, yeah? Sharpen your pencils, put on your favorite tie in the morning like you’re putting on a collar, and accept the fact that you’re going to be a keener. Lean into it; make sure that no one’s ever attended his office hours or sucked his dick with such breathtaking – you shouldn’t be able to breathe when you dive down to the root and hold him in your throat until he groans and bucks, trying to shove his shaft deeper even though it’s all in just because his lizard brain can’t believe you’ve actually taken him whole – eagerness. Fill the provided bluebook, and keep your blue balls full; go the extra mile, and take the extra inch. You’ll show him you’re not just the type who just Exceeds Expectations; you’ll show him your performance is more than Excellent. 

And when, on your one major evaluation of the term, you’re told that you’ve been Outstanding, you’ll know that he’s only using that language because it’s what’s supplied at the upmost level of the rubric. You’ll know what that “Outstanding” really means, what he’s really telling you – which is that you’ve been good, so good, such a very good boy.