Touch her and you’re fucking dead. My little is just that. MINE. I don’t share with anyone. Lay a finger on what belongs to me and I’ll tear your fucking heart out.
That’s such a caveman-esque message. It’s so primal. And part of me balks at the very idea. I’m capable of protecting myself. I don’t need you to get violent just because someone touched me. I can kick someone in the balls. I can defend myself. It’s silly of you to think that you need to say and do those kinds of things.
Yet, another part of me yearns for just that. I want to hear someone say that to me. I want to hear someone say that I am his and he won’t tolerate anyone else touching me. I want someone to protect me.
I just want to know that I’m so precious to someone that he is willing to fight to keep me safe.
Is that crazy? Yes. Does my strong-independent-feminist side tell me that I’m being ridiculous? Yes.
Does it stop me from wanting it? Absolutely not.