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I was gone for six months, and I returned in heartbreak. A relationship more important than words can encompass had become -- after years of attempts -- impossible. I think it was obvious. One friend told me vulnerability was all over me; like a scent, I thought, and wondered if Richard could smell it. In worse shape than ever, I saw Richard and laughed with an edge to my voice. I gave him doe-eyed looks, but deflected his interest with doublespeak and icy tones. I wanted him, and I felt the rage returning. I hated and sheltered behind the unclear verbal games we played. Furious and despairing, I refused to chase him, yet I felt him everywhere. North.

I had to do something. My identity had somewhat solidified: I was into BDSM. I believed it, I even accepted it, but I couldn't go on feeling like I did.

In looking around the Internet, I came upon a directory of Kink Aware Professionals, including therapists who provided their names for people who needed to talk about BDSM but feared judgment. I visited two. One listened to me silently, with a vaguely sorrowful expression; he offered no feedback, and left me wondering why he'd listed his name in the directory. He obviously didn't know what to do with me, and I got the uneasy feeling that I worried him. Naturally, that didn't help at all.

Luckily, the other was everything I could have asked for -- open, patient, clearly knowledgeable about BDSM. He looked straight at me and nodded understandingly when I confessed the whole trail of events; he explained how common my experience was; he gave me ideas about where to look for more information, but didn't try to put his own preferences into our talks. "Most people in your situation feel that they've broken a major taboo," he said. "A lot try to get away from BDSM. But I'm not hearing that from you. You want to adjust, not escape." I nodded, and arranged to see him regularly.

Still, I don't think I could have put myself together again without two other things.

My close friend Andrew went after me at a drunken party. Shades of Richard, I might have thought, but I never did. Andrew pinned me to the floor, laughed as I fought back, hurt me, finally kissed me. When I asked in bewilderment what brought this on, he confessed. "When you were gone, I missed you," he whispered, "and I've never missed anyone like that before." He was as afraid of the darkness of BDSM as I had been, yet he'd thought of me and found himself fantasizing. He wanted to try it with me, but first he wanted to be sure that he and I would remain close -- wouldn't lose what we already had.

In everything Andrew told me -- everything we said to each other, laughing, almost in tears, burying each other in embraces, happily drunk and clear-eyed in the morning -- I found the things that were missing with Richard. Uncertain about BDSM, guarding his and my boundaries, Andrew wanted to commit to me and to a devoted monogamous relationship. Part of me counseled caution and withdrawal, but as my therapist laughingly put it, Andrew was as tempting as an ice-cream factory. It was my chance to fall straightforwardly in love.

Soon after that, I had to explain to my parents why I wanted a psychiatrist who was out-of-network for my health insurance. I closed my eyes as my father asked why I needed this specialist, what his focus was. "S&M," I said shortly.

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