Now, at age 59, I can look back with a clarity I simply didn’t have in my earlier life. And with that clarity comes a difficult, but necessary realisation: if I had taken on the role of a Dominant in those times, I would not have been a good one. In real life, I probably would’ve botched it — not from cruelty, but from ignorance, impatience, and a fundamental lack of knowledge of what that job really involves.

In my twenties and thirties, I thought dominance was about control, taking charge and getting my own way. The surface-level allure of power exchange attracted me, and I was drawn to it without once stopping to think why, or whether I had the character to fill that kind of space for someone else. I wasn’t seeking the depths beneath — the responsibility, the trust, the quiet strength it requires. I am so glad that back then I only dabbled with partners as part of bedroom play and did not come out on the scene.

I was impatient then. I was deficient in empathy in the manner in which it is most necessary to possess it in this world: the ability to listen, to hear what is not spoken, to prioritise another’s safety and emotional well-being over my own ego or whim. I confused dominance with authority, when it is really about service. I know that now.

It’s taken decades — mistakes, regrets, lessons learned the hard way — to become the kind of man I would have needed to be, and the one I’ve only recently become. The fact is, I wasn’t ready then. And maybe it’s only with age and hindsight that I can finally admit that to myself.