To me, “out of control” is a lot different than “not in control.”
Out of control feels like a place where no one and no thing has any more or less authority than anything else. Nothing seems to be motivating the action–but the action moves at a blinding pace all the same. It just sort of… happens.
There were (are) times when I top J (literally on top of him) and I’m overcome with the urge to bite, to scratch, to strike. I want to possess him visibly and violently. In those moments, when I’m desperate to mark and hungry to consume, I have to stop and quiet my head because I feel like I’m nearing some sort of edge. It’s not really that I’m in danger of losing control of myself, but nearing that edge, I realize it’s possible. I’m aware that I’m capable of it.
For a long time, that feeling was troubling–I wasn’t sure where it came from, how to negotiate it, or what it meant about the sort of person I am.
But now that I’m more familiar with those feelings, I’ve come to learn that I enjoy them. I enjoy the strange internal struggle that accompanies them. In those moments, I feel damn-near feral–compelled by something that’s closer to hunger and instinct than I’ve ever known before. That hunger makes me feel more like myself, both because I realize there are parts of me I never knew existed and because I’m enacting something I’ve never allowed myself to experience before.
Nearing out of control is a rush, and it’s damned addictive.
(of course, not in control is another thing entirely.)