A Slut is Born

Negotiating our first scene, two and a half years ago, I wrote on the list I was making for daddy, under “hard limits”: “no yelling or name-calling (I'm never a bitch, a whore, or a cunt -- or their equivalents in any language).” Were I to think of the word “slut” at that moment, I’m sure I would’ve added it to the list. I hated the idea of being verbally abused or degraded – I still do – and I could think of no other meaning or purpose for the words I listed.

A few months ago, at Fet Fest Con, I picked out a choker for myself – on a narrow strip of black velvet four letters in silver, covered in crystals: S L U T. Beautiful. It’s one of my favorite adornments, a collar of a kind – it stands for “daddy’s little slut,” a term of endearment I came to love. Meanwhile, the words “bitch” and “cunt” still make me cringe – they have that tinge of malice in them, those sexualized terms used to denigrate me for behaviors that may have nothing to do with sex, while “slut” and “whore” reflect my sexual practices and desires without inherent judgment – it’s up to the user to infuse them with disapproval.

I think my change of feelings towards the word “slut” came after reading “The Ethical Slut” during yet another upheaval of slut-shaming in the media. Partially as a tribute to the paradigm-shifting book I was reading (yes, decades after initial publication it can still be a powerful discovery), and partially in an attempt to reclaim another sexual word from being a form of scorn, I publicly (to a group of three classmates who happened to be around during the moment of this decision) declared myself a slut. Little did I know how far this choice would take me….

There are many scenes I’m sure to remember from our week at Hedonism II. The sexual highpoint of the trip, however, at least the way it seems to me right now, came at the end of a really hot threesome my daddy arranged for me, with him and a young, attractive fellow from England. This was the second time the three of us were playing around, but the first that we made it to a bed. I was sucking the young man’s cock, growling with lust, as my daddy pounded me from behind… Or maybe it happened later, after I was double-penetrated (I rode our friend as daddy took me in the ass, something that usually takes time and care, but this time was miraculously smooth and painless, as well as, coincidentally, incredibly hot), and was lying spread whorishly wide on our bed, breathing heavily... No, even later, as, exhausted but still turned on we started going at it again, and this time I was sucking my daddy’s cock, massively in heat and drooling all over it, my pussy pounded by the nameless young man: my daddy grabbed me by the hair, forcefully pulled my face off his cock and, holding it close to his own, told me, sternly, lovingly, tenderly, that I was such a little slut, his favorite little whore… That was the moment I burst, orgasming with my body and soul, from the very depth of my heart, my loins, my mind… I have never been happier; I have never been more loved and accepted for who I was, for my entirety, for my physicality, for my material, non-pretending, non-acting, non-appropriate self that I’ve kept hidden from everyone for the duration of my life. With those few words my daddy released me and allowed me to finally and fully be me.

********************

Recently we began experimenting with hypnosis. I think next time we’re playing around, I want the words “slut” and “whore,” when said by my daddy, to be ingrained as triggers for all my future orgasms. Then again, they may already be…. 

Distance makes the heart grow fonder or...

Dug this up from my archive and can finally share it, distanced as I am now from feeling this way. The sentiment, however, still rings true:

They tell me to give him space. To let him miss me. To focus on myself and to ignore... which will only make him want me more. Because distance makes the heart grow fonder....

Only the thing is, distance actually creates more distance. The more you push someone away, the farther they go. Unfortunately, it doesn't work in reverse -- the more you cling, the less they love you. Some of these tactics might work for attraction, but I'm not entirely sure there's a game plan for love.

Sometimes we just have to accept that love is fleeting. By the luck of fate, it just happens to flee when I am at the height of being in love, when I want the most, when I can finally begin to see a future together.

Karenina's Curse, Part 2.

Day two, and I can’t stop thinking about Anna Karenina, especially the way it juxtaposes Stiva (Oblonsky's) infidelities and Anna's affair. In his explanation to Levin, Stiva compares his affair to going after fresh bread rolls after getting tired of the same stale bread, something that should be understood by society and forgiven by his wife. In fact, the whole affair is portrayed as comical, down to Dolly’s silly face, strewn with tears, when she discovers his letter to the governess and his stereotypical male response - to sneak out of the confrontation before she sees him. Anna' affair on the other hand is scandalous and tragic – in many instances in the film she becomes the involuntary center of attention, partially because she takes it so seriously, but also very much because she is a woman, and thus obligated to forgive and accept, but not challenge the patriarchal status quo. 

It was interesting for me to see the way Anna’s sexuality is portrayed throughout the movie as something demonic and dangerous to the society around her. Before she even engages in her affair with Vronsky, she hurts Kitty, whose dreams of marrying Vronsky are shattered as she watches Anna’s passionate dance. With Vronsky, Anna is shown to lose all self-restraint, and instead of trying to prevent a pregnancy (as women throughout time had means of doing), she welcomes it with joy. On the other hand, if I understood the scene correctly, Karenin practices safe sex with his wife: the two times they are shown in their bedroom, before heading to bed for another night of obligatory marital sex, he takes out a small box containing a pouch from his dresser (an old-fashioned condom?), to which (the second time) Anna responds that she can’t, she’s Vronsky’s wife now – and that she’s pregnant with his child. For Anna, it seems, it’s not the cultural norms, such as a wedding, that make her married, but this unrestrained sexuality and the child it produces. 

This same child becomes "the demon" inside her: in the scene where Vronsky comes to visit her at her house and she is visibly pregnant, she loses her temper, and quickly corrects herself, apologetically saying that it wasn’t her, it was the demon inside her. She is referring to her irritability, of course, but the implications of such statement run deeper – it is her sexuality that is tearing her apart, making her choose between her lover and the passion she feels for him, and her husband and place in society. It is the child, then, the product of this sexuality, who has brought her situation to a climax and is now forcing her to decide – otherwise, one can assume, she could’ve continued to live as she did, having her affair with Vronsky on the side. 

This description of Anna's sexuality as demonic is typical of the way women's sexuality is portrayed in a male-dominated culture. It is dangerous to a society that is based on the male's desire to ensure that his life's accomplishments will get passed on to his children, improving the chances for the survival of his genetic make-up, because it is the most sure way to subvert this certainty. And so, while the demon of sexuality lives within all of us, only in women is it associated with witchcraft and unnatural, dark power. This reminds me of my favorite poem by Anne Sexton, "Her Kind," that begins with:

                                        I have gone out, a possessed witch,

                                        haunting the black air, braver at night;

                                       dreaming evil, I have done my hitch

                                       over the plain houses, light by light:

                                       lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.

                                       A woman like that is not a woman, quite.

                                       I have been her kind.

Here, Sexton suggests that to be a woman is to be a witch, "possessed" by desire and often driven by it to loneliness and insanity -- and, ultimately, death. We are all, she claims, of the same "kind." 

The ending of the film is particularly disturbing to me regarding what it says about a woman's role in society. Little Anya (Karenina' daughter from Vronsky) is running around the field under the watchful eyes of her brother and her "dad" - Karenin, who can now raise her to be a proper society lady in lieu of the other Anna, with whom he has failed to do that. The shot pans out, and we realize  that we are still in the theater, the place of social milieu that ostracized and eventually killed Anna, and the field of greens is spreading from the stage into the audience, implicating all of us, perhaps, in the perpetuation of the patriarchal structure that we just witnessed. 

What I can’t quite figure out is whether this film is making a claim that such structure is natural and good, or merely unavoidable. On the one hand, there is the field that spreads into the theater, quite naturally overgrowing it. As Steve Sailer writes in his review of Karenina, 

Today it’s universally assumed that an unfaithful wife should get custody of the children. Yet Wright and Stoppard don’t seem terribly interested in pointing fingers at 19th-century Russians for their lack of enlightenment about family law.

When Anna laments that she can’t possess both her lover and her son because “The laws are made by husbands and fathers,” it’s hard not to respond, “As well they should be.” ((Steve Sailer's review)

At the end of the film, we are left just with that – between self-destructive Anna, who has turned bitter and hysterical and killed herself, and the calm and infinitely forgiving Karenin, whom would we choose to raise the next generation, to mold the future of our society? And yet….

In her final conversation with Anna, when asked if she judges her, Dolly responds by telling her, not at all. She too may have wanted to do what Anna did, but no one had asked her.  And we can tell through the hint of regret in her otherwise smiling, innocent eyes that she is only half joking. The other women in the film don’t fare any better – Kitty only marries after she has given up on love (as she says bitterly, she’s through with the entire thing) and chooses to become a “sister of mercy” to her husband’s estranged and sick brother – in other words, strips herself of her sexuality.  Vronsky’s mother, whom we first meet wistfully reminiscing about her scandalous youth, is also left with only her memories, as she urges her son to stay within the confines of social acceptability, have his affairs, but not take them too seriously. Dolly, poor Dolly, is left with a serially unfaithful husband, whom she still loves, but who will never stop lusting for other women and hurting her with his affairs.  In other words, we are shown that women cannot be happy and have a place in this male-dominated society, unless they forget their desires, restrain their sexuality, and go to work actively perpetuating the social norms that restrict them. I don’t understand how any woman watching the film can leave the theater agreeing that’s how ‘it should be.”

Karenina's Curse

Finally saw the new Anna Karenina with Keira Knightley. Been waiting to see it since I first saw the trailers half a year ago -- it's Keira Knightley! And the script is by Tom Stoppard, my favorite living playwright... And it was coming out for my birthday! Too many reasons to love it, though I have hated Tolstoy and this novel with a passion, ever since I've realized how much they have fucked me over, as a child, indoctrinating me into the world where love always leads to pain and loss, while a happy marriage -- the only means to a happy life -- can only be the product of a god-blessed, desexualized friendship.

I'm still not sure how I feel about the film. It was beautiful. It was witty (thank you, Stoppard!), compassionate (thanks again!), and very stylish. It stayed true to its own rules the entire time. But this same beautiful and highly-stylized picture often kept me from feeling anything for the characters, because, for one, I didn't quite believe they were feeling anything themselves. They were characters in their own play, and the theatrical setting of the film lent itself to this distancing -- which I didn't necessarily enjoy. The whole film, I kept vacillating between being fascinated by the style and repelled by it, especially when it felt like a caricature of Russian culture....

But what did it have to do with love, sex, and BDSM? Everything... This is what happens when no one is in control -- Anna loses herself when she falls in love, breaking the rules of society (which, according to Kitty, is even more unforgivable than breaking the law) and once Karenin gives up his control over her, there is no one left in charge. Vronsky is too young, too inexperienced to know how to handle Anna -- he can't even handle his horse, which leads to his accident at the races earlier in the film. And Anna, unfortunately, suffers from the curse of the 19th century aristocratic woman -- she has nothing to call her own, no route to actualize herself, no other interest but love to keep her going. Once she leaves Karenin and loses her son, she is left completely dependent on the affection of her lover, and when she feels it slip, all her stability, all her sense of self goes with it. She needs constant reassurance, becomes needy, addicted to morphine, insane.... she starts hating herself and her own weakness, but doesn't have the strength to control it. Even her suicide (both in the novel and the film) is shown to be not a result of conscious decision-making, but an impulse, a sudden step into the abyss.

Needless to say, the movie struck a chord. Watching Anna Karenina after the week I had made me see more clearly than ever that her curse didn't stay in the 19th century, but followed us on. Without something to drive a woman forward, an interest in life that is not connected to the unsteady emotions of another person, we cannot have control, even over our own lives. And without that sense of security -- not the material kind, but the self-reliance that comes from belief in oneself, one's ability to survive and pursue happiness no matter what -- we cannot truly be dommes, subs, or even babygirls. Because how can we engage in power dynamics if we don't really have any power? How can we give up control, if we never truly posses it? And on the contrary, once we do have it, we keep it for life, no matter how often we give it up or try to throw it away.....

Cause you can never lose a thing if it belongs to you.....

Bang

I have a new fantasy. Next time, when you're fucking me into the mattress, my body pinned down by the weight of your body and your hands on my throat -- do me a favor, wrap those long fingers of yours around my neck and squeeze, hard, with all your strength. And then, keep pounding me harder and deeper as I gasp and struggle, as I fight against you. Don't let go til I pass out, and even then, keep squeezing til you cum inside my dead body.

I want to leave this life, which I have lived too quietly, not with a whimper, but with a bang.

Pain

I once had a toothache so bad, I ended up at the ER. I remember that when the doctor finally came to see me, I was writhing on the floor, howling, and hitting my head on every hard surface I could find. It felt like hours after I was put on the morphine drip that the pain finally started to dissipate, and hours more until it was gone. Most likely these hours lasted only a few moments of "real" time, but for me, that's how I'll always remember them. I understand now how people become addicted to painkillers -- once the blinding pain finally passed, I was willing to do anything to ensure I never felt it again.

In my sex life, I play with pain because it excites me. Those temporary and completely controlled moments of pain that I subject myself to -- always ready and always with someone I trust -- give me the illusion that I can deal with the greater, chaotic pain of everyday life. After all, if I learn to control my reaction to the pain of a whipping, if I learn to submit to it, let go, and just ride it out, I can use this same set of skills to deal with any other pain I encounter -- physical or emotional. Right?

I've been staring at the same spot in the corner of my bedroom for hours. There, on my eye-level, the paint, light blue with white sponged-on patterns is beginning to chip. The crack of two parallel lines runs floor to ceiling, barely visible in some places -- darker and more pronounced in others. I can describe that crack in minute details. I can explain how it got there, and why it's the only corner where the paint is slowly coming off. I can do that, endlessly, finding a myriad of words in my vocabulary, but I can't deal with the pain that is, very physically, bursting out of my heart. The pain I can't go to the ER with, that I can't use morphine to alleviate. I have used all my BDSM experience, all the skills I have learned along the way -- I have altered my breathing rate, I have assumed more comfortable positions, I have tried to clear my mind with meditation, and nothing seems to help. I have taken pills, lots of them -- just enough to dull the senses, to knock me out for brief moments of rest -- but not enough, not enough to get rid of this terrible, unending pain.....

I can locate it -- ironically, it's in my chest, exactly where I imagine my heart to be. It's extremely physical, piercing, throbbing, spreading to my lungs, making it impossible to breathe, and then, what's even worse, collecting itself in a pinpoint, sharp, cruel, torturous, tearing into my flesh, past the rib cage, right into that muscle that won't stop beating no matter how much I'm trying to will it. And I don't know what to do with it. And I don't know how to stop it. And I don't know how to ride it out.

You call me a masochist for letting this pain overwhelm me. You tell me to go read a book. Distract myself and move on. But don't you see? I have learned to deal with pain by submitting to it, and when I submit to this one, it fills me up and takes over, until there is no me left. And this time, there's no one controlling it -- not you, whom I trust implicitly and completely, not me, who usually has so much trouble giving up control. And so, it just runs through me, so great and strong, so mind-numbingly simple, submerging me with each new wave, without time to process or adjust.

I told you I feel broken, but that's not true. I feel drowned, no, drowning, drowning, gasping for air and getting lungs full of water instead. I don't have the strength to swim back to the surface. And you made me promise not to sink to the ocean floor.

Never the Face

In the time when everyone seems to be reading – or talking about -- 50 Shades of Grey, I wonder, instead, about the reason why BDSM is suddenly and so surely infiltrating the mainstream.  Is it the anti-feminist backlash, rebelling against the notion that a self-respecting woman shouldn’t desire to be dominated by a man? Or is it that finally this light erotica is answering the long-repressed need of so many women to speak about their sexuality and its many different facets, especially those aspects that they grew up most ashamed of? One of the driving forces behind fetish communities, I think, is that desire to feel that you’re not alone, not utterly different from everyone else in the world – that your perversions don’t make you a monster, and that in the realm of “safe, sane, and consensual” they are perfectly acceptable.

Of course I find this phenomenon wonderful. I too grew up ashamed of myself, refusing to accept, even inside my personal closet, the validity of my desires. The fear, however, is that by being introduced as such a surface topic by poorly-written and not very thought-provoking works, BDSM runs the risk of being further relegated to “that kinky element of sex” – accepted, but unexplored. Meanwhile, I believe that both the intimacy and the explicit power dynamics of BDSM make it both more satisfactory and dangerous to those willing but ignorant explorers.

And so, I am happy to come across a book like Never the Face – an intelligent and sexy read that I have already (topically) reviewed elsewhere. I reread it again, just to see if I’d find it as powerful the second time around, and was glad to notice more details that make it so mesmerizing – and relatable – of a story. At the same time, I won’t lie – I found it very disturbing, precisely because the author describes so well some of my own desires, experiences and apprehensions.

For example, here’s her description of subspace: “I’m not sure how long he beat me that night. Time became suspended. The world shrank to two people inside a shack: nothing else existed” (18). When you meet that person who can take you to subspace and then take care of you while you’re in it, it is an intimacy so deep, so powerful, no wonder the narrator becomes addicted to it – and falls in love!

She writes about the sex that follows this beating – and this intimacy: “I thought about the countless times I’d had sex before. They had as much resemblance to what I’d just experienced as a stuffed toy has to a tiger. A small voice pointed out that tigers are dangerous, but I ignored it” (24). Though she is scared of the danger that inevitably comes with such an intense connection (BDSM or not), she also realizes that it’s incomparable to anything she had experienced before. While pain, and the risk of becoming this deeply involved, are the undeniable drawbacks of this relationship, the rewards – oh the rewards! – make us fall harder every time….

I love the internal dialogue she constantly has with herself that shows us her utter confusion at this new and different relationship. Society tells her (and all of us) not just how we’re supposed to act, but also what we are supposed to want and how we’re supposed to feel. When we find ourselves suddenly at odds with these directives, the confusion can be paralyzing (and probably scares many more women than will admit to it from pursuing their desires). She writes about her experience at a restaurant with David, after their D/s affair has begun to pick up speed: “This time, I hadn’t been allowed even to look at the menu: he handed my copy straight back to the waiter. I flushed. Yet, while one part of me raged, another felt coddled and cared for. Which brought a pulse of guilt. You’re not a child. You’re not supposed to like this” (26).

And no matter what I think of David (I would like to believe I pick up on his flaws before the narrator, less experienced in this lifestyle, does), his explanation of the desires that draw us to BDSM is excellent:

“It’s an intimate thing to beat someone. Way more intimate than fucking,” he said.

“Why?” I said, looking up.

“Because it strips away pretense and self-consciousness, it reduces you to your essence.” I shifted under his gaze. “When you fuck someone, your mind can be somewhere else,” he said. “You don’t have to show anything of yourself. But when you beat someone, or when you are being beaten – you can’t help it, you reveal who you are.” (28)

And here is the narrator’s even more astute description of the self-awareness that comes after an intense and emotionally satisfying session:

My mind was still. Empty. Again, I had the sensation that my body was floating.

I curled against him, aware of the warmth of his chest, the heaviness of his arms, the scratchy stubble on his chin.

Aware of the sheets, and the twilight.

Just aware. (39)

This awareness, this feeling of calm is almost like the peak of meditation, as near as one can get to the out-of-body experience. And it stays with you, after the fact: this realization and deep understanding of everything you found out about yourself in the moments of pain and suffering, but could not process till now. By going through pain, through “total sex” as the narrator describes it later in the novel, and surviving it, you become suddenly aware of your physical presence, and the materiality of the world around you, and then every sensation feels like a discovery – because you are truly feeling it, like this, for the first time.

We are first given a glimpse  into what’s going to go wrong between the narrator and David, when the narrator thinks: "Brutality without tenderness" (26). She doesn’t expand on it, or address it at this point, but we see it’s her greatest fear – and a premonition of how the affair is going to end. This is done with such subtlety, you get a feeling that you’re sneaking a peek at something no one else can yet see. And then again, 20 pages later: “He pulled out. I collapsed, sprawling and devastated, on the bed. Cuddle me. Please cuddle me“ (47). Despite her pleading for aftercare, David tells her to get dressed and takes her out.  I felt hurt reading this – imagining how uncared for I would feel if I didn’t get held and cuddled after a severe beating or a rough fuck. Gradually, we are beginning to see David for what he is – his selfishness, his lack of insight into her needs – in spite of what he thinks, his carelessness with her emotions. He only notices that something is wrong when she almost faints at the restaurant – and that is definitely not the attention that a good Dom pays his sub.

Another few pages later, the alarm went off in my head. I wanted to scream to the narrator: he’s bad news! Run now while you still can! This is what David says about safe words and people who use them:

His voice became scoffing. “They’re the pussies who use safe words when they  ‘play.’”

“What’s a safe word?” I said.

“It’s a way to say” – he put on a whine – “Oh! Stop what you’re doing. I can’t take it.’” He paused. “Safe words – it’s like someone telling you to wear a seat belt and a crash helmet during sex. Kinda takes the edge off.” He changed gear and passed the car ahead of us. “A good top – he knows where his bitch is. He knows what she can take and what she can’t. Better than she does herself.” (50)

It’s this kind of arrogance that gets to me – while a good Dom, playing with an experienced sub whom he knows well, can usually tell exactly where she’s at, you can’t count on it – and especially if you’re playing with someone this self-centered and proud. A guy like that won’t admit defeat even when he sees the signs! I know there are people who don’t use safe words –and I don’t think I’ve ever actually had to use one myself – but if that’s the choice they make, it should be the sub’s choice, her willing consent to fully entrust herself to her Dom, not the Dom’s choice to just take that power from her. It’s the issue of control, but that control can’t be taken – it has to be given freely, otherwise I believe it IS abuse. And this foreshadows everything that’s going to go wrong with the relationship – the way that David ends up taking full control while the narrator abdicates it completely, and when he starts losing it himself there is no one to take over, to keep it together. She – an independent, strong woman – doesn’t even know she has that choice when she is with him. And when EVERYONE loses control, things fall apart – and people get hurt.

As the novel continues, and the affair grows hotter, we see more and more of these danger signs. And the narrator can’t keep ignoring them either:

“Sometimes you have to be cruel to be sexy,” he said.

Sometimes – what?

I shivered. Somewhere, in a distant corner of my brain, an alarm bell started clanging. But I muffled the clapper in cotton wool, and ignored it.” (66)

For the first time, she briefly sees him for who he is – that he cares more about passion itself, than about her. It’s not her needs he’s responding to when he beats her, but he’s doing it for the sake of sex, of excitement, while she is doing it for the intimacy – something that cruelty can forever destroy.  She hates pain, so she needs the care and tenderness that come after, while he only gives those because and when he feels like it, not to fulfill her need (and as the story develops, he gives less and less).

I love that throughout the novel we are shown the narrator’s hyperawareness of what’s going on, not just what she’s experiencing, but what her Dom must be feeling as well. She really tries to understand and see the responsibility on both sides of the equation. At some point, explaining it to her girlfriend, she says: ”I think it must be difficult to know how hard to hit, to know how to read the other person’s responses. To generate a feeling of safe danger.” (61)  At another point, she questions: “Who is really serving whom? I began to see glimmers of a paradox.” (54) When it’s working properly, a D/s relationship is a delicately balanced dance (no, I didn’t come up with that J  ), with both partners superbly conscious of each other and the fluctuating dynamic between them.

For me, this novel raised very important issues of consent, especially implied (rather than openly stated and negotiated) consent, that I still can’t entirely resolve. There are elements of the relationship that make me think David is abusing the narrator (even before he actually – and openly -- does), but on the other hand, she yearns for that complete authority, she wants to be taken against her will. In a way, she’s giving him consent by staying with him – but when does that become simply a battered woman’s consent? Here are a few examples that (if this relationship were real and not a wonderfully written work of fiction) would make me most concerned:

When David points out that the narrator didn’t even defend herself, she responds (in thought):

“I was startled to realize that it hadn’t even occurred to me to try.” (26)

And then, when she is telling her secret to a friend who asks why she’d let David beat her, she thinks to herself: “Let him? I didn’t let him. He just did it. Don’t say that. She’ll freak.” (61)

Although I perfectly understand how someone taking control like that can be a major turn on, I am deeply disturbed by the fact that she doesn’t think she could stop him even if she tried; that it has nothing to do with her wishes or her consent, but everything with what he chooses to do -- or not to do.

And so, I am not at all surprised that when David loses control of the situation himself – his marriage falls apart, his sex kitten (the narrator) won’t blindly obey him – the affair finally explodes. He tells her the most unforgivable words of them all: “If you won’t give it to me, I’ll take it by force” (211), and then he carries out his threat – till she actually passes out on him. His actions at this point have nothing to do with her, and not even a pretense of love for her shines through his words. He has lost control as a Dom the moment he feels he has to take her through sheer, brutal force, and he shows how little he has thought of her all along. This complete lack of consideration finally exposes him as a fraud – an amateur in domming, a lover who’s not really in love with anyone but himself. Instead of a careful balance of needs and desires, there’s only him – and that’s the end of any relationship.

This is the end of the story and their affair: David leaves the narrator and goes back to his wife, but although she is the one left howling on the floor, I get a feeling (or maybe it’s just a hope) that she is the one who can no longer believe in his power, see him as her Dom, or even as her lover. Because the book begins awhile later, and is told through flashbacks, we know that the narrator survives this ordeal and finds a way to grow into her new understanding of herself and her desires. She can look back at it now as the moment she became “awake,” and in that word we see that there is more than just pain that she took away from this affair. 

Jealousy

It’s the basis for many love songs and poems, the driving force in plenty of books, and a motive behind many a murder.  It is something most of us experience, none of us enjoy, and it is so often a road block of relationships, especially ones with more than two partners. I wonder, however, how inevitable is it?

All the books on open relationships tell us that jealousy is a social construct: since monogamy itself is a social construct, and once upon a time we all lived in polyamory, one has to assume jealousy wasn’t as widespread and socially accepted, or at least not as powerful and detrimental of a feeling. The causes of jealousy are easy to find – the biggest one being probably our fear of loss. We are scared of losing our loved ones to others, whom they will love more. In a material world, we are probably also afraid to lose our share of the resources, that in monogamy only we get to have: their affection, their time, their energy, their desire toward us that is now being satisfied by someone else. There is also that voice of insecurity that whispers in our ear – if our partner wants to be with someone else, what am I lacking? Why am I not enough? Am I not good enough of a lover? Am I replaceable? If he can touch another like he touches me, how am I special to him? How am I unique? But that fear of being one of many seems also tied to the fear of loss – if I can be replaced once I stop being a novelty, what will keep him from staying with me? But that’s the thing, isn’t it – why would I want him to stay with me, if he no longer wants to? Why would I want the affection that’s insincere?

One way out, I suppose, is to be arrogant: after all, we’re never jealous of those we don’t want. If a lover you don’t value finds another, you’ll still feel a loss, but it won’t be that great. So, perhaps, if we stop feeling insecure, we will stop feeling jealous. If you know that no one else will match up to you, and all your lover’s lovers will only remind him of how special you are, or, if you know that you can easily find another lover just as good – then loss is not something you will fear. But there is something fake in that approach. Something that objectifies others and forces one to constantly compare. And how many of us can truly feel so secure without being full of ourselves – and fooling ourselves?

Another route, I suppose, is trust – feeling sure that the person we love will love us back no matter what, that other lovers – and sex in general – does not affect one’s feelings and that love – or whatever keeps your relationship together – is bigger and more important than constant novelty, that it will remain worth coming back to. But trust is a whimsical thing to grow: too hard to keep, to easy to lose. And often enough, it will be betrayed. The Ethical Slut tells us that this is the risk we run, opening ourselves up, but more often than not, the love we give will come back to us, one way or another. But even they warn – you can’t be afraid of being alone. Well, what if I am?

The only reasoning that keeps me sane, that actually works for me (every once in a while) is the hope that if we don’t restrict each other, our partners won’t want to leave. I mean, don’t we rather add friends as we grow older, than lose them? And I know that we only have 24 hours in a day, and a limited amount of energy. I also know that selfish animals that we are, we’d rather spend our time having fun than helping those in need. So how can I trust, having let my partner go and see others, that when I need him, he will be back, and waste his time and energy helping me? I can’t. But the thing is, why would I want a person by my side who wouldn’t do that anyway? Who wouldn’t love me  -- and care about me -- enough in the first place? 

Tamed

I have given The Little Prince to every significant lover I’ve had. I consider this book essential for reaching one’s emotional maturity. It is not a book for children, as many mistakenly believe – though I am sure that many kids will appreciate its light humor and its condescension toward adults. But really, it’s a book for grown-ups – those who risk forgetting the child inside them, the always curious, never letting go of a question, never taking anything lightly. It is a book for those who grew up and never quite learned responsibility that comes not from duty and obligation, but from one’s heart, from genuine care for those we have “tamed” – and those who tamed us. 

                                          

“What does tamed mean?”

“It’s something that’s been too often neglected. It means ‘to create ties’…”

…”I’m beginning to understand,” the little prince said. “There’s a flower… I think she’s tamed me…”

It seems to me that this responsibility is inherent in any working D/s relationship, and the entire book can actually be a good lesson for those of us pursuing this lifestyle. Without this genuine sense of care one would be living either in a highly-explosive and emotionally harmful relationship, or skin-deep, not going further than technically-kinky sexploration. And the first thing that needs to be acknowledged is that this responsibility goes both ways – just like a Dominant tames his submissive, a submissive tames her Dominant. This act of creating ties, of making someone special to you, whether through taking care of them or accepting that care, is irreversible, and just like the little prince will always be remembered by the fox for his hair, the color of wheat, or by the narrator, whenever he looks at the stars, one will remember a lover one truly cared about, no matter if or why the relationship had to end. 

                                        

The little prince went to look at the roses again.

“You’re not at all like my rose. You’re nothing at all yet,” he told them. “No one has tamed you and you haven’t tamed anyone.”…

Many spectators mistake D/s relationships for ones where the submissive gives up control and allows things to be done to them, and where the Dominant is in charge, doing those things, and thus shouldering all the responsibility. There is nothing further from truth in this misapprehension, and if one enters an arrangement believing this, one is likely to get nothing out of it – and hurt the others involved. If anything, a D/s relationship assigns ways of caring, tasks if you will, that work for each partner, while at the same time exposing the extremely delicate balance of power that has to constantly be maintained and nurtured, one that has to come out of sincere care for each other, genuine appreciation and interest – not because of accepted morality or what society deems appropriate. That is the “taming” described in the book, and it has nothing and everything to do with control: it is not exercised, but comes naturally, as in a bond that holds and thus restrains each participant’s movements through their willing submission, their desire to be tamed. And while the cost of it may be tears (and always is), the benefit stays with you forever: out of 7 billion people on earth, you’ll have a few who will always be, irrevocably, yours.   

                                            

“It’s the time you spent on your rose that makes your rose so important.”

“It’s the time I spent on my rose…,” the little prince repeated, in order to remember.

“People have forgotten this truth,” the fox said. “But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose…”

The Double Triple Life

I’ve been wondering what kind of person it takes to lead a truly polyamorous lifestyle. And by that I don’t mean a mostly heteronormative couple that every once in a while accepts a third partner – or another couple – into their bed. I am talking instead about having lovers – multiple lovers, who themselves have multiple lovers – or living in a communal arrangement, even as small as a threesome. On one hand, it seems like most people’s ultimate fantasy – in the time when fear of commitment has become the norm, and most of us don’t want to close ourselves to the numerous choices and options that may become available in the future, this is a way to ensure that we never get bored, never have to settle down. On the other hand, though, there is the reality of such an arrangement and all the emotional responsibility that it carries.

I suppose there are those who manage to get away with staying fuck-buddies with their multiple partners and not really feeling jealousy towards their other arrangements, as well as having the confidence to believe that those buddies will always be there when they are needed, without much upkeep or maintenance of those relationships. There are people who feel this way about friendships, and so, I suppose, in sex they act the same. But what if one is looking for a deeper, more permanent connection than that, a chance to really get to know the people that they sleep with, to form a bond that would be more than an every-once-in-a-while escape from the monotony of life? What if one wants to have someone they could count on when they are in a pickle, and also, perhaps, share some of those tasks of life that require a longer commitment – like living together, or raising kids, or taking care of each other’s pets? Is that still possible in a non-monogamous relationship? And if it is, what is the price? This kind of arrangement can’t be careless, “let’s see how it goes and split when it doesn’t” one – there are legal issues involved, and more importantly, other people who didn’t get to choose this lifestyle (like the children who are born into it). So that means commitment, a very serious one, to stick together through thick and thin for a lengthy period of time – even if not living together, then at least working with each other in a peaceful and reliable manner. But then, in a polyamorous relationship, how many people can one possibly make this commitment to? Without even taking it that far, how many people can we be accountable to, even for minor things, emotionally responsive and decent to? In an economy of a human life, that cannot exceed 24 hour days and a certain limit of energy, how much can we actually give? 

There is time that you have to spend together – or at least communicating with each other – for any relationship to continue without the partners losing touch with each other’s real selves (as opposed to the illusions we have of each other when we are not together, ones that may eventually have no basis in reality and lead to us questioning in dismay: who are you?). Then there is occasional help and care that you have to provide if you ever expect to be cared for and helped when you are in need. There are reassurances that we all need sometimes. There are nights when we don’t want to be alone. There are events which are more fun when attended together (kink parties, movie viewings, museum trips) – or at least more bearable with a partner (weddings, office parties, funerals). And then there is down time, time we need for ourselves, to do our work, to reflect, to think – or just empty our minds and take a break from constantly thinking about everyone else. All of this is hard to fit into a day even if you have just one other person to keep in mind – in addition to the rest of life, of course: work, chores, children, friends. Can it all really be done with multiple partners? And if so, what a carefully arranged and balanced hierarchy it needs to be….. 

I was thinking, too, how easily an arrangement like this can lead to schizophrenia or split-personality disorders. If every person you are with brings out a different side of you, an intimate relationship will do so to an even higher degree. The power dynamics will be different. The things you do (or want to do) with every partner will be different. In kinky relationships, I imagine it would be even more pronounced – as your lovers will have different kinks (or at least, prioritize them differently), the fantasies that you act out will put you in completely different roles. And those roles, in turn, will influence your identity – what you perceive yourself to be. While I am all for dropping the rigidity with which we define our identity, how fluid can it really be before we lose ourselves completely?

Nine ½ Weeks: The Issue of Consent

I know it’s an old film, but it has been on my mind a lot recently, for one reason in particular. Reading some of the critics’ reviews of the movie, I was surprised at how well some of them actually understood the dynamic between the characters: Elizabeth and John. But even Roger Ebert, whose review I generally agreed with, saw the ending of the film as a victory of personality over purely sexual desire: while kinky sex is all well and good, in the end without a deeper connection and knowledge of each other, Elizabeth walks away from John, thinking that she just spent nine and a half weeks having an erotic affair with a perfect stranger.

But somehow, watching the film after I already began my journey into BDSM, I didn’t see that lack of a more personal connection as the reason why the two characters split up. Kinky sex, or any sexual experimentation outside of the traditional heteronormative relationship, I believe, necessitates a deeper intimacy, as the participants are thrown off balance, taken outside their comfort zones, away from the prescribed reactions and responses: this is how you’re supposed to feel when he does this, and these are the sounds you make when you are feeling pleasure, etc. When you’re experiementing, you give up the advance knowledge of your body’s responses. All of a sudden, you may find yourself moaning in pleasure as you’re being hurt, or screaming in pain as you orgasm. You may find that you are not experiencing pangs of jealousy as your partner fucks another, or, you may realize you like to do things that for the outside vanilla world sound disgusting or even debasing. There is a kind of honesty inherent in such new experiences, that comes from simply not having had the time to fake a reaction, or from not having a prescribed path to follow. And from that honesty, in my experience, comes a deeper personal connection – not necessarily love or even a long-term partnership, but a deeper knowledge of one another in each other’s vulnerable and unscripted states.

So why is it that Elizabeth is so freaked out by the end of the film that she has to leave, while she’s still, obviously, longing for John? I think it is the issue of consent and communication. While we can tell that John is more experienced in this kinky lifestyle than Elizabeth, and that he is naturally dominant (which makes him responsible for her), he still makes the mistake of assuming that Elizabeth is self-aware and strong enough to follow him into his kink without getting hurt: that she knows her desires and her limits, and can stop him without breaking what they have. But Elizabeth has no idea what she is getting into! And having had no experience stepping outside her comfort zone, as well as being in a vulnerable place to begin with -- she is recently divorced, she does not have the sense of self, or the strength, to control her situation. And this is what most of the critics reviewing this film (and probably most its viewers) didn’t understand: in a D/s relationship, while one of the partners does submit to the other, they both shoulder the responsibility for the relationship, for setting and abiding by each other’s limits, for being able to safeword out of a scene that isn’t theirs. Though they are in a power dynamic where one dominates the other, they are still equals in the amount of power each of them has to stay in or end the scene, and to ensure that balance they have to communicate their desires, state their hard limits, and discuss the scenes either before or after (or both) to see what worked and what didn’t. Without that openness, they don’t leave each other room for mistakes, and every error or misunderstanding might break their relationship. This communication, in turn, involves consent on both sides, and even though it may look like the submissive has no control, she has to consent to giving it up – and even then, she has the power to get out of the scene she is not ok with through safewording. Anything other than that I see as a dangerous abuse of power that is fraught with danger of physical and psychological harm, or at least, misunderstandings fatal to any relationship.

Elizabeth doesn’t have the power of consent, because John doesn’t give her that option. We see throughout the film that she doesn’t know how to end a scene except by leaving after the harm has already been done: as we see when John puts her in a room with a prostitute. Because she never knows what’s coming next, Elizabeth can’t prevent things from happening, and so it really puts John in complete control over her (granted, he takes that control and doesn’t leave her with much of a choice). Yes, that makes for a better film that’s much more enjoyable to watch and shows the life of kink as much more dangerous and erotic than if we got to see the behind the scenes negotiations and the gradual growth of the characters that would prepare them properly for each scene – let’s face it, successful lovey-dovey relationships that don’t hit any major roadblocks don’t exactly make for great stories. But I think that’s exactly what goes wrong between John and Elizabeth in the end – they get into a scene that doesn’t work for her, one that pushes her limits too far, and she runs away. Their last meeting shows us exactly how much John cares for her – he is not the selfish careless bastard who just wanted her for the fulfillment of his sexual fantasies. I believe he really wanted to explore Elizabeth’s kinky side, to push her to open up to the desires hidden inside her, but because he didn’t do it gently enough or carefully enough, giving her the choice to either consent or break the scene without leaving him or getting hurt, she doesn’t see his love, and so he loses her. Without clear and open communication between them, he forces her to reveal aspects of herself without revealing much of himself, and that swings the balance of power unequivocally to his side, creating an unhealthy relationship. And while Elizabeth is strong enough to walk out when she is pushed beyond her limits, she is not self-aware or knowledgeable enough (neither about him, nor about her own choices in their relationship) to stay and fix what they have, to negotiate and make it work for the two of them. But she doesn’t leave a bad affair, one that only hurt and didn’t benefit her; on the contrary, she leaves with a lot of regret for what it could’ve developed into, but didn’t have a chance to become.

Three Thoughts on Threesomes

Experience: bringing two of my lovers together, one -- a lover of sometime, whose body I knew, whose emotional buttons I knew how to push, but we have begun to fall into a routine and drift apart, to different desires and separate futures. The other lover was new: in fact we had never actually made love before. We spent a night together, caressing and kissing, and then falling sweetly asleep in each other’s arms. I think I may have been her first girl. 

The threesome wasn’t my idea, but my lover’s long time fantasy, and I went along, begrudging the intimacy I’d have to give up, the private, one-on-one explorations of each of their bodies and souls. The intimacy that can only grow, I think, when you’re alone with someone, for a long time, talking, kissing, touching, opening up your hearts. I was afraid that when two of the people I was in love with – or was falling in love with – would connect, my deep connection with each of them personally would somehow be trivialized. I wasn’t jealous, not at that point – I knew that both of them were more attracted to me than to each other – but I was worried about a loss, of some kind, an emotional dulling. 

It started innocently enough, though slightly unnaturally. In my mind, I had a picture of my female lover and me meeting first, and starting to make love to each other as my other lover walked in and joined us. Perhaps, since we haven’t had sex yet, I wanted to have that moment – our first – to myself, not having to share it. But instead we talked, fully dressed, not very comfortable with each other, apprehensive, not sure how to start or what to do first. The rest of the night went accordingly. When we finally ended up in bed, all three of us, and started exploring each other’s bodies, it felt too manual, too trial-and-error, and not erotic or passionate enough. I still feel that in the privacy between two people this initial exploration can be very exciting, because no one will see the mistakes you make, you’re following your gut, not performing for the audience, worrying about making it look good. I also felt like a mediator between the two of them – constantly making sure no limits were pushed, nothing was done to spoil or end the scene. I felt more like a guardian than a participant, though during moments when we fell in sync, even I managed to relax and enjoy. I loved the feeling of their hands all over me, not knowing which touch was whose; I felt overwhelmed to the point of orgasm by the constant caresses that flowed into one another, the two bodies moving with mine, the heat that was building up between us. I peaked in the selfish moment when I forgot my role and let my body be pleasured. 

So where was the pain in all of this, the punishment I need in order to cum? I suppose I should’ve mentioned that it all started with a playful spanking, the two of them taking turns at spanking and whipping me with their hands at first and then different implements. While being dominated and hurt by two people I love is one of my hottest fantasies, this too felt a little too staged, too manual, my experienced lover teaching the other how to wield a belt – a lesson with my body as the training textbook: “ouch, too hard! Hmm… not hard enough… right there, like that! Again!” That is not a punishment I can believe (or fully enjoy). And most of all, just as I suspected, I was too dedicated to making this threesome work for everyone else – I was constantly performing, trying to make it look better than it was. 

The hardest part, in retrospect, was watching my two lovers make love to each other. While they still managed to involve me – I was right there, by their side, caressed and kissed all through their act – I felt I couldn’t watch, like, if I opened my eyes, I’d see a scene I would never be able to erase from my mind, their faces actually showing how much they were enjoying one another. Though not jealous at the time, I was afraid of future jealousy it would cause, because at every future moment I would be making love to them, I would know that another body, another person has caused that same expression of bliss, that same physical pleasure. It would simply be…. less personal… next time. That was the loss I was so afraid of! 

And so, this experience behind me, I am still not sure how I feel about threesomes. I am still not completely certain I have been in one. And having spoken to the other participants, I see that none of us truly enjoyed it. I wonder – what went wrong? What could or should have been done differently? I am curious to try this again, perhaps with people who are more experienced, but I am also still reticent…. Why bother with a group? Why not keep the sex one-on-one, and share my lovers by speaking about the experiences with one another (because that excites all of us, sharing intimate stories, imagining each other making love to someone else). Or does that just work for me? 

Ironically, the three of us have grown a little further apart since. Perhaps that is temporary, and we’ll find the way back to each other. We did have a good time just hanging out together, before and especially after. It still felt a bit awkward (for me), but being out and about, socializing, enjoying ourselves together but not in any intimate ways, helped relieve some of the tension and pressure that our somewhat failed menage-a-trois didn’t release. I guess time will show…. Meanwhile, how do I get myself out of this down, this ridiculous and really unfounded fear that I am a little less loved, a little less special to my lovers? 

So my three thoughts on threesomes (a note to my future self): 

1. Do not bring your lovers together. As the old wisdom says (though for different reasons), you're bound to lose them both.And being a constant mediator is no fun.
2. Make sure the attraction between all three members of the group is somewhat equal and balanced. That way, there are less chances of any one feeling left out. Perhaps, spend more time together. Grow to like one another. Get more comfortable.
3. If you begin with an apprehension, your fears will most likely come true. Perhaps it's like a wish-fulfillment -- you get exactly what you expect, and if you're afraid of something, it will happen, because it's already happened -- or has been prearranged -- in your mind. 

I have more thoughts than this, but I am afraid to sum up too neatly an experience that hasn't yet resolved itself in my mind and heart. I don't know where it's all going to take me, and for now, I'm ok with that.....