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.

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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…. 

The Lands of Human Sexuality

I've been writing a lot, but most of it has been going into my drafts folder. Now that I'm delving deeper into my own sexuality, it's getting harder to share -- though if I've come this far, what's another step? There's always a fear in my mind that the next secret I share, the next twisted fantasy I admit to, will be the turn off point for my lover -- or make myself cringe. No matter how liberated we are of the social norms stigmatizing kinky sex, there are still the areas that remain difficult to access, and for a good reason. There was some play I engaged in recently that made me break down and I am not even ready to discuss it, let alone try again -- though it still appears, sometimes, as a detail of my masturbating fantasies. Which made me wonder -- are there any other kinks that I entertain, but that I don't want to try outside my fantasies? Are there any that will never cross that line from fantasy to reality? And if so, why?

And then, on theblackleatherbelt.com blog, I came across Franklin Veaux's "Map of the Lands of Human Sexuality" and, since I was procrastinating as usual from doing the work I was supposed to be doing, I created one for myself:

Map of My Sexuality

I like the malleability of this silly map -- while it is still, obviously, limited by language and closed to the discovery of new lands, it allows for the fluidity of one's sexuality: if your feelings about a kink change, you just change the color of the pins. It was interesting to see how many of these lands I have visited, mostly over the course of the last year, as well as to note my shifting limits. There is more I am open to try now than I have ever been before, and there, of course, are red pins of bad experiences -- things I found out were not for me. But what got my attention the most were the black pins -- for "in fantasy only". There weren't many on my map, but I wondered about them -- what is keeping me from crossing that last line from fantasy to reality? 

In some cases, the issue was my apprehension at coming too close to some deep-seated fears: I simply don't think I have the capacity to deal with the emotional and psychological backlash of unearthing something that deeply repressed. It's one thing to be aware that such fantasies exist, and completely another to try to figure out why -- or deal with how they make me feel. But in other cases, it was the issue of trust and logistics. When other people have to be involved to make my fantasy come true, I don't know how much I can trust them not to take advantage of me in a vulnerable state, or overpower me with their versions of my fantasy. And even with issues of trust aside, while I am getting better at negotiating the scenes, there are still outcomes that I can't predict and thus can't negotiate around. I am scared of what can happen that I will be incapable of stopping, either because of being in a subspace or being too cowardly or too proud.... 

The bottom line is, I know how difficult it is to make some fantasies come true, especially when other people are involved. And while I am venturing into the realm of threesomes, foursomes and orgies, the experience has more often been unsuccessful. With BDSM involved, there are bigger stakes than jealousy or hurt feelings -- and while it often makes this lifestyle so rewarding, there are cases when the prize is not worth the cost. At least just yet.... 

Self-Rescuing Princess

It occurs to me that I may have been wrong all along…. You see, I thought the reason I enjoyed BDSM was because I wanted to give up control – I live a life filled with responsibility and have a job that forces me to be an authority figure, and so I often end up feeling that without me, the world would stop…. I have come to believe that in order to enjoy myself fully, in order to relax, I needed a D/s relationship, a Dom or a daddy, who would force me to give up control.

This sounds like a plausible story alright, except -- I don’t really have control in my life. In fact, in order to pursue my kinky lifestyle, in order to stop my self-repression and liberate the deep dark desires that run through my subconscious, I have given up all control – including self-control. In Civilization and its Discontents, Freud writes about the necessity for repression in order to become a functioning member of society. All civilization, according to him, is based upon repression, which starts at the suppression of our first sexual desires (for our mother). I disagree with Freud on many counts, but this is something I find quite logical – and so it follows that lifting that repression and allowing for such in-depth self-discovery of my sexuality makes it more difficult for me – or anyone – to be a part of society.

However, what I find particularly hard to deal with is not the lack of social acceptance, but my own inability to function -- to work and to take care of myself, my family, my home --  that my quest for sexual liberation has caused. Getting rid of repression  puts more focus on emotions, and assigns a much greater value to feelings than to rational thought and decision making. While on one hand, that leads to self-awareness and self-knowledge which, potentially, may allow me to make more informed decisions regarding myself and the people I am attracted to or form relationships with, the downside is the overwhelming power of my emotions that submerge me and then keep coming, wave after wave. And since I have given up the tools to repress them, and have indulged in my hyper-awareness, they have more strength than I can deal with.

So what I have been looking for in my exploration of D/s lifestyle is not loss of control, which I, it seems, have already accomplished, but quite the opposite -- for someone else to take control that I have given up. I have been looking to entrust myself to another human being who'd have my interests and my well being in mind, and who could control, through pain or domination, the scattered, contradictory and overwhelming emotions that have been rushing through me -- and contain them for me, so that I could return to functioning within the parameters of my life. I have been wanting to feel safe from the darkness inside me, from self-induced guilt and my own destructive impulses. To know that someone else can take on this darkness, battle my dragons and eventually keep them at bay, enabling me to return to society without the necessary chores and obligations of repressing, to at least some extent, my powerful desires. I have been looking for a cheat.

On one hand, of course, we are responsible for taking care of each other and helping each other in times of sub -- or Dom -- drops. D/s raises a lot of emotions and responses that can be unexpected and hard to deal with. Feelings of pain, loss, violence or overwhelming tenderness, emptiness, to name just a few, rush coursing through your body, as your mind struggles to reconcile them with social norms and everything you thought you knew about yourself. We cannot contain this. We cannot be expected to, and the worst thing a partner can do is abandon us during those times. However, there is an extent to which another person can help, and in the end, if you are not willing to do the work for yourself, go through and sort and analyse and find ways of dealing with your feelings and thoughts, no one can do it for you. It is an essential step to self-awareness, not just to see, but to understand what is happening inside you, and no partner, no matter how good or experienced, can take you through that.

In the end, after giving up control and diving deep into the chasm of your subconscious, you have to come back for air and regain control -- and so I have to tell myself, "enough," and remember that I am a functioning, responsible adult with a ton of obligations to deal with and a whole lot of responsibility for others than myself. No matter how much I enjoy the fantasy of a knight on a white stallion sweeping me off my feet and saving me from myself (and then spanking my bottom til it's fiery red to take care of any fears or guilt I may still carry), I have to, in the end, be a self-rescuing princess, and learn to slay -- or domesticate -- my own dragons. 

P(ublic) D(isplay) of A(ffection)

What is the point of etiquette? Or grammar? I often wonder if it wouldn't make more sense if we replaced the first with kindness, thoughtfulness and (genuine) respect, and the latter with clarity and the feel for the beauty of language.... I mean, seriously, why should anyone care if I eat with my elbows on the table or like kissing in public? And yet, some people get disturbed (especially by the latter)....

These people's logic usually works as follows: I don't want kids to see it! or... It's non-consensual display! or... It's disgusting to be forced to look at anyone's tonsils! (like you can actually see those when two people are making out). Like other bodily functions, public displays of affection need to be kept confined to the bedroom or some other dark place where no one has to see it. And yet, these same people watch porn, masturbate, and dress super-scantily to kink events (well, SOME of these people do, anyway -- or so I'd like to think).

This lack of logic especially baffles me in the kink community. I mean, REALLY? Are we so tired of being marginalized, of being raised believing we should be ashamed of ourselves and our sexuality,that now we're willing to take on the role of the censors ourselves? What makes us want to be the voices of intolerance, policing others and ensuring they're just as miserable as we once were, before we dared to become aware of our kinks?

I would much rather children saw the affection and love, often present in these public displays of affection, than the violence of TV shows or the cruelty of practical jokes, so popular in our culture. What is it about someone getting a pie in the face that makes us laugh, what is it about another's humiliation that gives us pleasure to watch, and how are these things any more suitable for those "innocent child observers" who'd at the same time be ruined by PDA? I'd rather teach these kids early on what passion (stemming from love or lust or who cares what) looks like, so it does not become the hidden and forbidden fruit, the drive of their young lives. 

As for non-consensual display... I often see things in a public dungeon or at kink events that disturb me to the point where I can't watch. So? I walk away. If I can't walk, I look away. There's nothing wrong with anyone else's way of finding pleasure -- there is nothing that grants me the right to judge or censor them. Now, I can see how some displays can be distracting.... I too would rather watch two sex-loving people pleasure each other, than sit in a meeting, but -- here the above-mentioned thoughtfulness comes into play. Don't start fingering your partner's nipples at a work meeting -- wait until the break. Don't make out in class -- at least pretend to listen to your teacher who's working hard to teach you something. But out in the corridor? In the streets? As long as you're not blocking my way, make out away!

I understand (or think I understand) that watching PDA can be disturbing, to some, perhaps to all of us, because it stirs our libidos, it makes us uncomfortable, and usually when we are turned on by something we can't have, we can get annoyed, or even angry. I don't have a penis, but I imagine it can be unpleasant to walk around all day with a hard-on, especially if you have no one but yourself to relieve it. But isn't that, at the end of the day, your personal problem? And aren't there better ways of dealing with it than stopping crazy happy couples (or triples, or foursomes, oh my mind is starting to wander...) from showing their affection whenever and wherever they want to?

I suppose it's been too long since my last kink event and so I'm feeling particularly nostalgic, but what I miss most about those cons, more than the sexual high and constant horniness, is the freedom and encouragement I get to simply be myself. To walk around naked, if I wish to, to have sex in the middle of the meadow, to watch a gangbang (or walk by) -- the freedom that is supported and perpetuated by others doing the same. I see how genuinely happy people are, on average, when they don't have to hide or feel shame, how much more peaceful, and I wonder -- why would anyone want to deny that freedom? Why can't we have it, why don't we want to have it in our day-to-day lives? Why, why, why do we prefer to stare judgmentally at those scantily-clad teenagers or that couple making out against the bus-stop glass? 

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

On a somewhat related note, my daddy likes to lead me by the back of my neck when we are out in public. The stares we get are priceless -- in every range of emotions, from anger and disgust to barely-hid envy and desire -- and the best part is, technically, we are not doing anything even remotely inappropriate or openly sexual, and no one can do or say a thing about it..... 

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.....

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.

The Dance of the Rope

I have two deep dark bruises on my arms, and a long cut on the side of my neck. My back hurts, despite all the stretches, as if I’d been tortured on an old-fashioned rack. I’m dealing with the expected sub drop by cuddling under the blanket, drinking port and watching some silly TV. But it’s all worth it. Last night, I got to dance with her and her teasing, playful, dominating and sometimes cruel, slithering over my body and leaving me in gasps and shivers, rope….

Rope, by the way, is yet another example of N(ot) M(y) K(ink) that has with time and exposure become a burning desire. I had my first experience of being bound and suspended at Fetfest, by the amazing Murphy Blue (I had no clue who he was at the time, either). I loved the feeling of his rope against my skin, when he slid it over my naked body and tied me into shapes I didn’t know my body could make. The first time, seeing I had no prior experience, he was particularly gentle and careful, pausing to ask if I was doing ok, and making sure the rope didn’t bite too much into my flesh, that the position didn’t strain my joints. It was very technical, and yet, I saw the subtle dance of his hands as the rope glided and almost tied itself into knots on my body, and lifted me off the ground, limb by limb. I went into the scene awaiting a result, but it was the process, the rhythm, the beauty of his movements, the tactile sensation of the rope that got me hooked…

And so, last night, in a class on kinesthetic rope with Midori, I thought I knew what to expect. I knew already that for me being bound is an act of domination that forces me into a different psychological state than spanking or sex. Being tied and, especially, being suspended transforms me into an aesthetic object, and the state of becoming art, while still a state of submission, is more akin to being elevated than being broken and forced to submit. The limitation of my movements is also different with rope than being held down or cuffed to the bed – while I can’t move on my own, I become a marionette, a puppet whose body can be set into motion by a pull of the string. In a way, the rope becomes my dominant, the rope moves me. When I was suspended by Murphy Blue, he pushed me, gently and let me feel how the motion continued by itself, as I spun around slowly, almost deliberately, until he stopped me with just one finger. And then, of course, there was the feel of the rope: the fibers scratching or soothing, gently restraining or biting. The second time he suspended me, he let me feel some of the rope’s cruelty, as he tightened it around my body with sharp pulls, letting it cut into my breasts and my waist, eliciting sharp sighs of pain and pleasure.

 But last night…. Last night managed to surprise me. I was wearing a sweater, and couldn’t feel the texture of the rope as it circled me. And yet, its movement, slow and lingering, fast and sharp, the rhythm of its dance as it slid over my arms and between my legs, so sensual, so erotic… In a matter of moments, Midori managed with a few barely visible movements to get me out of my head, throw me off-balance, de-center and draw me into a dance. I started as a shy and somewhat stiff participant, unsure how to react and what was expected of me, and before I knew it I became part of a conversation, struggling against the pull of the rope, tugging playfully at its tail, then gasping as I was suddenly yanked back and down, my body forced to the floor, flattened out, immobilized without ever even being touched. In less than ten minutes Midori brought me into sub-space, something that’s fairly rare to me, and as I previously thought, impossible without an intimate connection and deep knowledge of your partner. And then, still only using the rope, she made me crawl to my daddy, who took over the reins and took care of me.

I felt like I’ve been made love to in the most physical, kinky and sensual way. And there was not a single knot tied the entire class. 

N(ot) M(y) K(ink)

Having my hair pulled has never been my kink. Ever. In fact, it was always on the list of my hard limits: along with being yelled at and humiliated. And then, at a recent kink event, I saw a very attractive, playful, and confident girl, a little exhibitionist slut (just like me) being pulled by the hair, by her boyfriend, in a very loving and sexy manner – and suddenly, I was turned on, my juices flowing, my cheeks flushing…. Before I knew it, I was asking my Daddy to try the same – and when he did, it led to one of the steamiest sex scenes (on the bench, middle of the meadow – remember darling?) that I have ever had.

So I have been wondering since, how do other people’s kinks become my own? And not just the ones I have never been exposed to and suddenly see and recognize as manifestations of my vague fantasies, but the ones I was aware of but never excited by?  How is it that seeing people I find attractive or socially adept doing things that never used to turn me on – or were even beyond my hard limits – in the right setting, can make me change my mind? If sexual desire were so easy to turn on and off, how many problems could we as society have avoided! And, personally, why would anyone ever choose to be on the margins of sexual normativity, if they could choose to be aroused by more mainstream things?

Now, I know that female sexuality is notoriously more easily susceptible to social pressures than male sexuality, at least in the way it’s expressed.  According to one study mentioned in Sex at Dawn, while women may get physically excited by certain stimuli, they often don’t recognize their excitement if the sexual stimuli they are responding to are not socially acceptable. This makes me question: these kinks that I so easily take on, could it be that they were already my own, but I didn’t recognize them as such until I saw them approved by my community?  Or, do I take on these kinks precisely because I am conforming to the community that okeys them, and to the social pressure that tells me that “all the cool kids are doing it,” while these kinks are not inherently my own? And does it matter?

The difference, as I see it, should be between how my body responds to something and how my mind views it, and it can be an important one – I either receive pleasure, or I endure the kink for the sake of pleasing my partner and satisfying communal expectations, not losing my cool, not showing my fear. And if it’s not for my pleasure, do I diminish myself somehow by taking it on? Or is it ok to play along every once in a while in order to please others? Where is the line?

In my slippery slope frame of mind, I keep thinking of a rather silly film I once saw, with Richard Gere and Julia Roberts (No, not Pretty Woman): The Runaway Bride. One of the recurrent conversations in that movie turns around how Julia Robert’s character likes her eggs for breakfast – and it turns out that with each fiancé she eats them differently. At the end of the film, when she returns to Gere after leaving him at the altar, she tells him: I finally know how I like my eggs. It scares me to think that with kinks it too can be a subtle slide from “I can do this to please my partner, while I don’t particularly want it” to “when I do this, my partner is happy, and so it doesn’t really matter what I want,” to, finally, “I don’t have a clue what I want.”  By taking on other people’s kinks, could we be losing ourselves and silencing our self-awareness?

 In Sex at Dawn, I liked the explanation of bonobo sexuality – that sex is used not just for procreation, or to secure pair-bonds, but to relieve stress, to encourage sharing, to resolve conflicts. So why is it not ok, then, to use human sexuality not just for personal pleasure, but all of the above – for the good of others, for community building, as methods of compromise? In our feminist society, we look down on a woman who wants to please others – it is seen somehow as a weakness, as buying into and perpetuating the hated patriarchy – but if it’s not taken to an extreme, is it really that wrong? If it’s consensual – and informed – isn’t it just an intelligent way of life? And yes, the gender inequality is there – guys don’t compromise (as much), they pursue their desires (more openly, or, at least, despite the social obstacles). But can’t this be a feminine strength, then, on an otherwise unleveled playing field -- our ability to use our sexuality in so many different ways, to form or solidify bonds, create a sense of well-being, unify a community, and yes, receive pleasure and get our way?

And all along, I still wonder – if it is not truly my kink, why does even just thinking about it make me so excited and wet?