Awhile ago I wrote an article for Archer Magazine which you can now read here, or if you prefer I believe you can still order a copy of the magazine from their website:
http://archermagazine.com.au/2019/07/ethical-porn-and-submission/
Old drawing done in 2004 when I was about 20? More on my website jngaio.com
(Content warning, this writing contains a description of sexual activities done within the context of a D/s relationship where a dynamic of consensual non-consent has been mutually and enthusiastically agreed to.)
What is the feeling I had last night? You forcibly held my legs open and put your tongue to my clit. You know how much I hate that, I’d rather you went right to raping me but instead you are taking your time and doing things to my body that nobody else has, discovering new capacities for sensation that even I was unaware of.
I blink away tears of humiliation. Your tongue flicking on my clit makes me feels good, makes it thicken with arousal and somehow this makes me feel utterly revealed, utterly vulnerable. It’s like you’re learning to play my body better than I can and that makes me feel less powerful than ever. Beatings are one thing, beatings are hard work to take and each one becomes more difficult, more harrowing as I learn that your sadism is as boundless as my masochism, as I learn with sick excited horror that we have so far yet to go. But the more violence I take from you, the more powerful I feel, impressed by myself and my capacity for endurance. You call me a tough bitch and like a child, I feel a swelling of pride.
This is different. This is pleasure. This is the sort my first boyfriend always tried to give me and then cried when he could not, this is the sort of pleasure I thought myself incapable of and believed myself broken. Faulty goods drawn more to pain than pleasure. You call me a sick bitch and I feel seen. But this contact between your tongue and nerve endings in my cunt creates sensations I’ve not noticed before when mashing myself into my vibrator or the beautiful face of a woman. Why is this different? What is happening here? How can pleasure be so much more humiliating than any nasty words you’ve ever said to me?
It’s because you see me and read me more and more clearly. It’s because my ache for you grows every day. It’s because the boundaries between us are dissolving as you not only become accustomed to being entitled to my body but become able to play it, like you’ve been investigating all the places, both internal and external, that constitute who I am. It makes sense to have a good grasp on the workings of your property, to know the value of it, to know what you can do with it. But your discovery of things about me that even I didn’t know… that shocks me to the core and I’m running out of places to hide.
I feel stupid, confused and suddenly, very young. Like a child, embarrassed by the funny “down there” feelings they didn’t realise they could have.
I feel myself close to climax but the performance anxiety of that often shuts me down with men (less so with women) and besides, the intensity of my desire for you makes me feel entirely open, with all my guts to be seen, with all my need for you making me feel helpless in the intensity of my own lust. “I’m yours” I cry “I’m a whore” I moan “I’ll do anything for you.” I mean it. My desire for you is a desire for your lust, your violence, your attention, your love. I’m obsessed with it and will do anything to attain and retain it.
You fuck me for awhile, it feels so desperately, pathetically good to have your cock slipping inside me and pushing so deep that my cervix cramps and at some point I start sobbing and hitting you and screaming that I love you. You hold me and comfort me and we cry together and kiss and exchange many more declarations of love. Then we sleep, you are so exhausted from work, from the world, from survival. I experience a deep protectiveness towards you, a profound, tender love and gratitude that you manage, somehow, to find these pockets of energy, intimacy and connection to share with me. To me, it’s nothing short of miraculous, every second we get together is precious.
Today I lay sick in bed with tonsillitis and a gentle fever. My head is swamped by thoughts of you and my cunt still aches with my constant desire for you so that even the feel of my cotton underwear pushing against it causes an irritation of pleasure. I want you, constantly and so to me you are more powerful than you could possibly realise. Your touch turns me weak, stupid, needy and wet. When I say I am your property, I mean it. When I say I am your whore, I feel it as a deep and fundamental truth about myself.
You see me. You know me. I’m yours. You own me.
(Trigger warning: non-consensual fantasy BDSM stuff.)
Oh God this weather this sunshine, these blossoms, this lush grass, these bees and birds fucking and busting me out of my seasonal sadness. My stubbornly fertile body thinks it’s time to mate and so my cotton underwear are patchy wet as an invitation to slide stuff inside me.
I text my love and we fantasise about how easy this summer frock would make it for him to hold me down and rape me and how these girly, pretty summer garments will look all the more beautiful for the ways they will contrast with all the bites, cuts and bruises that we want to decorate my body with.
I imagine the smell of crushed grass and blood. I can almost feel his palm striking my sunburned skin as I blink my eyes against the sand and summer flies. My voice is a hoarse whisper, begging him for water and mercy.
Self-portrait from 2013, drawn the first time I submitted to someone.
In a culture that shames and silences people, particularly women, for their sexuality, it is a radical and complicated process for a woman to learn what she likes and to ask for it. I believe that this process is made even more complex when the woman identifies as kinky due to the added stigma surrounding the world of BDSM. I have been sexually active since I was 16 years old, orgasmic since I was 23, involved in BDSM since I was 26, worked in porn, identify as a sex positive feminist… yet it is only now, as a 33-year-old, queer, cisgender woman, that I am truly coming to comprehend my own erotic landscape. Though sexuality is more fluid than we are inclined to think and pinning it all down into words can be difficult, nonetheless there have been themes that have run through the entire course of the history of my libido. As an exercise in honestly and publicly owning what it is that I like, I’m going to try to put into words an outline of my current sexual landscape.
So here is the truth. I like sex, I like fucking, I like bodies. I like the adventure and the connection of sex and have at various times connected with friends and acquaintances through light hearted and joyful sexual and kinky adventures. Some would call that “casual” sex but something about the word “casual” doesn’t quite fit the loving, playful, friendship enhancing aspects of this. Perhaps a better term would be “social sex” though I am at a loss to define quite why. I like sex with loved ones for the intimacy, the connection, the bodily pleasure and the orgasms. I like it for the way it bonds us and keeps us closer. I love the frantic energy of need to be inside one another, I love the grabbing of flesh, the intensity of eye contact and I love it for the ways our bodies collapse together afterwards. I love how much it feels like love and how it dissolves so many artificial borders and boundaries.
But here’s the important puzzle piece to my sexual identity, here is the theme that has run through the course of my entire sexual history and is an underlying element of my libido, a fundamental truth at the core of what turns me on the most; I am a sexually submissive masochist with switchy inclinations. What does this mean? What turns me on the most, what I masturbate to when I am alone is not pretty, really, truly not pretty. Even in the spaces of BDSM “communities” I have found myself feeling something of an outlier, relating most to the heavy players, the violent ones, the freaks, the creeps, the weirdos. Though of course I have always endeavoured to play in ways that are ethical, educated and following the Risk Aware Consensual Kink (RACK) framework. I’m a nasty pervert but I’m an ethical one
Recently as an exercise in exploring what turns me on at its most stripped down and straight forward, I compiled a list of words that sum up my erotic landscape, they are not pretty words and if you are not someone who is comfortable in understanding that the world of sexual fantasy is different to reality, these words my trouble you. Here they are in no particular order except as they came into my head:
Rape. Violate. Violent. Abuse. Molest. Beat. Brutal. Hurt. Humiliate. Cry. Scream. Coerce. Force. Bend. Break. Drip. Bruise. Bleed. Gape. Pain. Punch. Strip. Sleep. Drug. Drunk. Ugly. Cunt. Bitch. Slut. Stupid. Fuck. Filth. Stalk. Slap. Piss. Cut. Whore. Choke. Bite. Creep. Fight. Degrade. Spread. Trap. Fear. Spit. Defeat. Suffer. Silent.
There it is, stripped of any flowery language, the truth of what makes my cunt wet. It is not the entire truth, I have discovered immense pleasure in receiving erotic massages, in slowly exploring a lover’s body, in those sensual things that women supposedly adore. I am sexually adventurous and don’t like to confine or define myself to one narrow role or identity, that thought is unbearably claustrophobic to me. But those more sensual and bodily pleasure realms are things I learned to find pleasure in, like acquiring a taste. The truth is that the ugly words above have always been part of the baseline of my libido, the armature that underlies the structure of everything that deeply turns me on. The truth is that for me, much of sex is cerebral and when it is bodily, it is violent.
The dark and violent underbelly of human sexuality has an undeniable pull for me, violence both physical and psychological. Obviously I am disgusted by the behaviour of anyone who indulges any of their dark or sick fantasies without the consent of all parties involved, I only ever engage in consensual non-consent with people who are enthusiastic about doing so. Nonetheless, the truth of what turns me on is violent and ugly. Though it has at times made me feel socially isolated, I’m comfortable with who I am and what I like. There are so many thrilling discoveries to be made here in the borderlands of the socially acceptable.
People regularly find this blog and/or my website when searching for the term “BDSM documentary” and for the record, I actually was in one back in 2014. The film, Love Hard, is a beautiful documentary on kink and intimacy made by the the incredible feminist pornographers, Sensate Films.
That’s me in the picture above. In the film I perform with a beautiful lover I had at the time and speak of my feminism, artistic practice and the ways in which I identify as a sexually submissive emotional masochist.
There are also many other amazing people in the film who speak of their own personal relationships to kink. The film is at times intense, brutal, tender, funny and incredibly moving. It is beautifully filmed, artistically edited and the soundtrack is haunting.
I am still incredibly proud of this project and highly recommend checking it out, it costs a little to rent or buy but if you do so, you’re supporting the production of ethically, artistically, independently and beautifully produced erotic media that I believe does a lot to stigmatise and demystify BDSM.
Boundaries are bullshit boring. What I seek with you is a consensual dissolution of law and order through a mingling of fluids, an anarchy of flesh and a riot of the psyche.
Brutality is our romance, your fists pounding into my stomach are red roses and microscopic ego-deaths are our holiday destinations
I liked the times you forced me to look at myself in the mirror with the intent that I witness my own whorish depravity; Mostly what I saw was how beautiful we look together, the contrasts in our shapes and sizes, your strong arm wrapped commanding and possessive around my throat.
I crave endless assault. No escape even in the darkest and most private corners of my mind, I want you to stalk me through my dreams. Your violence tastes like life and when you look into my eyes, your vision is 20/20.
When he visits me, washing becomes an event. I demand that he scrubs me clean like I’m a naughty toddler. I whine when the water is too hot or too cold and splash about in hopes of getting his shirt wet because I like to make him mad. When he pulls the plug and I watch the water sucked down the drain, I push my arse into the air just asking him to push his fingers inside my holes. When he is away, washing becomes a display. I take photos and videos like a digital siren because I want to remind him of what is here for him. His eyes on me make me feel as if I exist and am beautiful and I am a junkie for his attention.
(This is an old one from 2013.)
3AM
I have been struck by a memory momentarily so tangible that the effect is physical. I feel that warmth in my mouth, a strange thing that happens when I am aroused; as if I heat up so rapidly that I can taste it. The other thing that happens, there is no other way to describe it, my cunt clenches.
It might be the remembered sensation of all the times he has fucked my mouth so violently that the back of my throat feels tender the next day. I may recall the feeling of my fist in her cunt, the warmth and the incredible intimacy that comes from being deep inside another creature. Maybe I recall some of the filthiest sex I’ve ever had in a log cabin surrounded by 800 year old fern trees and the cool, dark nighttime of the ancient Daintree rainforest, my mouth tasting of alcohol, his arsehole and the feeling my own piss running down my leg. Maybe I’ll recall the first time I orgasmed in public, surrounded by at least forty strangers, fully clothed and straddling a Sybian, him kissing my neck. Or the man who whispered in my ear “Tonight, you are going to be the one to make me come.”
I tell myself stories about myself and feel that mixture of arousal, agitation and isolation. Memories I may have not visited in a long time are potent this late at night.
Sydney Rd is silent. The only sound is my computer occasionally muttering to itself, the clicking of my mouse and the hum of the electric heater at my feet. The only light in the whole apartment complex comes from the flickering glow of my monitor. Tonight I watch my porn on mute.
The impact of his hand on the side of my face is microscopic oblivion and my reaction is addiction. His hand around my throat is paralysis and my option is endurance. His foul words in my ear are humiliation and my eyes close in avoidance. His cock forced sudden inside my ass is agony and my screaming is genuine. He tells me this is just the start and I believe him, we’re so new to each other, we have such a long way to go.
It is difficult to articulate the experience of being drunk on fear, intoxicated by the abject reality of becoming a thing, a vessel. Difficult to explain the simultaneous desire for an experience to end yet never stop. I hate love it. The crueler, the wetter.
I see violence burning in his eyes and my heart jumps with excitement. His lust for my suffering is symbiosis, it belongs to the both of us.
I consent to my violation and stand back to watch myself fall.
Relief.
I love him.
Hello darling,
Thank you for stepping inside to see me, thank you for taking the time. Yes, that room has always been there, no, you’re not the first to take a peek, but you walked right in and started looking around with interest. I become the absurdly servile hostess, so grateful for the company that it’s almost embarrassing, plying you with offerings and stories and photos from my past. As I perceive the metallic sound of your belt buckle unfastening, I tremble with a pitiable hope that I might soon hear it cracking sharp across my skin.
Please, yes, thank you, yes. Yes make yourself at home, yes help yourself, yes whatever you like, however you like, oh please oh yes oh please. I wait in a corner and observe you with keen interest, hanging on to every word, anticipating every movement. Is this what you want? Is this how you want it? Oh I am perfectly comfortable down here on my knees, don’t you worry about me.
Don’t you worry about me, this is what I was built for, hope for want for, it is craving and ancient and instinct and myself on autopilot. Please, I aim to please. I am to please. Please. Yes, you may touch what you want how you want, yes, yes, please. Unfurl yourself inside me and make a monstrous mess.
Please.
Only, darling, respect this interior; all that breaks must be rebuilt. Hurt me darling, make yourself at home. Only, hold me, darling and promise you will take care.
Blood Sex Glitter 