Spring

(Trigger warning: non-consensual fantasy BDSM stuff.)

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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.

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An Outline of My Erotic Landscape

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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.

Consensual Dissolution

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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.

Masochist

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.

Welcome Letter

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.

Another Me

(This is an old writing from 2013 that I rediscovered and really liked. It’s a bit dark as it explores the psychological stuff of my relationship with BDSM, you have been warned.)

At his orders, I made another me.

It wasn’t difficult to do. One night I dreamt of her and when I woke up in the morning, there she was. She was perched on the edge of the bed with eyes full of nervous anticipation. Because she was me, entirely me, she knew exactly what I was going to do with her.

I’d always had a desire to own a suit tailored for my short and curvy body and had decided that this would be the perfect occasion to invest in such attire. So when we entered his house I was overdressed in my suit and heavy theatrical make-up, while beside me she was entirely nude, unadorned apart from a collar and cuffs. He laughed when we entered and our cheeks burned red with embarrassment; she felt revealed, I was irritated. “Hey, fuck you! I look great in a suit!” I said and he laughed again.

But it was obvious he was intrigued and so he ordered her to kneel; which, because she was me, she was trained to do. He exclaimed over her uncanny likeness and began pinching her, slapping her to test her responses which were my own exactly but I could tell he remained unconvinced –

until he kissed her, and whereas she had flinched from the abuse, she pushed up into that kiss with the absoluteness of someone in love. I winced to witness myself so exposed and felt grateful for the distance provided by my costume and my other self.

He pulled away from her with dark eyes and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, nor could she, but I knew she was more afraid than we had ever been.

We had an agreement.

She was to be the vessel upon which we would enact our sickest fantasies – the things he and I wanted done to me, but which were far too threatening to my sanity and mortality. She would experience everything exactly as I would, the depths of depravity and extremes of suffering which I craved but feared would be my undoing. It didn’t matter if we destroyed her, I was her backup copy.

She trembled.

Unable to bear my empathetic understanding of her situation, I did something which I had been curious about but which nobody had ever done to me. This would create a tangible distance between us, her first unique experience that would define her identity as separate from my own and take her somewhere I would not follow. I began to cut into her skin, just above her chest, with a surgical blade I had brought from my studio, still covered in blue pastel dust and fragments of glitter that mixed into the blood sliding down her breasts.

She began to cry, my heart began to pound.

We both knew it now. She was not going to make it past this evening, yet nothing in the world would compel her to leave.

I wanted this.