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:
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:
(Content warning: this post discusses rape fantasies, heavy BDSM play, emotional abuse and sexual assault.)
Rape fantasies. An incredibly common sexual fantasy, emphasis on the word “fantasy”. I believe this is one of the biggest things at the core of my own sexuality, this is the fantasy that has led me to BDSM.
Except that “fantasy” doesn’t feel like a good enough word for my sexual inclinations, the word “fantasy” feels reductive. Let’s see if I can unpack my feelings here. Please note, this is not going to be a guide on how to do rape play, in fact if you are new to these explorations I would very much NOT recommend doing what I’m doing. Rather this is an attempt to better articulate the specificities of my own desires and how I explore them in my sex life. In my opinion, whatever takes place in the realms of fantasy or between two consenting adults is just fine and dandy. If your opinion differs, or the eroticisation of dark subjects is a trigger for you, you might want to proceed with caution.
In my mind, there are two modalities within which it is common to engage with this fantasy. The first is “rape play”, this involves consenting adults engaging in a type of role-play that involves the acting out of forced sex fantasies. Rape play has never particularly worked for me, I could never really suspend my disbelief enough to enjoy sexual roleplay, it has always become something of a cerebral activity, done more out of curiosity rather than genuine excitement. In short, it feels like acting and I want it to feel “real”.
And then there is “consensual non-consent” or CNC for short. CNC tends to involve two people, often within an established kink relationship (in my case, a Dom/sub dynamic) where one partner will give their blanket consent to the other at any time, any place. Generally this involves a list of ground rules such as hard limits (certain acts that remain off bounds) and a safeword that functions as a genuine “no”, as opposed to a fun “no”. Sometimes however, and I’ve seen this become a heatedly debated topic in BDSM communities, there may be a decision to do away with the safeword. Basically, a mutually agreed upon dynamic where both partners have agreed that there is no such thing as “no”. There may also be no hard limits.
I have been in two D/s relationships where, through mutual desire and negotiation, we have limited the efficacy and power of my safeword. I am currently in my second such relationship. I have never before written publicly about my experiences and the exact rules of my dynamic as to do away with a safe word is considered foolish and potentially dangerous. In fact, I’d be the first to agree that it is potentially dangerous as I have indeed had this sort of agreement cause me a great deal of confusion in the past. However my sexual desire for this type of dynamic has meant that I have not remained deterred and so I am now in my second D/s relationship where I have given away my “right” to consent and put some degree of disclaimers on my safeword so that the functionality of my “no” is limited. As someone who has often been drawn to the more sensorially and psychologically intense and therefore risker forms of BDSM play, I prescribe to the Risk Aware Consensual Kink framework within which I consider the risks vs benefits and make an informed choice.
So I have evaluated the risks and have had experienced when things go wrong. I have also looked at the rewards and for me and the way my sexuality works, the rewards have so far outweighed the risks.
At some point within my relationship with my current Dom, I had grown comfortable enough and felt safe enough with him that I requested a change in our rules. I wanted my safeword to no longer mean “stop”. We agreed that this was risky and to do away with the safeword altogether would be foolish. So now, instead of my safeword functioning as a true “no”, it instead has a more limited and practical application in that it only serves the purpose of being something I can use if I feel that the scene is going wrong and might put me in actual danger. Essentially, if I fear a scene runs the risk of doing me genuine and lasting damage, then my safe word is my way of saying “this has to stop and it has to stop now.” However, if I simply don’t like something that happens to me, simply really, really don’t like it, then there is the agreement that I have no ability to back out. I’ve consented to my Dom not needing my consent.
Within this framework, I have no hard limits, only acts that I hate but must endure. This does not apply to anything which will put my health at serious risk – we do not engage in any form of particularly risky edge-play without prior discussion and a great deal of caution. After all, it is a priority for myself and my Dom that I remain healthy and in one piece so that we may continue to play for many years to come.
And of course, if this agreement ever stops working for me, I can halt this agreement. Ultimately, my consent does still belong to me but we’ve done our best to create a framework within which I feel as if I do not have any rights because this is what we both deeply desire.
My erotic imagination has always gone towards darkness. Sensual touch has never done much for me, for as long as I can remember, the things that give me the greatest erotic charge have been much more violent and contained elements of coercion and violation. Sex for me isn’t so much about bodies and orgasms (though I do love those things) but the core of my sexuality comes down to this feeling of me being helpless, humiliated, violated, abused and, yes, raped. Why is this? I, like many, have theorised on this for years and at times in the past I would try to re-wire my erotic inclinations towards something gentler and simpler but our erotic inclinations so often go deep to our very core and honestly, that is how I feel about my drive.
I met my first Dom when I was 26 and the first time we played was the first time I was ever truly dominated, made to feel the emotions of humiliation, desire, fear and arousal which are so profoundly potent to me. Though I had dabbled in kinky play for years and had an enjoyable and adventurous sex life, the first time I ever played with my first Dom was an erotic awakening, a discovery of the core truth of my sexuality. Before then, though I’d always found sex immensely pleasurable, something had been missing but that first time with him, I found myself thinking “this must be how it feels to normal people when they get sexually aroused!” For the first time in my adult life, I actually discovered what it meant to have my cunt become truly wet with desire. Like, properly wet. Slippery wet. That was new to me, to discover how much my body responds to mistreatment by someone I’m attracted to in a sexual context.
Since then, my explorations of my submission and masochism have involved my chasing that high. As someone who has very few hang-ups or taboos around sexuality, it takes a lot to make me genuinely uncomfortable and there are very few things that I am unwilling to try. For me, being simply tied up and spanked, for example, sounds a bit dull and old hat – after all, I’ve been asking partners to tie me up and hit me since I was 16 years old. I am someone with a large libido and an insatiable desire to explore the depths of my own experiences and so sexual activities such as rape play, or entry-level S&M simply do little to give me the sort of erotic intensity I crave. The acts one does within sex and kink don’t necessarily mean a lot to me, I wouldn’t say I have a lot of fetishes as such, rather what is important is the context and energetics surrounding the act.
My current Dom and I have created a psychological space for us within which my consent means nothing. When I am unable to say “yes” or “no” to any given act, suddenly every sexual act becomes potent. His hand groping my breast is molestation, his cock pushing inside me is violation. Outside of our D/s dynamic, my Dom is very much my partner, friend and equal but in our D/s dynamic, we have created a hierarchy where his desires rule and I am simply a glorified fleshlight, fuckdoll and punching bag. It’s mutually beneficial. It’s what we both desire.
In essence, the feeling we both crave is a sense of coming as close to stepping off the edge of what is right and into a dark and violent void. As ethical, principled, intelligent and emotionally aware people, we of course understand that to actually step off the edge and into darkness would not be a sane or reasonable thing to do. However, we have acknowledged and accepted the depths of our desires and we like to get as close to the edge as possible.
The closest comparison, and I think it is an apt one, is to someone who engages in extreme and risky sports such as mountain climbing. There are very real risks you consciously desire to take on because the thrill of exploring rarely visited territories and the thrilling feeling of touching the void is utterly intoxicating. The explorer of hostile but fascinating landscapes does all they can to educate themselves and equip themselves for their adventures but also acknowledges that this cannot be completely free of risk. It is exactly the same with our explorations of the subterranean world of dark sexual fantasies. The risks are worth it, the rewards are incredible.
What are the rewards? Aside from just being really fucking hot? It is bonding. Deeply bonding. There is nothing like going on an adventure to really bring people close together. It is thrilling, profoundly thrilling, to feel in a moment like you cannot possibly take any more, only to be pushed even further beyond that threshold and survive the experience! It expands your sense of who you are and what you can do. D/s has shown me that I am far stronger and braver than I ever thought possible. But mostly… it’s hot. When my Dom touches me nowadays, it is as if my mind switches off and I am floating in a murky haze of arousal. When his eyes go dark and my gut clenches with fear, it is a thrilling and intoxicating fear that I suspect is paralleled by people who are addicted to sky-diving. Finally, as a masochist, when I am forced by my Dom into doing something I genuinely do not want, when I am made to feel truly miserable… these experiences will turn into the most potent memories of which I will later furiously masturbate to.
As I have written about extensively before, my relationship with my previous Dom contained some elements of genuine emotional abuse, as well as a time, before we had a full CNC agreement, where my previous Dom crossed a hard limit of mine by engaging in breath play.
Breath play is an inherently dangerous activity and so for a long time, it was a hard limit of mine. One day towards the end of the first year of our relationship, heavily intoxicated and in the midst of something of an emotional breakdown, he one night started to choke me and restrict my breathing. At the time, I found this experience terrifying which made me profoundly aroused and I tentatively broached the subject very soon after as he had crossed a boundary that I had not consented to. (In retrospect, I wish I had broached it more assertively but it took me awhile to properly realise how much the experience troubled me.) He was apologetic and expressed gratitude for my communicating to him and in fact, because fear and non-consent are such a turn-on for me, I felt this experience as profoundly arousing. I even wrote erotica about it. A month or two later, I broke up with him for unrelated reasons but the sense of confusion around my being turned on – by what was essentially assault – really left me feeling a lot of fear and distrust around my own sexuality. Because I had been so turned on by the experience, I do believe it stopped me from realising how fucked up what happened was. It stopped me from properly addressing my concerns and fears with him.
And so two years later I once again entered a relationship with this Dom. This time, our intimacy and love grew to a point where, at my request, we entered into a CNC agreement that was similar to the one I am currently in, albeit a tad more rudimentary. This became, at that point in my life, the most powerfully intense sexual connection I had yet experienced. I believe there is a psychological shift that can take place within a submissive in a long term relationship where at some point, you start to truly believe in your dynamic and in your lack of rights. I would sometimes describe it as a feeling of being brainwashed. It is, in fact, incredibly erotically potent but it’s also risky in ways I did not yet perceive (though may have gleaned with the breath play experience). I did not realise the risks until after that night in New York…
As aforementioned, I’ve already written in great detail about his emotionally abusive behaviour in New York, in particular one night when he extensively verbally abused me. Within that writing, I mention what happened at the end of that night:
“I remember that night he held me down and fucked me while whispering the cruel, nasty, humiliating things that had always been a part of our D/s dynamic and which had always turned me on intensely. Except now it felt different and so I lay there, crying, until he came inside me. My crying was not an unusual part of our sex life, in fact it was something that we both sought out as it turned us on, but this felt different. I no longer felt emotionally safe. “I probably shouldn’t have done that tonight” he said as he held me. “I’m ok” I whispered back, through tears.”
I believe that this was the moment when something between us broke irreparably. I am not sure that either he or I could have realised how deeply it would break things but our D/s have been built upon a deep foundation of trust and fundamental safety. Though his fucking me that night was technically within our rules, I believe it hurt us both. I remember that night as he fucked me… I had this sick, cold feeling inside me which would not leave me for the entire duration of our New York holiday and for several months afterwards. It felt like something had died inside me, like we had gone too close to the edge and fallen into the void. The fact that I almost committed suicide the very next day is deeply interrelated in ways that I am still unpacking. Trauma takes time to understand.
I was, however, in denial. Deeply in love and desperate for things to feel ok when we returned from New York, I pushed for us to reconnect through BDSM. He was, understandably, reticent but I insisted it was what I wanted, I felt this desperate desire to be close to him again and I suppose I hoped our D/s bond would… fix us.
One night I said to him “I want you to make me afraid, really afraid.”
“Are you sure?”
He put his hand around my throat and lifted me into the air for a brief moment before he did something we hadn’t done before, he punched me in the stomach. Hard. Winded and in pain, I started immediately sobbing and he did it several more times. It was terrifying and I was, of course, profoundly aroused.
When he then fucked me, I screamed at him.
“You bastard. You stupid fucking bastard.”
When we were finished, he whispered to me.
“Babe, I need you.”
“I need you too…” I whispered back through tears “I’m lonely without you.”
Then I asked him about the punching. My stomach still hurt and I wondered, out loud, if he had researched this type of play before.
The cold, sick feeling came back. The same feeling I’d had the day after he broke my hard limit three years ago, the same feeling I had that night in New York… I realised that I was not safe. Some later research confirmed this, punching someone without understanding the risks is incredibly reckless and dangerous. Shortly after, I ended the relationship and have not seen him since. I hope never to.
CNC in My Current Relationship
I’ve always eroticised fear, violation and degradation. However, my relationship with my first Dom gave me a deep distrust, disgust and fear of my desires. My experiences taught me that within the sort of relationship I crave, the boundaries between true violation and consensual play can be… grey and slippery. I had learned that when I was genuinely in danger, with a partner who didn’t have my best interests at heart, the situation would become confused by the fact that danger and violation arouses me so greatly.
For some time after my New York experience, I was unable to orgasm without crying. My sexuality felt unsafe to me and so I deeply wished to rid myself of it. For awhile, I felt it would be most wise for me to simply not engage in any more BDSM play, I felt I was responsible for getting myself into such messy experiences and that the safest course of action would be a sort of kink related abstinence.
But the heart wants what the heart wants and the cunt wants what the cunt wants. Over time I started dabbling in play again, with my then girlfriend, with friends and with this one person at a festival which is a story for another day… And then I met my current Dom. Our connection was at first a cerebral one of deep friendship, growing love and a shared affinity towards many things such as art, nature, comedy and so on. Unlike my relationship with my first Dom (where into D/s fast and hard long before we knew one another as people) my new D/s relationship bloomed slowly, organically, cautiously, thoughtfully and intentionally. It continues to do so.
I now believe that this slow bloom and creation of trust is fundamental to a healthy D/s dynamic. With my new Dom, I have in fact played in ways that have felt more intense, more terrifying and more intoxicating than what I experienced with my first Dom and we both feel that this is only the very beginning as we are only a year in and still building the foundations of trust, stability and security around our relationship. In short, we are gently tangling our lives together and building something that feels strong. And increasingly safe.
My last Dom was resistant to intimacy to say the least. He found conversations and communication gruelling and while I do not regret my sexual experiences with him as they led me to where I am today, his emotional abuse and the lack of safety, comfort and trust I felt with him was dangerous when combined with the complexities of my sexual desire.
So while the CNC agreement I have with my current Dom might bear some superficial resemblances to my current dynamic, the structures that support it are fundamentally different. Yes, with CNC I accept some degree of emotional risk but I now feel that I have a partner who had my deepest interests at heart and will, if things go wrong, be there besides me to pick up the pieces. This is completely, fundamentally different to what I had with my first Dom.
I have handed my body and self to someone who understands the gravity and immensity of his responsibility to me. We stand side by side and like partners who climb mountains together, we have each other’s backs.
(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.
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.
(This is an old one from 2013.)
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.
(This is something I wrote for a fetish website back in 2013. Content warning, it speaks of my fantasies regarding rough and non-consensual sex. These are strictly within the realm of fantasy/consensual kink.)
I want absolute disinhibition.
Self-consciousness is paralyses, thoughts distract, detract. Shut the fuck up.
I want to forget that I forgot to shave my legs. Wait, no, I just don’t want to care. I normally enjoy emphasising my femininity but right now I want the animal, untamed, uncivilised. My physicality is imperfect biology, I want his fingers digging into the subcutaneous fat around my waist, my hips, my heavy and low breasts all manifestations of nature’s plans for my body. I never want children and the fact that I was made for reproduction is redundant but nevertheless, there it is. Blood, bone and meat, I was born to die and already I can see the signs of my aging and mortality in the tiny lines that have begun to appear on my face, in the changing shape and mass of my arse, gravity compels my skin with its downward pull, as if slowly dragging my flesh into the dirt I will someday rot in.
In this moment I don’t want to hide or deny my mortality under makeup, I don’t want to style my hair into a semblance of obedience, I don’t want to awkwardly attempt to shape myself into a simulacrum of a more slender and firm 18 year old self in order to get the sex I want so much more now than I ever did then. It is nature or culture’s dirty trick that in the apparent prime of my desirability, my desire was the flick of flame on a matchstick. Now it’s a goddamn bushfire that is spreading interstate.
I want my hair grabbed in fists full, I want to hear the ripping sound as strands tear from my scalp because fuck my vanity. Fuck beauty, fuck clean, sanitised, organised. I want to fight, frenzied, violent, teeth, nails and the guttural screaming of a woman who might just kill you if only she could. I don’t want to win. I want to be defeated by my smallness and relative weakness, overpowered by an animal larger than I. I want to be brutally invaded from behind and to lose track of what is in what hole where when what. I want to be nothing but sweat, spit, tears cum and the taste of blood in my mouth.
I will be viciously, brutally, repeatedly raped in a way that is a complete cessation of any semblance of the civilized. In the aftermath, I want to lie for a long time, still trapped underneath him, neither of us speaking. Eventually he will pull out of me and we will fall asleep, warm, mute, mammalian.
Later, I will shower, shave, deodorise and civilise. I’ll scowl in the mirror at my imperfections then head out the door. Smart, crisp, clean I will smile and spend my day being a productive citizen.
I will wince when a stranger brushes by and unknowingly knocks one of my bruises, my white panties will be wet from his semen which has trickled out of me and the tenderness in my cunt and arsehole will not subside for several days.
(I wrote this in August last year for an artistic feminist porn project that I shot to come out late this year with Post Reverie but I thought I’d post it here too because… because writing this felt important at the time. Because it’s intense and personal and that is important. The photo is one I took awhile back.)
I want to find words that consolidate all the pieces of who I am and what I desire, I want to use language to pin myself down and hold myself still so that we can spend some time together. But isn’t the reality of the thing that we are all phenomena in flux? Shifting somethings consisting of chemistry, biology, shapes, patterns, atoms. As soon as I believe I perceive the shape of myself, it begins to melt into something else.
But in this current moment, the shape I am is probably this. This 33 year old female thing with hair she feels is too thin and eyes that can’t see too far, with heavy breasts that men suck the nipples of for too long, an arse she likes to spread open and a cunt that she has lasered the hair off because the feeling of permanent pornographic exposure arouses her and because she likes the subtle sensations of her girlfriend’s tongue.
That shape calls itself “me”, “I” and a few different names depending on the context. So this is me. I am a creature, a thing of meat and flesh in flux, morphing and shifting as time passes through me. And what do I like? What do I like? How can I expect to solidify my sexual identity when nothing else stays still? I cannot. But the moment I say that, it feels as meaningless as everything and I feel mute and unable to connect or communicate. So I find my definitions in common themes and currents and stories of where I’ve been and how I’m seen. I start to say “I am”.
My cultural context is that I am an outsider. I’ve wrapped myself in words like “polyamorous, kinky, sex worker, slut”, I inhabit the periphery of society with other words like “disabled, artist, queer, woman”. My cultural context is that I am an insider. Existence has arbitrarily granted me privileges of education, relative wealth, the colour of my skin and the dumb luck of being born into a time and place where I can express my notions of myself without being stoned to death.
I am monstrous feminine and devious perversion, an abject other protected by a thin veneer of respectability and the tiny smidge of extra freedom allowed to artists. Words are used to tame, “eccentric, quirky, strange” and alleviate the fears my difference arouses. Strict, paternalistic, dictatorships are right to distrust and restrict the freedom of anyone whose existence subverts the dominant and comforting paradigm, we reveal the horrifying, chaotic truth of reality – that the only truth is change. I am cute and small, I am gigantic and terrifying.
I am a filthy whore who is familiar with the feeling of choking on cock while drool runs down her chin and neck. I am an insatiable slut who eats pussy like she is starving, pushing her entire face into the labia as if she is trying to merge with it. I am a wild thing that craves the calming catharsis of violent beatings and a hand around my throat. I am a beautiful animal who wears colours that stimulate her salivary glands and low cut tops to attract the attention of potential mates. I am a sweaty old pervert who sits at home wearing ugly stained pyjamas and masturbates to porn she finds morally questionable.
I am soft. My physicality and my sensitivity. I wish more lovers would tell me they love my belly the way I love my belly. I’ve never wanted it to be flat. I am strong. Living is hard work that eventually destroys every single being. I am hurt. I am angry. I am furious. I am fucking furious.
For a little while, I played at being property. I gave myself over entirely to another, to my Dom. I let him dictate how I dressed, who I fucked, how I was fucked. With my consent, he beat me, he berated me, he violated me and he loved me. I loved him. I was intoxicated by the intensity of it all, the humiliation, the adoration. I was shocked at the depths of my emotional entanglement with him, when he threatened to have his property tattooed, I was horrified at the knowledge that I would probably acquiesce. Head in the toilet, mouth full of his piss, licking his horrible friend’s balls and altering my entire identity to suit his whims, I was addicted to the dark music of this subterranean microcosm we had constructed. I found myself traversing territories with few other tourists and we touched upon private vulnerabilities and taboos that I may only ever carry internally, until they fade and fall away from memory. For the entirety of that time, I invested my identity into a single word… “submissive”.
That thing we had, that intoxicating, magical, horrible thing… it ended suddenly, violently. It ended well before its time. We should have had many more years yet, we should have watched each other grow old and so I am left with the feeling of carrying around an open wound that leaves me howling. Now I have a knowledge that sex can leave me utterly drunken and immersed and so I feel a new fury at him for destroying the precious thing we had because yes, I blame him completely. Trust is slow to build, fundamentally important and so easy to exterminate. So lately… I feel rage. At him. At everyone. At the sort of selfishness, greed and fear which is causing the destruction of the Great Barrier Reef and the destruction of every little thing that is beautiful and strange and precious and will never exist again. At the ugly, hateful selfishness that destroyed us.
The thing that’s hard to express, however, is that rage is its own sort of intoxicant. I am flirting with my anger and my hurt, attempting to find a way into it that will allow me to harness this wild new energy and channel it into my own agendas. Into a new sort of strength and power and sex that I can invest into other loves. I’m painting more and just recently, I beat a man and sunk my teeth so deeply into his skin that the marks were purple. The sound I made while doing it was the same bellow of animal fury I used to make when my Dom would painfully penetrate me. And then the man fucked me and we made sure that it hurt in all the right ways. I always want it to hurt.
The next night, my girlfriend ordered me to sit still on her bed. She covered my head with a pillowcase and violently pushed a butt plug into my arse so that it actually bled a little which, of course, I like. She then brutally fucked me with a strap-on and the combination of the plug in my arse and her cock in my cunt which is relatively small and tight caused me to scream and cry and cum loudly and violently. She is brilliant, that beautiful, glowing woman who I love and I was so grateful to discover that I can still lose myself in the sublime, ugly violence of sex. And that somewhere in that lies a thread of fury.
It’s new to me, this anger stuff. I don’t yet have the stories and words to define or explain it. All I know is that it feels big and important. He ignited this fury, that stupid, wonderful man I loved. Love. Will probably always love. He unlocked the filthy whore inside me and for that I will be eternally grateful to him. He also gifted me with his rage but I don’t want mine to be mean, petty and uncontrolled like his, I want mine to be brilliantly radiant. And I want to stay soft, radically soft. And I want to stay kind, furiously kind. His sort of anger destroys worlds, I hope that my sort of anger will protect them.
My collision with that man who I love caused a nuclear explosion and the effects were devastating and almost fatal. But now strange new flowers are growing in the altered landscape of my self-perception and their scent intrigues me. I am beautiful, ugly, monstrous feminine and lately as I hold up every single part of myself with curiosity and pride, I feel like maybe I am really fucking powerful.
Recently I started making my own little youtube videos and though I’m still feeling awkward as I learn to navigate a new medium, I am finding it to be a very exciting, raw and direct means of communication and self expression. I feel tremendously excited but also incredibly vulnerable, as I allow my imperfections and awkwardness to be seen.
But I am proud of this video particularly.