We love BDSM. Are we Freaks?

Throughout these weeks of edgy sexual D/s exploration – no wait, it’s months now – I go to Fetlife hoping to see more people “like me.”  I want to feel normal.  And I can’t look away.  Well, I can easily scroll by all the exhibitionist girls with stilettos and waxed pussies trying to lure people to their web sites.  It’s the normal looking people that absorb me for hours – a little overweight, showing off whippings, ass fistings, their flesh red and bruised and cut and bleeding, jizz and cum everywhere.  All stunning in their torture extremes, boastful of those extremes – look at what I can take.

Oh yes, I am absorbed, but none of it makes me feel better about much milder me, nor does it make me feel more normal.  My fascination makes me fear of going that far, becoming freakish.  I like a little spanking, a little nipple clamp maybe.  Blog31Quote2I like the submission mind game.  But I don’t like the idea of going over some dark line, getting lost in freak territory, becoming unrecognizable and unreal to myself.

Up until now, David Deida and his writings, like Intimate Intimate Communion has provided a wonderful framework for me to understand what is happening with me and my Daddy husband, helped me understand why our exploration in ravishment and surrender are so thrilling to us, and why it has so dramatically opened hears and bodies to each other.  Yet nowhere in what I have read from Deida so far does he talk about BDSM or dominance and submission.  He talks about the masculine partner loving his woman “forcefully” and “even aggressively,” and how the feminine partner can yield to this energy.  He talks about going after “the style of intimate relationship that best serves our expression of love.”  He says “every desire, every taboo must be embraced and then converted, by love.”  But he will not describe what all that may look like.  He recommends embracing the taboo without naming the taboo.

To me, it seems he is referring to power exchange.  But his writing is very airy, almost in the vein of romantic poetry.  He doesn’t bring it down to earth.  And so his advice is lacking in practical applications.  It is not “implementable,” as one poster who is familiar with work wrote on a message board I discovered.

I am frustrated by this.  I want a wise teacher to tell me, Yes, woman, letting your husband torture your nipples is a spiritual exercise.  I want to continue my noble project of thinking of “submission as a path to God.”  I don’t want it all to just be a perverted fetish.  For a brief while I am comforted by the idea that one BDSM devotee posits on a message board, that Deida likely considers BDSM an area to “grow through” or a “kink to be ironed out,” and that eventually a couple will discover that such extremes aren’t needed to open up one sexually.

At first, I like this idea. It calms the feminist chatter in my head that never quite goes away that I am doing something wrong by withdrawing my right to consent to my husband. I like thinking, “Okay, this D/s stuff is a phase we are moving through on the way to some greater cosmic place, a proving ground for some relationship nirvana we are on our way toward.”

But then I think, no, attributing this glorious physical heat we are experiencing as a phase on the way to something else is doing a disservice to that heat.  Why can’t the heat be a noble end unto itself?  Blog31Quote1There is a reason there are so many women on Fetlife, asses in the air, with blissed-out looks on their faces, waiting to be beaten, penetrated, loved roughly.  There is a reason why 50 Shades of Grey, by all accounts a terribly written book, is so fucking popular, even more popular than Harry Potter.  The desire to be dominated is clearly a universal longing.

To look for something beyond the immersive experience of BDSM strikes me a little like standing on top of ladder in order to look for a ladder.  I am already there.  Michael grabs me hard, and I am immediately present, immediately pulled into my body.  Immediate nirvana.

Maybe that is why I end up drifting away from the gaudy entertainments of Fetlife and start reading what surveys and studies I can find about BDSM.  According to the science of statistics, BDSM practitioners are actually happier than their vanilla counterparts.

For example, one Australian study shows that BDSM people show signs of being more psychologically healthy than the average population.  Another 2013 study, called “Psychological Characteristics of BDSM Practictioners,” explains why:  “Individuals experienced a reduction in the stress hormone cortisol and elevation in testosterone levels after kink activities suggesting that there is a biochemical enhancement for some who engage in these behaviors.”  This same study also “revealed improved measures of psychological relationship closeness in participants.  Both people who received and administered kink activities were notable for these increased measures of intimacy.”

Furthermore, “BDSM participants were less neurotic, more extroverted, more open to new experiences, had more conscientiousness, yet were less agreeable compared to non-BDSM control groups.  The subjective well-being of BDSM was higher than that of the control group, and the study summarized that people who engage in BDSM are characterized by greater psychological and interpersonal strength and autonomy, rather than by psychological maladaptive characteristics.”

Okay then.  I can stop worrying, go ahead and set aside this need to justify my sexual longings as noble and not antifeminist, and especially “not sick.”  Although I suppose this blog is exactly that, a justification, my own version of women posting their pictures on Fetlife, asses in the air, pussies exposed, look what I can take.  I am just doing it with words instead of photos.

But writing through this – and hearing back from women like me, going through what I am going through, takes me ever closer to peace with it all.  Writing this allows me to let it be what it is – the most intense sexual and love experience of my life.

Who Likes It Rough?

This afternoon I find myself in a jagged mood for no reason.  Some sort of hormonal anger where I feel like throwing things (do throw things, my hairbrush, my sandal, go bouncing off the couch).  I send Michael a message that I won’t be there when he gets home from work, I’m headed to get a drink at the bar round the corner as I’m in no mood to be submissive tonight.  I add that the only way he’d get me to submit would be to wrestle me into it.  I write it like a joke, but I am actually issuing a challenge.  I’m craving the peace of submission to calm my feeling of aggression and secretly hoping he will wrestle me into it.

But he gets home before I can get out the door, and he can see the challenge in my face.  My husband rises to the occasion, and says, “Discipline must be maintained, on your knees.”

I feel a flare of “You jerk, I just told you I’m having a hard day.”  But then I get on my knees and suck his cock, with pleasure, but also with a toothy roughness.

His makes a noise of alarm and I look up at him and smile.  “Am I scaring you?”

He laughs uncomfortably.  “You’re scaring the hell out of me.  That’s enough.”

I admit, I’m satisfied he didn’t let me slip out of submitting to him, which I tell him later at the bar.  We drink and eat and laugh, and by the end of dinner, my jagged mood has subsided.  But still, the idea of him wrestling me into submission has taken hold of me.  And when we get home and he says he’s going to tie a breast harness onto me, I say, “Make me.”

And so begins a wrestling match, me pushing him away and letting my momentary rebellion free.  It is delightful.  And quick.  He subdues me oh so easily, holds me down with a grip like granite, any attempt to move is impossible.  He is stronger than I imagined and it is thrilling to me, I am dazzled by his strength.  Blog24Quote1I somehow thought that if ever a man was determined to have his way with me, I’d be able to fight like hell and be able to free myself.  But now I know this is an illusion.  Until this moment, I honestly did not realize men intrinsically had such raw power over me.  For the first time I understand how consciously gentle most men are with their women, which is touching and thrilling on a whole other level.

Now I am feeling wonderfully subdued and ready to submit as he ties me in a breast harness.  He tells me he is going to spank me, and me, half-drunk from our time at the bar, I say,  “And then what will you do to me?”

He says, “Nothing.  We’re taking a sex break because yesterday you said you’re getting too sore.”

My excitement deflates.  “Who cares what I said yesterday?  You’re just going to spank me and get me all hot and bothered and then nothing?”

“That’s right,” he says.

My jagged anger rushes back with a vengeance, and I’m maybe more than half drunk because I start ripping the clawing at the harness, trying to get it off.  “Well, then you can’t spank me.”

“Don’t take that off,” he says firmly.

I yank my arm away. “How dare you tell me I’m too sore!  I’m the only one who knows if I’m too sore!  You can’t tell me how I feel!”

Then he starts yelling, too.  “Don’t take that off!  I’m the Daddy!”

One might think this is where we’d laugh at how absurd this moment.  But no.  I just keep yelling.  “Not even my Daddy can tell me how I feel!”

I am unwinding the rope now.  He sits down and tells me I am topping from the bottom.   I snort, “Oh horrible me, just wanting you to fuck me.”

“Well,” he says, “I’m not about to get aroused now.”

“Oh thanks, now I’m an erection killer.”  Then I storm off to the bedroom.

I throw myself on our bed.  And that’s when the absurdity hits me.  I am a silly person.  I am also a terrible submissive.  He comes in and I apologize, and we finally laugh at ourselves then, at our drunken brawl.

Feeling a little better, we lie there on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.  “Are we going to just go to bed now?” I ask.

He says no.  He sits up against the headboard, tells me to lie across his lap.  I start to crawl over to him, talking as I lay myself across his lap, “Yeah, but are you doing this because you think I want you to?  Is this me topping from the bottom?”

He doesn’t say anything, just roughly drags my panties down.  His hand came down on my ass with a resounding smack, shockingly hard, blistering hot.  My questioning mind shuts off.  He delivers ten spanks that leave me gasping and squirming in pain.  Blog24Quote2I barely have to time to catch my breath before he flips me over and holds my face down against the mattress.  He kneels over me and shoves his cock into my mouth.  He fucks my mouth hard, cock filling my throat until I can barely breathe.  I cannot move, cannot do anything but lie there, relaxed, an empty accepting sexual receptacle.

I am vaguely aware that if anyone else ever treated me like this, it would be appalling, traumatic.  But because it is him, because I have surrendered, and am making my surrender literal.  My mouth yields, my mind smooths out, calm, while my body fills with blood and heat.  Being fucked rough and rude by my husband is a primal thrill that satisfies like nothing else, like scratching a deep itch I didn’t even know I had.  And oh I get off, I get off …