I’ve accepted that I’m kinky. I’m proud of it and talk about it openly. But that wasn’t always the case. When I was a teenager, I wondered why I was so different from other girls my age. Why I wanted the things I did and why the word “no” never crossed my lips. I had no one to talk to about the desires I had and no one to guide me. I was reckless, not caring how my actions affected others. Or myself for that matter. My sexual exploits earned me the reputation of a slut and I accepted it as fact. My behavior eventually caught the attention of the town bad boy and like gasoline and fire, we were a dangerous combination. I like to think it was my sparkling personality that drew him to me like a moth to a flame, but that’s unlikely the case.
Like me, he was different. Control seeped from his pores and I could feel his strength in the air around me. I could feel it in the way he dug his fingers into my flesh, the way he wrapped my hair around his hand. I knew I belonged to him and I felt safe. But there came a time when the line into non-consensual territory was crossed and he used the very things that attracted me to him as means to cause me pain. No matter how many times I said “no” or pleaded with him to stop, he hurt me.
Beyond my unhealthy relationship as a teen, I considered myself the aggressor when it came to sex. For years, I used sex as a way to replenish some of the control that had been taken from me over and over again. But the sliver of control I took from each sexual encounter never really left me feeling satisfied. So I sought more, always feeling like something was missing.
The pieces of my life that I’d always questioned began to fall into place just a year ago. I joined Twitter to promote my writing and as I added more followers to my list, I became part of a clique whose conversations were laced with sexual innuendo or were downright raunchy. It didn’t take long for me to realize they were kinky and as they tweeted about riding crops and floggers, I retreated to the sidelines. I didn’t fit that mold. At least I thought I didn’t. But the more I watched the conversations fly, it hit home.
Holy motherfucking shit.
I wasn’t a bystander. I was on the team.
I poured my guts out to Heather and she helped me sort through the viscous chunks of my life that still had the tendency to bleed like fresh wounds. Suddenly, gray areas that felt like gaping holes in my soul were being filled in with the answers about who I was. Who I always had been. I am a submissive woman and I finally understood that I was never weak, that it took an enormous amount of strength to place myself in the hands of another. But even with this newfound identity tingling every sense that I possessed, I didn’t dive into kinky endeavors without lots of research. I became a sponge, soaking in every word from books on D/s relationships and I asked experienced kinksters tons of questions before the palm of a hand ever touched my bare ass.
I was ready to be on my knees with my wrists bound behind my back knowing that I wasn’t an abomination, but I needed a play partner to do so. I created a brutally honest profile on a dating site expressing my needs and within days, Mr. Kryptonite was hot on my heels. He claimed to be the Dominant I needed, saying all the right things as he wooed me. I found no obvious red flags. I’d read the books and was mentally prepared, but reading and doing are two totally different things. I breathed deep and even got a little teary-eyed as I gave myself to this man who promised to hurt me. In a good way. His spankings were precise and the sting of each slap shot through my body tearing into my brain. The realization that I liked the pain he was inflicting was earth shattering. I was finally at peace with myself, and I wanted more.
That was my first experience with bdsm after “coming out.” And even though I was high with the anticipation of what lay ahead of me, I didn’t fly into it blindly without a safety net in place. I gave Heather the name of the hotel and the room number. She passed the information along to a friend who lived an hour south of me just in case I didn’t check in with her as we’d agreed beforehand. She was prepared to call the police if necessary.
It worries me when I see people jumping head-first into the lifestyle without an understanding of it on the front-side. I want to hold their hands between mine and say, “honey, slow down.” I want to lift their chin with my finger and look into their eyes saying, “you need to read. A lot.” I want to shake them by the shoulders and shout, “what do you mean you don’t know what a safeword is?!”
I’ve heard complaints about all of the rules and protocol and blah, blah, blah. And it’s true. There’s a lot to learn and it can be overwhelming. As with anything though, rules are in place for a reason. In the case of bdsm, they exist for your safety so quit your bitchin’.
