I thought I wanted him to make me crawl, to strip me emotionally bare and leave me a teary mess on the floor. Turns out, what I want and what I need are rarely the same thing.
It was just another Friday night at the local SM club. A. and I snagged a semi private room to play. We’d negotiated earlier that evening. In the short time I’ve known A., he’s become a valued friend. We’d played at a recent party, had a blast, and wanted to explore our scene dynamic a bit more.
Emotionally, I was ready to be torn down. As backwards as this may sound, I use spaces of weakness and vulnerability as a means to rebuild myself in strength. Kink, when done with the right people, is a safe container for me to explore those spaces.
I was in partial suspension with my left leg elevated, as if I were tangled in a giant red web.
Our mutual friends, T and J, were watching us in a far corner of the room.
A. forced me to meet his stare and punched deep into my chest. The rhythm of his strikes became a second heartbeat. Growls released from my throat. That became the scene’s coda; me, him, and the pounding of his fist.
At times, he circled me and talked in my direction, trying to see what buttons to push, where he could weasel his way into my head. I was a fly. He was a spider toying with his dinner.
It’s not uncommon that I lose my words in scene. I leave my head, where all my turns of phrase reside, and settle into my skin. That night was no exception. He asked me a question. I don’t remember what, but when answering, I could barely string two words together. This seemed to displease A.
“You are the most unresponsive cunt I’ve ever played with.” He wrapped my standing thigh with the ends of his rope. I buckled under the sting and let out a wail.
“That was probably too loud a noise for the quiet space.”
Another whack on my thigh. Another wail.
“Now answer my question.”
I did.
Time and place disappeared. Something feral was rising.
More pounding on my chest. More quiet growls came out of me.
“That’s it. Growl. You know something wants to release.”
He was a tiger staring me down, with his own terrible growl. He gnashed his teeth inches in front of my face. I kept my eyes locked on him.
I heard the familiar click of his knife. He pressed the flat of the blade against my throat, and wondered aloud what parts of me he could carve up.
Could he carve his name in my thigh? He knew, after all, that I have no local partners.
“I can claim it.” He said, pondering the blade. He traced light lines in my thigh, then dragged it across my arms and chest, without drawing blood.
“I wonder what would happen if I cut your tendons. Would anyone come to your aid?”
I didn’t understand the question.
“I mean, T and J, they haven’t known you that long. Do you think they really care? Do you think that anyone would come to your aid?”
“Of course they’d come. They’d hear me screaming and come to help me.”
I remembered the fateful summer day at hippie camp when I heard my ankle snap. I lay screaming on the grass as sheets of rain fell down on me. People emerged from all corners to get me stabilized, dry, and warm while an ambulance was called.
“That broken leg of yours has given you lots of comfort, hasn’t it?” He asked.
“Yes. Yes it has.”
“Well, there’s a lot of screaming going on in this club. They’d probably think it was just part of the scene.”
When I was in the hospital, a few people from the event had come to visit me. They told me that there was a lot of screaming at that event – primal screaming, kinky screaming, screams of joy, fear, and release. My scream was different. It chilled the blood of people sleeping on the other side of the campground.
“No.” I said. “That’s a very different scream.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I am.”
He could not demoralize me.
“But how can you be sure that someone would come?”
“I guess I can’t.”
This is where I felt something start to shift. I looked at the ropes holding me in place. They felt different on my skin, but I couldn’t figure out why. The knife clicked shut. My tendons remained in tact.
Somewhere deep inside me, a final gear shifted into place. T later said she saw something click in my eyes. A surge of warmth spread from my pelvis, through my throat, and out my eyes. My palms felt as if they’d been ignited.
Now the ropes just felt ridiculous.
Who are you, A., I thought to think that you could hold me? I could take you with a thought.
Again he turned me towards him and pounded my chest. A cheshire cat grin spread across my face. Now my stare was one of challenge, not submission. I knew I could take whatever he had to dish out. Soon enough, I tired of this game.
“I’m not in sub space anymore.” I told him.
“How are you feeling?” He asked
“Powerful.” I replied. He seemed interested but not altogether surprised.
My skin was buzzing. I remember thinking, so this is what people mean when they talk about summoning the divine feminine. At hippie camp, I’d felt something similar. However, in that space, I felt like I was welcoming an outside force to walk in my skin for a while. That night, the power I walked in was an aspect of myself.
I told A. all this during aftercare, not sure what reaction I’d get.
“Yeah, that’s what I was going for.” came the answer “I didn’t intend to take you on a shamanic journey when we started the scene, but that’s definitely where it went.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Sometimes, when I sit with my own thoughts and conceptualize my relationship to kink, I forget how powerful a tool it can be. Kink can be used to explore all sorts of things. People can use it to expand their sex life, create a conduit for deep connection, express mutual love and trust, or manifest their darkest fears. The other night, I transcended my own experience of what kink is. Through BDSM, A. facilitated a long overdue awakening for me. Today, the ground feels different beneath my feet… more solid, somehow.
That strength is in me always. I just need to remember that I can bring it out at will.
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