Thursday, July 24, 2014

Seeing My Partner Again

So, I finally got to see my partner face-to-face again. This also meant that I got to touch and be touched by him for the first time. Oh, heavens. It was good.

Of course, I was nervous at first. We met up for coffee first at a local shop and after an hour or so of chatting - really feeling each other out and deciding if the chemistry we’d thought we’d felt some two months before had been felt and was still viable.

It was!

But things were different now. I was more affectionate and willing to touch people. I was more willing to invite touch from people. I was, for the first time in my life, able to appreciate affection for the sake of affection.

Still, I don’t know if it was because he knew of my general avoidance of touch or because we were in public, he didn’t touch me. I initiated small touch, brushing his arm, allowing my foot to brush his leg when I crossed my legs, and waited for his response. He didn’t seem to mind my touching him, but he certainly didn’t recoil from it.

When we had finished our coffees, I asked what his thoughts were on the next ten minutes. We had hours together, so, what did he want to do next?

We had previously discussed getting a hotel room that first night - we had roommates and wanted to minimize disruptions to others. He pulled out his phone and we looked at options.

Having chosen a hotel, we drove over, purchased a room for the night, and didn’t leave again until check-out some 18 hours later. And it was good.

It started slowly. Gentle touching. Nervousness on my end. Uncertainty. I had so little experience with sex in general, and here was a beautiful Adonis willing to tie me up and spank me if I asked, willing to have sex with me or not, leaving it to me to set the pace and ask for what I want, refuse offers for what I did not want.

Kissing, a massage, a gentle touch, him feeling out my body and testing my responses, my touching his body and marveling at the feel of his skin.

And I’m confused.

Sacrifice.

That’s what my best friend said to me. When I told her about my experience with the presenter, about that workshop, about the first kiss and it’s perfection, about the second kiss and what happened and how it was so more than everything and connection and the universe and a thin place where I experienced God in myself and in the presenter and a co-mingling of that divine reality and who understands that because even I didn’t, and how much I had wanted to have sex with him but had committed to not having sex with other people while my partner and I explored whether or not we were suited to a long term relationship.

Sacrifice.

That is what she saw in my decision to honor my arrangement with my partner. And when I heard her say it, I knew it was true. That is what I had done. I had sacrificed something I had wanted desperately, I had sacrificed something I actually needed in this transformative experience of becoming more authentically myself. I had sacrificed that need to honor someone else.

I was kissing my partner and I was overwhelmed by the fact that he didn’t kiss me the way the presenter had kissed me. Touching him didn’t feel like touching the presenter. I hadn’t had sex with the presenter, but I knew in that moment, I couldn’t have sex with my partner this first time, because suddenly, our interaction was tainted by the presenter's presence and I mourned the sacrifice I had made.

Though I grew up in a conservative congregation of a liberal protestant denomination, I’ve had Catholic guilt for as long as I can remember. And it raised it’s ugly head. Guilt at thinking of another man. Guilt at wanting things I wasn’t allowed to have. Guilt at regretting choosing what was better for me - honoring my commitment in exploring a possible long term relationship in a monogamous fashion rather than choosing the pleasure of a single fixed-point-in-time relationship.

Fuck! I can’t fuck when I have this much guilt and confusion. Confusion because the presenter is NOT an option. Was never an option for anything beyond a one-time experience. Not an option even for that now. He should not be playing a part in my thoughts, but there he was, mucking things up.

I chose, very intentionally, to focus on my partner. On our time together. On this moment, as it was possible that this moment might lead to another.

Skillfully, artfully, his fingers began to dance over my body, coaxing from me first one and then a second orgasm in rapid succession.

Not long after, as a third began to build, my legs wrapped around his waist, he asked, “Is it okay if I enter you?”

Panic, from nowhere I could immediately discern, overwhelmed me. “No,” I said, as my legs fell away, my entire body tensed, and I withdrew from him. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said gently. “It’s okay. Just look at me.” My eyes were closed and tears were beginning to pool in the corners, threatening to spill over and slip down my cheeks. “It’s okay,” he said again as I opened my eyes and looked into his.

I began to relax again. As my third orgasm pulsed through me, I began to settle back into the mostly comfortable state in which I had began when I first removed my bra and panties earlier in the evening.

“When you asked to enter me, were you thinking vaginal or anal?” I asked.

“Vaginal,” he said.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’m just not ready. I thought I would be but I can’t. I might be more okay with anal.”

“Only when you’re ready,” he said. I knew that we would not be having penetrative sex that night. I struggled with feelings of guilt - had I set up a situation where it was expected? Even so, I believe in body autonomy. I had a right to say no. But I wanted to have sex. Didn’t I? Well, yes. Sort of. But it was terrifying. Not in the act itself, but I knew I could walk away after everything that had already happened and be okay. But we had agreed not to get emotionally involved straight off, to take things slow in that regard, and there was no way I could have sex with him and not be immediately and powerfully emotionally bonded.

So, we didn’t have sex. Because I knew that I couldn’t compartmentalize the sex with him the way I had been able to with my previous partners. And that in part had to do with the intensity of the second kiss with the presenter. It opened something in me and I couldn’t close it. I couldn’t exactly redirect it to my partner the way I wanted to, but I knew that sex would not be clinical. I was already thinking about the fact that I regretted sacrificing that experience and I knew I would be thinking about how that might have differed. This wouldn’t be fair to my partner.

I did, however have three or four more orgasms. I’m not sure. I lost track in a whole puddle of blissy-bliss.

Using his skilled fingers a third orgasm followed. When we were done, had both taken care of other bodily needs, we cuddled and watched a movie. I think a fourth orgasm followed this and then we mostly just lay in bed together. I stroked my partner to orgasm as well.

My partner remarked that he could tell I was still nervous because I hadn’t asked for anything in particular yet. I asked for what I wanted and he said it wasn’t the right time. My partner does not know what it cost me to ask him for what I wanted. He doesn’t know the whole of my history or the sexual abuse during my teen years, or the things my abuser/rapist said to me that completely fucked with my head and forever screwed up my feelings about my genitals or the degree of body dysmorphia I experience specific to my genitals both as a result of the things that man said to me as well as how my whole body has changed as I’ve lost weight.

My partner has no idea that when I asked him for what I wanted, I was making myself more vulnerable to him than I had ever before made myself vulnerable to anyone. Not just because it took a lot of courage for me to ask because of all of the above, but because I had become emotionally invested in the answer. His refusal because of “timing” wasn’t just a matter of not having my desires met; it was the most hurtful thing he could have said to me because it felt like a complete rejection of the enormous vulnerability I had offered to him.

So, I’m left with questions and he’s left without information and I’m afraid things are going to get really screwed up really quickly because I don’t know how to tell him at this juncture what happened to me when I was 15.

Though my partner had turned down my first request for what I wanted, when he next used the bathroom, I pulled out my anal beads and asked him to cuff me with his medical-style restraints and use it on me.

With my hands bound behind my back and my ankles bound together, I was on my stomach. My partner applied lubricant to the beads and to my ass and began to slowly insert the beads. I needed more and pulled my knees up under me, giving him greater access. It still wasn’t enough for me, and I pressed back toward him while pushing my hips higher in the air, moaning with pleasure as each graduated bead entered me.

Moaning and writhing with pleasure, restrained though I was, I begged him for more. And he gave me more, inserting the whole toy one bead at a time before slowly removing it and reinserting it. I knew I would come soon. I wanted more. I wanted everything. I wanted the dildo he had brought that matched the general dimensions of his own substantial penis.

Wet as I was, my partner added lube to the dildo. The problem, however, is that I was on my knees. While I have previously enjoyed doggy-style, the reality is everything just gets tighter when I’m on my knees taking it from behind. This is fine when my partner has an average to small penis (as both of my previous sexual partners had). But my particular anatomy does not accomodate large penises doggy-style and my partner is substantially larger in girth than the average man. Which means the dildo he brought that matches his dimensions is also much larger in girth than the average man.

Despite the extra lubrication, he didn’t even get the entirety of the tip in me when I told him it was too much, he had to stop, I couldn’t do it. It’s really a pinching sensation that I experience and it’s painful. At my prompting, my partner removed the toy and used his fingers to massage my g-spot instead. And I had my fourth or fifth orgasm that night.

After releasing the restraints coupling, my partner headed to the bathroom to clean the toys. I stretched out on my stomach and enjoyed feeling like I might never move again. I reached for my water bottle to find that I had emptied it earlier in the evening. My partner was kind enough to notice and refilled it for me. I drank half of it at once. I get so dehydrated when I play.

We both curled up in bed and snuggled naked. We both slept off and on, shifting position but always maintaining contact. It was nice.

Around 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning, I awoke and felt the two litres of water I’d consumed after our marathon sex. After voiding my bladder, I crawled back into bed and snuggled against my partner again. “Is everything okay?” he asked, my jostling the bed having roused him close enough to consciousness.

“Just using the bathroom,” I told him. He used it himself and when he returned, I asked, “May I have one more orgasm tonight?”

My partner again used his fingers to massage my g-spot until I was writhing and moaning and aching with pleasure, but I couldn’t quite get to the point of orgasm. I was still a bit dehydrated, tired, confused (oh, so confused!), and my body overwhelmed by all of the sensations from earlier in the evening. I reached down and began to massage my clitoris as he continued stroking my g-spot. Eventually I came and collapsed in a puddle of sexual satisfaction.

When we got up the next morning, we both showered and brushed our teeth and dressed. Then, he sat in the recliner to put on his boots and I curled up in his lap. He held me.

“Oh, drop sucks,” I said.

“It might not happen,” he told me.

“No. It’s going to happen,” I replied. “I can feel it starting already, right here,” I told him as I touched the center of his chest.

He told me his theory of drop being primarily related to cognitive dissonance and how perhaps on a subconscious level I was rejecting the bondage even if consciously I had believed it was acceptable to be cuffed.

I agree to a large degree on cognitive dissonance being a major factor in the drop experience. I did not, however, tell him that all of the cognitive dissonance I was feeling was because of my inability to keep the presenter our of our experience and not the experience my partner and I had actually shared the night before. And because of the vulnerability issue.

But, he held me and stroked my back as I curled in his lap with my head on his shoulder, feeling safe and accepted enough that I did not cry. I actually went about my day feeling good and confident and healthy apart from the presenter continuing to come back to my mind and remembering the cost I had paid there when I sacrificed the opportunity to have sex with him.

I texted my best friend about how much I regretted it and how confused I felt with regards to my partner now that I couldn’t let go of things with the presenter the way I thought I would. “You made your choice. You can’t go back and change it now, so there’s no point in regretting it,” she texted back. And she’s right.

So, I keep moving forward, focusing on what I have here, now, in front of me. Trying to discern if I’ll moving back to to my summer home single or attached by the end of the year. I keep telling myself I have to put the presenter to bed, stop thinking about him, stop holding onto the connection that was created when that powerful energy exchange took place. For the record, while I’m good at moving forward and focusing on the here and now when I keep myself busy, the letting go, the putting it to bed, the releasing my feelings of connection to the presenter…I’m not so good at those things.

“Exploring sexuality is better as a marathon than a sprint,” the presenter has said.

I keep focusing on my partner and moving forward slowly with him. I keep focusing on the idea that I can treat my relationship with the presenter as a marathon as well. No need to sprint toward him with the need to experience the things I sacrificed in our first encounter. I’m not done with him yet. I’m trying to take the long view of things. Eventually, I’ll see him again, if for nothing else, needlework and pictures. And if I don’t, I know that someday, with enough time and distance, without consistent contact (which the presenter is clear he doesn’t provide), the intensity will fade and he’ll become a memory that I will cherish forever as my first experience in this life. Eventually, I tell myself, I won’t want to go back.

In the meantime, I’ll continue to explore things with my partner. I’ll keep moving forward, with or without him. I’ll keep moving forward with or without either of them. I’ll continue to learn more about myself. I’ll continue moving forward, making it a marathon, rather than a sprint, and enjoying the fellowship of other runners I meet on this journey.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Drop

Drop sucks monkey balls.

I’ve never sucked monkey balls. I’ve never had contact with monkey balls. Fuck, I’ve been to the zoo, but I’ve never actually seen monkey balls. Monkeys at the zoo seem to get particularly modest when I visit their house. I wonder if they know I’m a pastor….

Anyway, this isn’t really about monkeys. Or their balls.

It’s about drop.

And drop is some hardcore bad stuff.

I didn’t experience drop after my first experience. The aftercare provided to me by the top was phenomenal. The follow-up a few days later was also super important in keeping me level. And, you know, I went to my bossy-boss and said, “Hey, head pastor of our church, let’s talk, because I like to be beaten. A lot. And I need to get some feedback on the wiggy-feeling-things going on and how I live authentically and with integrity and in relationship with my still-very-new-still-very-much-in-the-exploration-phase partner who might have a different understanding and definition of sex than I do, so….”

Process. Process. Process. It’s what I’m good at. It grounds me. It allows me to integrate an experience into my self-understanding and be okay with the experience, regardless of the positive or negative aspects that may been inherent therein.

Because I hadn’t experienced drop after this incredible first experience that was everything I could ever possibly have wanted in a first experience with a top who was everything anyone could want in a top as a newbie or well-seasoned recipient of pain, it never occurred to me that drop would be any kind of an issue when I experienced the Hot Seat.

Wikipedia’s BDSM Glossary page defines subdrop as “A physical condition, often with cold- or flu-like symptoms, experienced by a submissive after an intense session of BDSM play. This can last for as long as a week, and is best prevented by aftercare immediately after the session.”

So, I experienced drop after my time in the Hot Seat. It was not at all accompanied by flu- or cold-like symptoms, however. As one friend of mine put it, “It’s like hyper-intensified PMS.” I’ll trust her on this because I tend not to be highly reactive to the hormonal changes incumbent with PMS. I was, however, extremely highly reactive in my first subdrop experience.

An Aside: Apparently tops can also drop, and the experience is, fittingly enough, referred to as topdrop. Not being a top, I cannot confirm this, nor can I detail for you what it might be like. Wikipedia does not list topdrop in its BDSM glossary.

No flu- or cold-like symptoms. Bad. Bad. Badness. All kinds of badness. And without warning!

It was just a little electro-stim. WITH MY PANTS ON! No nakedness. No genital contact or stimulation. Just happy zappy over my arms and back and scalp. Not a big deal, right? In the immediate aftermath, I was feeling all energetically relaxed and happy.

My partner and I had discussed having phone sex later that night. The joys of living some 800 miles apart. When he called, I was on cloud nine. I had been looking forward to hearing his voice and connecting intimately and having a orgasm while he talked me through all the salacious things he wants to do to my body in that incredibly sexy basso profundo voice of his. Oh, shivers!

But it didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. I was a desert. No worries, I thought. It happens to everyone, right? At some point? I mean…doesn’t it? My partner and I finished our conversation and went to our respective beds to sleep alone. He was incredibly understanding.

The next day I awoke feeling all fresh and happy and a little desirous, but no chance to do anything about it, because my partner was at work, and I certainly did not want to send him a text and ask for permission to have an orgasm when he was busy earning a living and whatnot.

No worries! I got up and after yoga and meditation, I turned my eyes to being productive myself. I wrote about my experiences in the Hot Seat and all the things I loved about, assuming that my genital desert the night before was behind me.

Then, I kind of hit a wall. I had a low-grade headache, mild depression hit, my attention span dropped to all but nonexistent. “I’m just tired,” I told myself, as I went about my routine, doing the laundry, baking gluten-free communion loaves, using the leftover egg yolks to produce two coconut cream pies that made three grown men weep with joy.

Later that night, my partner gave me permission to have an orgasm. As we played from afar, I just couldn’t get into the space I needed. “It’s never going to happen,” I bemoaned in a text.

“What’s never going to happen?” he asked.

“An orgasm,” I replied. “That’s it. It’s over. I’m a desert. I can’t get wet. I can’t stay wet. I’ll never cum again,” I sent in rapidly escalating frustration.

“It’s unlikely you’ll never cum again,” he wrote back. “You’re just stressed out. And worrying about being dry is making you dry. Relax. Seriously. We’ll take a couple days off. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

We went to bed.

I attended church the following morning, feeling relaxed, happy, confident, well rested; though I still had a headache. All was well until the middle of the service when I just felt a wave of panic rise within me. Meditation quelled it.

I spent the rest of Sunday in bed.

Monday came bright and early. What is with that particular idiom? Monday comes at the same time regardless. It can’t come early. It always arrives precisely at midnight. And I get up a bit before the sun, so it can’t exactly come bright. Regardless….

Monday morning I awoke and meditated. I got ready for the day and left the house.

Heading to my local coffee shop, I missed my exit and added two miles and five minutes to my commute. I started to panic that someone might take my usual seat and prevent me getting my work done in the area where I like to work.

Tendrils of panic like the wisps of fog rising from the river and burning off in the morning sun began to rise in my body. A deep churning in the pit of my stomach and racing thoughts about what I would do and how I could possibly manage to work if someone were in my seat at the coffee shop and maybe I should skip it and go somewhere else as I was going to be five minutes late, but there’s unlimited wifi all day unlike the other place that limits you to a single thirty minute session during their peak hours and sure that place is larger and a bit more spacious and sunnier but I really like not having to figure out what to do or hear the noise of lunch orders and okay, I’ll just turn into the parking lot of the coffee shop I want to go to anyway and I’ll just figure it out if someone is in my preferred chair.

All for naught. The coffee shop is void of other customers. I set up my station, get my coffee and settle down to work.

And I can’t. So, I play games and piss around on the internet for half an hour.

My partner sends me a text. “How are you this morning?” he inquires.

How am I? I’m not really sure. I’m “Overwhelmed” I realized.

“What does that look like?” he writes back.

I immediately burst into tears and sob uncontrollably as I write back. “I don’t know what’s wrong. But something is wrong. It’s just wrong and I can’t figure out what it is. I’m totally fine. Really. Completely fine, but something isn’t right and it’s awful and it’s worse because I can’t figure it out. If I could just figure out what’s wrong, I could deal with it, but I can’t because I’m find and nothing’s wrong, but its all just wrong,” I explain.

“Subdrop,” he explains. “Treat yourself kindly today. Go for a walk in nature. Eat ice cream. I’ll check in later.”

Ooooooh! Yes. Subdrop. It’s not at all what I was told it would be like. It’s not like the flu or a cold. It’s like college!

Throughout the first half of my college career, I suffered from a debilitating and undiagnosed panic disorder. It started out small, a panic attack here, a panic attack there. Nothing major. I would suddenly feel overwhelmed and terrified and disconnected; like I was inside of a bubble and all sound and images were slightly distorted and people could touch me through the bubble but they couldn’t. I couldn’t breathe and all I could think was, “I have to get out right now,” and I’d go tearing from wherever I was and make my way to my dorm where I’d curl up in my bed and sob and cry with overwhelming fear, because something was WRONG but nothing was wrong, until I couldn’t cry anymore and then I’d fall asleep and toss and turn until the next morning.

At first.

As my disorder progressed, I reached the point where I was having fifty panic attacks a day, I could barely leave my dorm room and I was not sleeping. At all. Like ever. On the eighth day of sleeplessness, I began to experience visual hallucinations. I don’t much care for hallucinations.

That was what subdrop was like for me. A slightly scaled back panic attack coupled with an inability to get and stay sexually lubricated and anorgasmia.

A little before noon, having finished my third cup of coffee, I packed up my belongings and headed downtown for a walk through the park. I petted a dog who was out for a run and approached with tail wagging and tongue hanging out. I sat by the fountain read a book. I meditated and breathed in the beauty of the day. I walked through the downtown area and delighted in the hustle and bustle of a metropolitan area, feeling “normal” for the first time in days and recalling why I love city living and how I wish I could stay forever in this place, and why I need to head downtown more often.

I walked to the local gelato shop and ordered a medium dish of half pistachio mascarpone and half chocolate gelato so dark it made my tongue hurt to eat it.

I felt human, centered, myself again.

My partner asked me how the ice cream was. I told him it was perfection, just what I needed, all was right with the world of me again. Then I apologized to him for the whole debacle. “I’m so sorry you had to take care of me today. I know that’s not what you were expecting.”

“It’s okay,” he told me. “I know you’re not normally like this. I didn’t expect subdrop to hit you quite so hard. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to suggest that you not participate in any more demos until I can be physically present with you. I don’t mind if you go to events, but I don’t want you to experience drop like this again and the best way to prevent it is adequate aftercare, which I can’t give you from 800 miles away.”

I agreed.

I mean, the reality is the only way to absolutely guarantee that drop never happens again is to never again play. But that would be the spiritual equivalent of an amputation and I simply cannot do that.

In some ways, it reminds me of a dear friend from seminary whose mother had an incredibly severe case of bipolar disorder that eventually led to her death. My friend has, for years, suspected that he might have inherited the trait, to a much lesser degree. He experiences highs and lows a bit more intensely than most people, it seems. There are days he gets out of bed and struggles to be productive. There are days when he gets more done than most. None of it, however, interferes with his ability to function in daily life. On the low days, the world is just cast in gray pall.

“I was talking to my therapist once,” he told me. “I told her, ‘To be completely honest with you, the lows are awful. They are bad. They are really bad. And sure, medication might fix them. But it would also even out the highs. And the highs are good. They are really good. And I’m willing to pay the price of the lows for the pleasure of the highs.”

Yep.

Subdrop sucks monkey balls.

But it’s a small price to pay for the pleasure of a good beating or a happy zappy or any of the other extraordinary delights I have yet to experience.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

In the Hot Seat

Last night was TGIF at the local dungeon. I was hesitant to attend. After events earlier in the week, I chose not to attend the munch the evening before and was very seriously considering staying home for further hermit-like self-care.

Then, my roommate had friends show up and I decided I'd rather be in a dark dungeon with friends than in my bedroom sanctuary hiding from the crazies.

One woman in the community brought her Hot Seat last night and a friend of mine asked if I'd ever experienced it. Having explained that while I'd heard much about it, I had not taken the opportunity to sit on the stool myself, he tracked Janet down and asked if she would facilitate my first Hot Seat experience.

Sitting on a stool, fully clothed, that turns your whole body in a conductor for electricity is one of the coolest things I've ever experienced. I had a general idea of how the device worked and having experienced therapeutic electrostimulation, I had a very good idea of what I was getting myself into regarding the sensations.

By necessity, the Hot Seat was set up in a public space used for socializing. Again, I am NOT an exhibitionist and this aspect of the experience was incredibly uncomfortable for me. A number of individuals - some I knew, some I did not - filtered over to see the new girl experience the Hot Seat for the first time.

I also knew from others' explanations that the use of the hot seat would require me to sit on the Hot Seat while someone else - in this case Janet - off the Hot Seat touched me with metal implements. This was the single most uncomfortable part of the experience for me.

I am, generally speaking, extremely touch averse. Depending on a number of factors, even handshakes can be too much for me. I've been seeking intentionally this summer to grow more comfortable with touch, but much of my willingness to open myself to that is circumstantial and person specific. The few people I initiated touch with in the course of the summer have been people I've felt safe enough with to seek to expand that boundary and while that experience has, by and large, been awkward for me, I'm willing to continue trying in a safe and highly controlled fashion.

Yet, there I was, sitting on an electrified metal plate, having removed my sweater and put my hair up, about to have a woman I'd met twice before and whom I had never touched run metal implements over my body.

Removing the emotional discomfort from the situation, the physical experience of being on the Hot Seat was incredible. The skin sizzle of electricity leaving your body at a single touch point is shudder-inducing in extremely pleasurable ways. In particular, having the implements run up my arms, across my shoulders, down my back, and around my chest was absolutely delightful.

I did not, however, enjoy the sensation on my inner thighs. This could be simply because my inner thighs are generally more sensitive to all types of stimulation or it could be that the bruise on my inner thigh made me more sensitive last night. I do not know, but it's something I'm willing to try again when I am not bruised for the sake of comparison.

Physically the entire experience was quite good. It was completely non-sexual for me. There was pleasure, to be sure, but it was not sexual in nature for me. Though I had moments of incredible discomfort because of the physical proximity of another person I do not know well and the audience, I was largely able to focus my attention on what was happening in my physical body. This kept me grounded in the now, which is incredibly helpful on a number of levels.

All of this would likely have been the end of my time in this particular Hot Seat. I experienced it. I enjoyed it. The whole of the experience was similar to a really good back-scratching session. It just felt good and tingly-sharp-not-quite-painful and satisfying. However, all of the extant factors left me feeling that this is an experience I would only want to repeat with my partner in private.
Then, Janet brought out the scalp massager. A convulsive shiver ran the whole length of my body as I yelled, "Oh, my GOD!" It was like having my scalp massaged and my hair brushed with the pleasure sensation factor increased a hundred-fold.

Turns out I'm a total Zap Slut.

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

My Introduction

Growing up in my crazy, fucked up family meant a lot of things. Much of it bad, but in this one respect, for me, really good. Even so it’s taken me a long time to let go of the “should”s, “should not”s, assumed “why”s of, and the everything society considers “normal” and “healthy” in life and love and sex.

I think I must have been six when I discovered my father’s copy of the Marquis De Sade and something in me knew. I was fascinated and attracted and wanted without really understanding. It simply never went away.

All through junior high and high school I devoured literature about it; in college I discovered the internet; but the basic tenants of “safe, sane, consensual” seemed to be largely ignored by those with whom I interacted online; in particular the “consensual” part seemed to be ignored by men who wanted what they wanted. So, I never took it off-line and left it behind because I didn’t trust that it was safe to engage in real life play and because I was a good Christian girl from the Midwest who was a student leader in her college campus ministry chapter.

Then, I was getting my master's degree in the Big Apple and I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have turned heads or have been a problem, but NYC is big enough and scary enough on its own, for a shy girl from Nowhere, Midwest, population 50, without adding anything else to the mix.

I shared briefly with my mentor about this and he didn’t even bat an eyelash, but it wasn’t the time to actually consider finding a relationship or getting involved in the community alone, and then my mentor died and life fell apart, and I was involved with the Vineyard church movement and God knows it was just never going to happen because if those crazy assholes can‘t even acknowledge the full humanity of LGBTQ individuals, what the fuck are they going to do if they ever find out one of their members is into BDSM?

So I learned to not think about and it faded into the background and I just decided that I would live my life as a good, Christian, completely heteronormative girl from the Midwest who just loves Jesus.

And I do love Jesus. I really do. But I’d been told my whole life that this was unacceptable and loving Jesus meant that sex had to be heteronormative and only within the context of marriage and so I decided that if I just didn’t think about it and made myself forget, then it meant I was a good Christian and Jesus had "healed" me of whatever was wrong with me in the first place that made me want these things that nice, good, Christians girls from the Midwest just don’t know about and certainly do not desire.

And then I met my partner. And from the moment I saw him, I just wanted to know more. When we spent time together at work, I knew I wanted to spend more time with him. What I call our “first date” was a break at work that overlapped and we stood shoulder to shoulder watching the ducks in the pond out back, we didn’t really say anything, but he looked at me and I looked at him and we smiled at each other and it was something. So, we started IMing at work and then he gave me his number and I moved away for the summer.

So, on my drive down to my summer locale, the same day that he gave me his number and he had no idea I was leaving because I hadn’t told anyone, and I told him that it was my last day and where I was going and why -- additional vocational training -- he remarked about good people and bad people, and I explained my beliefs that there are no good or bad people, but that we’re all inherently good, we just occasionally do bad things, some more often than others certainly; we all have both light and dark in us. "The world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters, Harry."

He mentioned he had a dark side and I ventured in and asked, telling him that of course he didn’t have to answer, but I wanted to know more, and he told me that he’s into Kink. So, as we started our relationship he was completely upfront about his interests and I explained about my early interests and why I had never followed through on anything, and we agreed to proceed with a relationship and see what happens.

It was through this that I got connected to FetLife and through FetLife to two local communities. As I stepped into the community to learn more (and really it’s been ALL educational up until last night and even last night was actually completely educational, just in a different kind of way), the first thing I did was text my partner and tell him where I would be for the first class (an intro to BDSM), when it would start, when it would end and when exactly I would call him. He was my safe call. And fortuitously enough for my comfort, one of the first things the teachers of the 101 class went over was safe calls -- always have them.

And that’s been the case since day one. I go to social events and potlucks at the dungeon, or dinner at a local restaurant; I go to classes and demos at the dungeon; I always have a safe call. I’ve made a few friends and know if I have questions or concerns, I can tell someone and be taken seriously and my feelings will be respected.

Last night there was a presentation by an individual who is well known and respected in the wider community for his needlework. I’m not into needles, but whatever floats your boat. His presentation, though, was about body mechanics and managing your own physical needs and limitations so that 1) play does not lead to injury and 2) you can keep playing for as long as you want in a night and in your life.

The minute he walked into the room, there was a clear sexual tension between us and I knew that if I wanted, I would have the opportunity to do pretty much anything I wanted to do with this man, up to and including sex in every form possible. But my partner and I are monogamous, so sex was off the table.

Since getting involved in this community, I’ve known that if I wanted to try something, there are people who would be willing to engage with me in whatever I asked; and if they couldn’t do it themselves, they’d be able to refer me to someone who can. I just haven’t had any desire, at all, to play with any of these people. They’re great. I like them. I just don’t want to play with them. I want to play with my partner and only my partner.

Because we’re 800 miles apart and can’t play at this point, I asked my partner after that first class, “If an opportunity to play comes up, if the energy and chemistry are right, if it’s something I want, are you okay with that?” I could hear the disappointment in his voice when he said, “I mean, it’s not like we’re committed to anything  and you’re there and things happen and if you don’t want to be with me, I mean, it happens.”

“No, no, no! I’m not talking a relationship or sex or anything like that,” I quickly explained. “I’m literally just asking about play. No sex. No genital contact. No anything other than experiencing various implements while fully clothed.”

He responded, “Oh. Yeah, I’d be more okay with that. I mean, if you’re at a demo or something, yeah. That’d be okay.”

So, the Professor walked in last night and we looked at each and people were filtering in and we exchanged a few words and he sat at the same table as me and we occasionally looked at one another and then the presentation started and he did his thing and it was over.

There was conversation and socializing after and he asked me what my deal was, and I explained about my early interest and self-denial and recent entrance into the community and that I have ZERO experience but I’m really interested in impact play and after some conversation with me and with other attendees about his presentation, he said, “I’d like to tease you, so I’m just going to leave this here” as he systematically laid his tools out on the table, “and I’m going to get another soda. I’ll be back.”

And I just stood there staring at everything with a hundred questions and million desires and a few other people started to filter over to the table and started to ask, “Why are you just staring at it?” and a few others would filter over and ask, “What’s everybody staring at?” and none of them seemed to have any idea that I was in the middle of this incredible exchange with this man.

When he came back, he asked if I had any questions or wanted to try anything. I had him explain what each item was and how it is most often used. He asked if he could demonstrate a few things (in particular the difference between a tool that “thuds” and a tool that “stings”) and I consented. After this mini demo he said, “So, I’m in town for the next 12 hours and you’re here so if you want anything, let me know.”

I called my partner and asked his permission with stipulations - fully clothed, no sex, no genital contact, no skin-to-skin contact. He said yes. A private workshop, for all intents and purposes, so that I could get some idea of whether I really am into this as much as I’m convinced I am and maybe get some idea of additional training he might want to invest in so that he and I can move forward safely.

The Professor and I negotiated the exchange within those bounds and chose some tools and because I’m NOT an exhibitionist, went into a private play area.

And it was….confusing.

Ignoring the sunburn, this is what the Professor did to my
right hip by "layering" a number of different implements
Because it wasn’t sexual. I mean, there had been and was all of this incredible sexual energy between us, but this exchange wasn’t sexual. It was just good. While it was good (it was really, really good), it was also completely wrong. It was exactly what I wanted but....not. I want it with my partner and my partner isn’t immediately available and all three of us had agreed upon negotiations that this was really more a private workshop.



The back of my thigh where he used the Evil Stick
(The Evil Stick is NOT evil)
So my goals were mostly met - I found some things I really like; I found one thing I really do NOT like; I learned more about myself and what I’m okay with in regards to these exchanges - which is largely that I do not want to have that kind of an exchange with anyone but my partner.



Then we just talked. For awhile. About how he got involved, how he uses specific terms, what this workshop time was like for me, how it was what I had been looking for, how it was different from what I’d expected. Not all of it, but the most essential part - that I had wanted to get to that place where my brain gets quiet. And to some degree I got there.

Lately, though, I’ve been struggling with the quiet in my brain as it relates to trauma. Part of the problem with PTSD is that I use language to orient myself in the world. When trauma is triggered, my brains goes silent and I literally have no words in my brain. The inability to even think, let alone speak, about what I’m experiencing is, in many ways, worse than the triggered trauma - because I can’t process or deal with the trauma and I've lost my equilibrium. I am disoriented and have no way to reconnect to the now.

Caned on my inner thigh
Because the Professor had mentioned his own mentor having a heart attack, this triggered a mini-trauma response concerning my mentor's death. I started to tear up, and he asked if I was ok, and I explained that I’d lost my own mentor in the vanilla world to a heart attack and it was a trigger, but that I was ok. Then, I explained what happens to my brain, how it all goes silent and I can’t find my words, which means I can’t find my equilibrium or orient myself and it’s terrifying and panic inducing. However, that same silence I experience in my brain in the midst of BDSM is exactly what I’m looking for and I can’t quite hold the two in tension.

He said, “That’s because the BDSM silence isn’t an interruption.”

That was it. I looked at him and I said, “If I weren’t in a monogamous relationship, I’d have sex with you right now. I really want to have sex with you.” And we talked a bit about social conditioning in regards to sexual mores in America and talked about our mutual interest in academic studies of brain function in regards to BDSM, and then I said to him, “I’d really like to kiss you, if it’s okay with you. Can I kiss you?”

He asked if it would be breaking my rules (no skin-to-skin contact), and I told him I was okay with it, and I wasn’t 100% sure about my partner, but I thought he might be okay with it, but that I’d deal with whatever consequences there were and then we kissed.

And I was so confused. I knew in that moment that I needed contact. I needed to be touched. I knew that it all came down to his use of the word “interruption” because I’ve got this whole theology of interruption and for seven years I’ve been raging at God about the interruption of my mentor's death and how Jesus didn’t show up in time to save him or to resurrect him or make me okay in the aftermath and I don’t know what interrupted Jesus, but I’m hurting and pissed off at him and in that moment, I just needed to be touched.

It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even remotely sexual. I mean, there’s something inherently sexual, I think, about BDSM and kissing a man who’s just caned you, and there’s even something sexual about kissing a man who hasn’t just caned you, but the intent in kissing him wasn’t sexual and I knew that I could kiss him and that he wouldn’t take it further and my clothes would stay on and that sex was completely off the table.

And I knew I had felt something and I was feeling something and I couldn’t figure it out because feelings are foreign and uncomfortable for me and I didn’t know what to call it. I just  knew that being touched in that moment and kissing this man who used the word “interruption,” this man who actually fucking gets it, was somehow necessary to my being okay right then. I just wanted to kiss him.

And it was all so confusing.

  • Confusing because touch doesn’t come naturally to me. 
  • Confusing because everything with him had been non-sexual sexual exchanges. 
  • Confusing because I thought it would be sexual to be caned by him and it wasn’t. 
  • Confusing because I found I do enjoy the impact play even more than I thought I would, but I also learned that who is as important as what and who can’t just be someone I experience that chemistry with but I need it to be my partner if I’m in a relationship. (Partnered, chemistry is necessary and insufficient; were I single, chemistry would be necessary and sufficient).
  • Confusing because I had this moment of connection to something completely outside of this world that I’ve been struggling with for SEVEN YEARS which no one in my vanilla world understands.

I've been intensely struggling with PTSD this summer and trying to finally start talking about my mentor and finding words around his death and trying to figure out how to make meaning out of it when it seems impossible to do so. Yet here was this man who used one word in regards to trauma responses that communicated to me that he absolutely gets it even if he didn’t know that he was communicating something so deep and powerful and needed to me. I HAD to connect to this man who spoke my language and more than anything in that moment I just needed comfort and kissing him was the single most comforting thing I could ask for.

That, I realized, was the name of the feeling I was seeking when I looked at him and asked permission to kiss him: comfort.

Kissing was less intimate than sex would have been. Kissing in many ways was less intimate than hugging would have been - because in that moment, had I sought a hug, I would have been seeking to be cradled. I do not believe either of us would have been up for that. I just needed the comfort of connection and kissing accomplished it beautifully.