Chasing Me Chasing You

An uncollared submissive struggling through depression, motherhood, and the constant craving of her next orgasm.

Yeah, Butt

I bought Rye three things for her trip to California. First, I bought her a brand-new lube shooter. it’s a kind of syringe with a modified tip for shooting lube into an asshole (or vagina). If you’ve never taken the opportunity to fuck an asshole which has been FILLED with lube beforehand, I encourage you to give it a go!

Second, I bought her a six pack of disposal fleet-enemas. Those may or may not go with her on the plane. It will depend on whether I can learn how well they handle depressurization in the luggage compartment of a commercial airliner.

Lastly, I bought her a “standard” enema kit.

For someone like Rye, who is enthusiastic about anal and gets the good kind of woozy when she’s sexually humiliated, you might assume that being “enemaed” (or told to enema herself) is not a big deal. You’d be wrong. This step toward enema play is a big deal.

This is the first time that I have ever pursued an area of play without first discussing it with her. Her ass has always been in-bounds. I have, on occasion, fucked her asshole without so much more warning than squirting lube on her asshole in silence. She has always taken whatever I have thrown at her. But I don’t throw all that much at her, really. I don’t surprise her with kink. It isn’t really feasible in our lives as parents and it isn’t necessarily part of who I have been as a dominant.

Honestly, this kind of asymmetrical play is not really my thing, normally. I usually make sure that whatever we are doing has a chance to please both of us. This is mostly a technique by which I manage the possibility of failure. Enema play will be something completely different for us. This will be an unknown for both of us. So, it is very different that I have come to Rye, tools in hand, and told her that she is going to receive an enema. This is the first time when I’ve presented her with something that is totally for my benefit and offering fuck-all in exchange. Taking completely without giving, at all.

In a way, it feels a bit like I am forcing this to happen against the natural grain of our relationship. It is the sort of thing that would fit better into a Master/slave or Owner/property dynamic than the more playful rhythm which we have been enjoying. I recognize the poor fit at the same time that I am compelled to ignore it. Perhaps the fact that it doesn’t fit is why I want to do it. For the first time, I’m not going to think about it too much. I’m just going to make it happen.

As I alluded before, I told myself that the reason I bought these things was because I wanted to give them to Rye for her trip to California. The man she is going to see has said, in no uncertain terms, that he is going to take liberal use of her asshole. I welcome this! But, if I am going to loan my wife to someone for butt sex, I am going to at least make an attempt to make sure that it is safe, clean, and awesome.

I want the experience for everyone to be as perfect and memorable (in a good way) as possible. In part, that means I want her to fuck like a pornstar. I know she can handle the acts well enough on her own. But, we all know that porn stars enema before doing anal porn shoots. It makes everything clean, easing post-orgasm body anxiety.

But, honestly, it’s for me. All of it. The novelty, her discomfort, her cleanliness and the easy sluttiness I want it to inspire. All of it is in the service of my desires.

Dom Block

Rye in a kneel position.

When we first got into BDSM, neither one of us knew what we were doing. We bounced around back and forth, trying to find what we liked and what we didn’t. It was how we had to find our way forward. But, now something has come up which requires going back to the beginning and I don’t really know how to do it.


But I can no longer avoid the truth. I must train Rye.


That’s not a slight against her; it’s not really for her benefit that she needs to be trained; it is for myself. When I first had the idea to write this post, I wanted to discuss the things that were holding me back from being more dominant. It did not take much soul-searching to realize that one of my biggest stumbling blocks comes from the beating I give myself whenever I feel like I have “failed.” The reasons for this failure aren’t important – any excuse, really.

Usually, my “failures” follow a common pattern: 1. I tell her to do something; 2. She earnestly tries to do the thing which she thinks I have instructed her to do, but gets it wrong; 3. I see that she has failed, but I recognize that the reason for the failure is that I did not properly communicate my desires. I perceive this as my failure to communicate my expectations, which makes me upset. Rye can tell I am upset, but believes I am upset with her. She may get defensive or disappointed if she is waiting for approval. I am unsure how to communicate my frustration, how to communicate that a mistake was made and that I am waging internal warfare with myself trying to figure out who to blame. All she knows is that I am being silent with an upset look on my face.

Which brings me back to training. I know I have written in the past about my views on communication and language, so I will just summarize. Because language is an artificial construct created by humans to facilitate the transmission of data, languages are naturally vague and impersonal, and every linguistic communication experiences some data loss. The best way to insulate against this data loss is to arrive at an agreed-upon series of signals to represent agreed-upon data. For the majority of our lives, “natural” language serves this purpose just fine, but it is not inherently appropriate for all circumstances.


Well, Feet together or apart? Knees together or apart? If apart, by how much? Hands in front or back? Elbows straight? Butt touching feet? Thighs perpendicular to the floor? Thighs not perpendicular to floor, but butt not touching feet? Feet extended straight back? Feet bent so only toes touching floor? Head up? Head down? Where to look? Etc.

When I say Kneel, I know what I want to see, but Rye has no clue. So, through training, we will arrive at some common definitions. We have to arrive at an agreed-upon word, which means, “position your body such that your knees and toes are the only things touching the floor, your heels are touching one-another but your knees are about 18 inches apart, your thighs are perpendicular to the floor, your back is straight, your hands are behind your back, with the back of your hands pressed into the small of your back and your fingers woven together, tits out, head up and eyes straight ahead.”

Maybe, “Kneel up.”

Brownie Points

Rye had a bit of a rough morning. I had given her a straight-forward task to perform while I was in the shower. Stand on tip-toe while holding my towel at arms’ length, raising it slightly higher toward the ceiling every time she lost her balance. She was doing well, with her arms almost reaching the ceiling as I finished in the shower. As I was finishing myself up – and honestly taking my time – she safe-worded out of the exercise; I later learned that her ankle was giving out and she was at risk of falling over. I climbed out of the shower and asked if the task was more painful than it seemed at first. My question was met with a wall of defenses; redirection, incredulity, anger, and more besides. I was taken off guard and it took me a moment to gather myself.

A lot went through my head at that moment. We switched places and she climbed into the shower while I started to dry off. She was holding herself in her arms and sobbing huge, silent tears into the corner of the shower, busily tearing herself to ribbons for what she thought was a failure. I climbed back into the shower, held her, and explained a few things. I explained that the purpose of the assignment was in the doing it at all and in the not giving up until health and well-being became an issue. I soothed her out of her head and back into the moment, where I was proud that she had engaged in so superfluous and unproductive a task at all. She consented to stop beating herself up for the moment.

So, I went upstairs and laid out her clothes, from the inside out, so to speak. Starting with the Njoy Pure plug, a tube of lube, and the Doxy, and then onto a shirt and skirt, I prepared her appearance for the day. I don’t normally do this because I don’t normally get to do this, but it felt important in that moment that she feel an extra layer of my influence and approval.

I left her to get dressed while I did some cleaning down stairs – until I heard the telltale buzz of the Doxy. I went up; she was beautiful. I tugged on and assaulted her nipples while she came. I forced her throat down around my cock while she came. I beat her ass with a belt while she came. All separate and massive orgasms, by the way.

And then I offered her some Brownie Points.  “Do you want some brownie points today?”

“Yes please,” she chirped, enthusiastically. 

I pulled her short leash out of the playbox. If I am remembering correctly, this came from one of Rye’s old clutch purses. I attached the tether to the Njoy’s handle, and instructed her to leave the lead for the day. 

Rye with her plug and her leash on.

She did. The whole time we were out at a fancy restaurant to celebrate her birthday. It led to an interesting and hilariously compromising situation, but I’ll leave Rye to share it, as she knows more of the details, and it would be a story whose heart is more in the truth than the embellishment.

Unfortunately, however, she did not get to spend the day in the skirt I had picked out, but that’s mostly because I insisted on cumming on her face before lunch and the skirt got gobbed on. “If it was only one spot, I’d probably leave it, but this is a bit obvious.”

You could fairly ask what the point of any of this is. In all honestly, I’m not sure myself – real life often defies logical presentation. If it were fiction, I would suggest that the story of the plug come before the story of the tears, so that the energy for the former could feed the emotion of the later. I would give the whole thing a small bundle of possible interpretations, all somehow distinct and connected at the same time. I would give it an optimistic but ambiguous conclusion.

Life defies narrative direction, but soars in the telling.

A close up of Rye's ass with her plug and her leash.


Sick Sad World

Rye got home exhausted. I took one look at her and told her that she was going to bed straight away after dinner. I let her have a doxy ride first, to help ease her onward to Morpheus’ realm. It wasn’t easy or remotely fair to either one of us. We’ve both been lonely the past couple of days. She needs the sleep, and it’s my job to make sure she gets it. Still, it’s not the tear-strained anal I was hoping for.

So, I was going to write a post about this sacrifice, and how necessary and unpleasant sacrifices are constant. But then I checked my email.

No, before I tell this story, I need to make a disclaimer: I have been head over heels in love with the intellectual property since before there was a, when it was just Hogtied and the idea of buying and renovating the San Francisco Armory was just an impossible dream. We are not affiliates of the sites and I’m not getting anything out of sharing this with you. Nothing, that is, instead of an incredible amount of joy.

Hardcore Gangbang (one of the sites) has released a Daria porn-parody.

(I’m just going to let this sink in…)

Here’s the copy from the page for the shoot:  

Daria’s best friend Jane decides its time for Daria to lose her virginity and boy does she. Trent, his dirtbag friends and the principal make sure that Daria gets manhandled, ass fucked, face fucked, deeply double penetrated, AND gets two cocks shoved in her ass until this cum hungry whore begs for a filthy bukkake mess all over her face.

Rye and I are both 90’s kids. This is going to be some good shit, let me tell you what.

**This is Rye. See how the ‘sacrifice’ post was quickly abandoned? Just sayin’. I did get about ten hours of sleep and feel amazing for a Monday though. And now I have Daria porn to look forward to. Win/win**

Kneeling: Why This Dom Loves It

The Three Golden Rules of Kneeling:

  1. It should be uncomfortable, but not so painful that it cannot be sustained over a long period of time (outside of “special” situations, that is).
  2. A submissive should not wait to kneel only when told to do so. It is a great attention-getter and should be used as such to encourage play.
  3. Kneeling means patience, so don’t get down on your knees unless you are ready to stay there until told to do something else.

Kneeling is the only unambiguously submissive act. It might not strike you as important that any action is “unambiguously submissive.” It doesn’t matter for anyone who self-identifies as a “real dom” or a “true dom.” No, these superior beings are perfect examples of “alpha” thinking and they never question themselves. For the rest of us, trying to make it as dominant lovers in a complex world within which we often do not have as much control as we would like, ambiguity is a daily reality.

My partner is an entire human person, with moods and emotions and desires and opinions. Whenever I approach her, I am approaching a different person. The same is true when she approaches me. The same is true when I approach anyone(!). I do not assume that anyone I know is “the same” person they were the last time I spoke with them. Anyway, you get the idea – people change day to day. It’s their right in response to a constantly changing universe.

So, when I consider play with my partner, my thoughts go round in circles. Does she want, at this moment, for me to close her computer and drag her by her hair into the laundry room to get hammered in the cunt with clothespins on her nipples? I know that sometimes she wants this, and she says she always wants it, but I can also see that she is frustrated with something or other. Is she really going to enjoy being manhandled at this moment? Or am I going to be guilty of bad timing? The truth of the matter is that I don’t know how to be supportive by way of being dominant – it just isn’t in my DNA. “Being supportive means being uplifting,” my brain shouts. I am actively trying to reprogram my mind and my emotions, but it’s an ongoing process. The majority of that process is fighting against the perception of ambiguity – and deciding whether or not I care (regardless of whether I’m supposed to care).

As hard as it is for me to exert control, it is just as hard – if not harder – for rye to ask for control or dominance from me. Part of this is our history, and the fact that I have, on more than one occasion, had serious problems with control. Part of it is the fact that she is the kind of person who would rather catch fire than ask for something they want (Germans…).

So, you can imagine how much it means to me to find rye kneeling. “I need you to take over,” she says in no words. It’s easy for her to say because she doesn’t have to say anything. It’s easy for me to understand because I don’t have to understand anything. She kneels, I control, she obeys.

Kink of the Week logo

Casual Degradation

A while ago, I came across this post on Tumblr:

One of my favorite things is casual degradation.

Especially when it’s cute.
Cuddle me tight, kiss my forehead, and call me your dumb little cocksocket. Call me that in the same tone you would call someone “love” or some other cute nickname.

If I’m taking a bath come in to talk about my day and casually unzip your fly and piss in my bathwater, without changing tone.

When I’m making dinner shove a barely lubed plug up my ass while kissing my neck and asking what we’re having.

Make my degradation so casual and part of every day that it becomes a language of love, that without it I worry you’re mad at me.

About a week ago, I showed that post to Rye. She just nodded and said, “Yep.” I smiled.

This expression of “casual degradation” is magnificent. I love the idea of interjecting BDSM sensibilities into every-day life. As Rye discussed yesterday, this is probably not something that’s going to work in all parts of our everyday life, but I want to find a way. That’s why, as I worked from home day, I filled two ice cube trays with piss and set them to cool in the freezer in the garage. I will figure out a way to get them into her drinks whenever I feel like it. Dinner, kids at home, even when her parents are visiting. And with every sip she can taste how much I think about her, how focused I am on her, and how owned she is.


Another wonderful element of this is that it gives her the ability to ask for humiliation without having to worry about my response. I will always say yes to this.  If she is feeling disconnected, needing to request more attention, she can ask me to make her a drink. (Realistically, I know it’s going to be years before she asks me to make her a drink again, but she knows she can and she knows what will happen.)

She is my beautiful piss-drinking cumdumpster, and she makes me so happy and proud.

Note: If you’re interested in discussing these ideas more, check out my new group on Fetlife, “Casual Degradation Enthusiasts.”

Sir’s Side

First, I want to say thank you to everyone who has been so open and supportive of Rye throughout this process. It has been incredibly helpful to have your support. Second, I want to say that there is a lot of hyperbole flying around in response to Rye’s experience with another dominant, and some of it is pretty negative. I’m not going to call out any single person or comment because not all of what I’m talking about is coming from the blog. Instead, I will just make this statement: I reject any narrative surrounding this experience that portrays it as wholly negative. I just don’t believe that is correct. In fact, I personally don’t believe that there was anything negative or even “bad” about it. At worst, the experience was neutral. **I don’t exactly agree with this, but so goes Sir so goes my nation.**

Sean did not hurt or violate Rye in any way that she has shared with me or that I have been able to interpret from her behavior. He operated at all times as a fine member of the community and deserves to be recognized as such. There were no consent violations. There were no safe words ignored or disrespected. But, there was also not enough communication to facilitate a wholly satisfying sexual experience, and that is really the biggest problem. The event was rushed, so it wasn’t as good as it could have been.

Let me tell you the story from my perspective. That morning, we woke up without the kids, flirted a little bit, and then got to work. That is to say, real work, not to work on each other, which we would have both preferred. Me in one room, and Rye in another. I was tormented by my work, which I didn’t want to do, and by my knowledge of Rye’s dripping wet vagina, which I definitely wanted to do. I was also preoccupied by this idea that Sean was going to come over to my house and do “something” with my wife – at that time, I didn’t know if it was going to be sex or talking. Turns out it was a little of the one and some more of the other.

I was scheduled for a doctor’s appointment that afternoon. The plan was that when Sean got there I was going to leave. This is mostly what did happen. He came by, I shook his hand, I failed utterly to find a socially acceptable expression for “have fun fucking my wife” and I left the house.

I came home to a quiet but fundamentally unchanged woman. She talked little of the encounter without prodding, but was clearly unsettled. After some prodding, I finally got to the bottom of it.

She hadn’t cum.

Well, shit, I thought to myself,  I can fix that! And we did. A couple of times, I think. And then more, for two more days. We fucked and sucked each other like the horny kids we were when we met. I even got the idea to tie her to a table, tape a dildo to a stick, tape the Doxy to the dildo, brace one end against the wall and the other against her pelvic wall, set the vibrations on medium-low, turn out the lights and go get some shit done upstairs. I don’t think she came while I was gone, but I don’t think she noticed the passing of time, either. I’m just bragging now, that’s not the point. The point is…

The point is that my wife had an unsatisfactory sexual experience with someone who probably didn’t have a wholly satisfactory experience either. You wouldn’t blame Rye for his bad time, wouldn’t call her a bad submissive because of what you know of the encounter (and I don’t think you would call her one if you knew every detail of the encounter, for that matter). I don’t want us to point blame at Sean either. Rye and I have to own our own parts in this: It was rushed, there was not enough communication and it shouldn’t have happened the way that it did. We dealt with it in our own way. I hope Sean was able to deal with it in his own way as well. He hasn’t contacted either of us since that afternoon, and I’m starting to assume we won’t hear from him again. I’m not entirely comfortable with that, but I like closure. Sean, if you do read this, I hope there are no hard feelings.

This isn’t the last time I am going to loan Rye out – she’s already planning a trip this October to fuck a couple of crazy sex-monsters in California. **I (Rye) am super excited about this by the way. Sex-Monsters in this case is a very good thing.** I am actively seeking other play-partners for myself. We are both optimistic about this, and we are ABLE to be so optimistic because our first foray was not great, and we both had a great time anyway. Next time is going to be so much better.

Wicked Wednesday for post Stockpiled Cravings

The Panties Problem

Sir, here.

I wanted to take some time to discuss with you all a problem that I have been having with bondage from nearly the first time that we tried it. It’s there in the Title; The Panties Problem.

If you also have this problem – and especially if you’ve overcome it – then you might know that the panties aren’t the problem. The problem is in not being experienced enough to know how to think through a complex, multi-stage exercise in advance, so as to spot and address potential problems before they happen.

For me, this lack of experience most often manifests itself as the pair of underwear that I see right when my dick is getting hard, that I forgot to tell Rye to take off before I tied her legs to six different pieces of furniture using a comically vast collection of short pieces of rope and belts.

On more than one occasion, this realization has triggered a barrage of self-directed anger and profanities. A couple of times (very early on) Rye would say something like, “I wondered when you’d notice,” or, “I didn’t say anything because I thought you had a plan.”

These statements were never – ever – meet with a well reasoned and rational response from me.

But I am getting better. The experience problem has become a personal challenge. I just want to be better all around. I am driven to push back my formidable amateur status with real trial and error.

So imagine Rye’s surprise when I tied her up tonight and intentionally left the underwear on ! I told her, “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

“OH good,” she said, “because I didn’t know if I should have said something.”

“Always say something,” I said. “Don’t presume that time has rid us of all our misadventures.”

The plan was, you see, to put her on the bed, tie her up, place the Doxy inside her panties,  and just let it go. If I got to the point where I needed to avail myself of that sweet, tied up slut, a pair of safety scissors sat at the ready.

That didn’t happen because after only one long orgasm, her butt muscles went full Charlie horse and we switched to another, more cock-sucky enterprise.

I didn’t foresee any of the problems that came out tonight, but we dealt with them.

*                    *                    *

Rye again,

I think this ‘problem’ is just one of many that we deal with. This one happens to be hilarious (in my opinion, I’m sure Sir doesn’t think so). But there is a lot of trial and error that has to happen as we both get more comfortable in our D/s roles and play. We can’t start out being perfect all the time just because I’ve read a bunch of erotica novels and we both watch porn.

I think one of the things that has really helped us is the ability to be flexible. Like last night, my muscles weren’t really up for his ‘plan’ so he changed it. We still had a great time (I mean, his cock got sucked, he’s not complaining) even if it wasn’t the original, planned out scene he has envisioned.

So moral of the bondage story is to be willing to go with the flow and don’t get hung up on being perfect all the time. Sir is more than perfect enough for me. Even when I laugh at him for roping me to the bed and then realizing he wanted me on my back. Though through personal experience I will say that laughing will get you into a lot of trouble.

Pussy: Live to Eat! Eat to Live!

*This Kink of the Week is guest written by Sir.*

I remember being in middle school and being completely confused by my peers’ obsession with boobs. They would sit and talk about Pamela Anderson’s tits or Cindy Crawford’s tits or Anna Nicole Smith’s tits. These tits, it was said, were the key to the beauty of a woman. The better the tits, the better the woman. And bigger always meant better.

Which, as a young man, was a truism of such staggering stupidity that for a couple of years I thought I was gay. Because Roseanne Barre had MASSIVE tits, and I didn’t find her in the least bit attractive.

I never really thought I was completely gay because there was something that I was pulled to, but never saw. That gentle slit between the legs that hid a magnificent bounty of hormonal attraction. Pussy.

When I finally got an internet connection worth using for porn, I drowned myself in downloaded pussy (after disabling the laughably poor parental controls on the computer). I was quickly pulled (as were many young men I believe) toward “lesbian” porn. Not real lesbian porn, obviously, but porn starring two women and directed by two men. I liked the scissoring and the fingering, but I was absolutely, electrically pulled towards the girls eatting pussy. The camera would pull in close (pay no heed to where that woman’s camera-side leg is – it’s gone now, that’s all that matters) and you would get the powerful combination of gentle, precise tongue strokes and loud, low moans. I knew I HAD to eat pussy!

I didn’t actually get my first chance until college. Honestly, it was Rye.

Okay, truth is I’ve only ever eaten Rye’s pussy. I’ve never been nose to groin with any other woman’s pelvis, though there were a couple of unfortunately close calls in high school involving poorly timed parental footsteps on the stairs.

I have a vivid memory of the first time I ate Rye’s pussy. I had no idea what I was doing, but a vague enough sense of where everything was. I didn’t know what to expect as I pulled myself down her torso, fingertips pressing and pulling on her stomach. Would I hate the smell like everyone said? Would I fuck it up? Who cares! Eat Pussy!

After she was done moaning and writhing on the bed (told you, too much on the clit; if I had done it right she would have been completely unable to move at all) she said, “I don’t know who taught you to do that, but I hate her.”

I had to ask for clarification, but she was jealous of whatever wonder-woman had forced me to spend so much time between their thighs to become such a master tongue master. I smiled a prideful smile there in the dark. “That’s the first pussy I’ve ever eaten,” I said. Even in the dark I could see her confused and concerned look.

I still love to eat pussy, but I don’t do it as much as I used to. Not because it’s lost its appeal, but because I want to make sure that when I do go down on her, she really appreciates it. I don’t think she ever really stopped appreciating my tongue for what it could do to her brain. Maybe I just wanted to pull in the reins to exercise control.

Dominant pussy eating is harder, but much more rewarding. I still need to be able to follow the lure of her body – read her signals, anticipate her direction – so I cannot simply do whatever I like. But I can slow… or stop… orgowaytoofast just as a way to keep her on the edge. I do that. A lot.
Don’t get me wrong: I do like a nice pair of tits (and Rye has a very nice pair) but there’s nothing as good as wet pussy on a woman willing to open her knees.

Finding the balm

Pain is never the problem; it’s only a symptom, your body’s indication that something is “wrong over here.” In this way, your body tells you, almost instantly, that your finger hurts and you are able to deduce that it is because you are touching something that is at such a high temperature as to present a danger to the skin and muscle cells in your finger. You feel the pain, but the pain isn’t the problem. It’s just a signal.
This is just as true for emotional pain as physical pain, but it’s harder to address because the body’s natural mechanisms for expressing emotional pain communicate much less clearly than their physical counterparts. When something bad happens, it just sort of hurts “inside”. Sometimes, as a result of lives spent following the source of pain straight to the hurt that caused it, that leads us to believe that the “problem” is also inside us.
But it might not be. More often than not, emotional pain is the result of a disembodied hurt that exists in the space between two people, or between a person and an idea, out in the semiosphere where the person extends themselves outward, looking for a connection. Humans are built around the need for connection. When we fail to connect, whether because of misunderstanding, miscommunication, or even just unfortunate timing, it hurts and we feel it “inside”. It can feel like getting slapped back, put in your place. And because there is no anthropomorphised administrator of this wrist-slap, there is no one to give you clarification or context for the rebuff, and you are left to try and decipher what happened and why and whether or not it was your fault.
The other problem with physical pain, even when you can find the right source, is that it is often the result of a hurt for which the balm is completely counter-intuitive. Afraid of spiders? Spend time with spiders. Anxiety speaking in public? Try speaking in public. Devastated by the rape you just can’t bear to think about? You should find someone to help you think – and talk – about it. Obviously this strategy doesn’t apply to all – or probably even most – hurts causing emotional pain, but I think it is often a part of the solution.
To be clear, my advice is NOT “walk it off”.
My advice is this: If you hurt on the inside, don’t forget to look outside yourself for the source of that hurt. When you find the source, don’t let yourself have any blindspots about what will make the hurt lessen.
If you find out that you hurt because of a failed connection, don’t give up on connection. Try to reconnect. If you know your hurt comes from multiple failed connections, change how you try to connect. If you can’t understand why the connection failed, talk to someone on the other side of that connection to understand, even if it’s painful to do so.
BDSM is a great way to practice emotional healing. For people who like to be humiliated and degraded sexually, that kind of play, when healthy, should start and end with communication about the players’ value as people, even if that’s not the surface-level matter of conversation. When two people talk about what is and is not a limit, the conversation is inherently based on mutual and co-extensive human validation. When the scene progresses through and someone is shouted at/pissed on/kicked into the mud/locked in the dark/made to feel alone, it is still based on this same validation. Aftercare, when done right, is a song of validation as two fulfilled (and sweaty) bodies come together to reaffirm each others’ and their own humanity. We can only play with these ideas because we are human enough and smart enough to believe two contradictory things at the same time. In that moment, we connect.
And it is the CONNECTION AS YOU EXPERIENCE IT (your half of the semiotic connection as you extend yourself outward looking for something), not the validation you hear coming from some other person, that gives you what you need to begin to heal.
You can heal yourself, but you can’t do it alone. Let your pain lead you to the hurt, even if its where you didn’t expect to find it. Examine the hurt to find a balm, even if its the opposite of what you expected. If the hurt comes from a bad connection, keep connecting. When you identify the connection you need to feel better, don’t forget that the healing you experience is the result of your actions, and it is YOUR healing. Own it. Own all of it.
– Sir.