I Don’t Need Therapy Just Because I’m Kinky

I feel the need to post a reply to a comment left on one of my blog posts. Here is a copy of the comment:

This story about her sub [sic-Dom] beating her is heartbreaking. If that doesn’t cry out “I NEED THERAPY” I dont know what does. Feeling the need to have a guy beat the shit out of you so you can feel connected to him is not healthy or normal. It indicates a real psychological problem and that problem will NEVER be solved through violence. I will pray for you.

Maybe because you only know me through my BDSM blog, you think that is all my relationships is. I can’t blame you; it’s not like I discuss the other aspects of my marriage much on here. However, I think it is important to remember that even though BDSM is an important part of my marriage, it is nowhere near all of it.

The amount of time my Dom and I spend having kinky sex is really relatively small in proportion to our other activities. We are happily married. We are parents together. We go on dates. We both work. We cook and clean and watch tv and do laundry and sleep and laugh just like any other couple. Sex and domination is not all we are about.

Does my Dom sometimes hit me? Sure. Does he ever do it outside of a consensual sexual context? Absolutely not. Would I stand for it if he did? Not a chance.

You know, I don’t need my Dom to beat me to feel connected to him. I feel connected to him when he brings me flowers. When we have wrestling matches on the living room floor. When we sit down, exhausted, and discuss our parenting techniques together. When we joke together. When he makes me laugh. When we cuddle and watch our favorite tv shows together. When we have sex. When he gives me a massage. When he calls me just to ask how my day is going. When he kisses my forehead before he leaves for work.

And yes, also when he dominates me in the bedroom. Does that mean I need therapy? Not necessarily. It means that, for whatever reason, dominance is one of the ways we bond. It makes me feel closer to him. He is my rock, my strength, my head, my dominant, my husband. I can relax and let him be in charge. The next day I am more open, more affectionate,  more loving. And guess what? Those are all GOOD things for my marriage!

You know what? I’ve been to therapy. Years and years of it. It’s helped me get through relationship issues with my mother (which, unlike my relationship with my amazing husband, is an abusive relationship), to learn more about myself, to help me deal with mental illness, to help me control my anxiety. Therapy has helped me in many ways. I am under the care of a trained psychiatrist who has me on so many medications I feel like opening a pharmacy in my bathroom. And yes, they do help. Some. But even with medicine, I still have bad dreams, anxiety problems, and panic attacks. The medicine helps but does not solve the problem.

You know what does solve the problem? Dominating sex with my husband. No amount of prescription pills can make me sleep the hard, dreamless sleep of a woman completely at peace, mentally and physically exhausted and floating in the relaxation of sub space. After we have a “session,” I don’t have nightmares. I don’t stay awake worrying. I don’t wake up worrying. I sleep, relaxed and safe and secure and happy.

I haven’t talked to a therapist about my kinky habits because they do not cause a problem for me in my life. Of all the bad things that have happened to me, having a sexually dominating husband who loves and cherishes me is not one of them. In fact, it is quite the opposite.

It doesn’t mean BDSM is for everyone. But it also doesn’t mean any woman with an interest in BDSM needs to run screaming to a therapist so she can have her mind changed until she enjoys only vanilla sex.

It means whatever makes my husband and me happy, connected, close, and loving works for us. It means any sex that we both enjoy and that does nothing but bring us closer and make us feel more connected can only be a good thing.

Kinky sex? Bring it on.

Blind Spots

Photo by AtomicJeep on Flickr: http://www.flickr.com/photos/36521966221@N01/84542105/

Holly likes things I don’t like.

Scratch that:  Holly likes things that I can’t stand.

That is, some of the things Holly craves are things that are actually on my hard limit list when I bottom — she wants me to do to her things I won’t allow anyone to do to me.

Now, just because I don’t want something done to me, am I really opposed to doing it to her? No, not really.  I don’t mind doing them; I don’t find doing them upsetting.

But the thing is, I never do them.

I have a blind spot.  Anything that’s on my hard limit list?  I just forget about it.  It’s not there.  When I plan a scene, I don’t think about it.  Even when I mentally run down a list of things I know Holly likes, I forget to put them on.

So this weekend Bryce and Holly and I all went to a local kink event, and there was a class on one of those things that Holly likes that I can’t stand.

Face slapping.

No, I won’t let anyone slap me across the face.  In fact, pretty much any rough stuff from the collarbones up is off limits, with the exception of biting me on the neck, which is on the DO WANT list. I don’t like gags.  If you cover my mouth or nose I will panic.

And if you slap me in the face I will scream at you in a way that is likely to terrify you and the neighborhood beyond, and the scene will come to an immediate screeching halt.

But why?  I not only endure but seek out far rougher treatment than a little slap on the face.  What is it about getting slapped on the face that’s so different?

Getting slapped in the face, more than other forms of real-world violence, is a gesture of disrespect.    It’s also peculiarly feminine; typically, women slap people, not men. It’s done face to face, whereas almost all of my impact scenes are done facing away from Bryce, showing him my back (and backside).  It’s not impersonal violence; it’s personal, and judgmental.   A slap says, “You’ve misbehaved, I don’t respect you, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

From my perspective, it’s terrifyingly personal and shaming, which is why I never allow it.

So.  The class.

The best thing about the class?   The presenter did her whole talk completely naked. (I kid you not, pervs). Even better, she was a fountain of girly effervescence who had a wonderful time slapping boys who were very enthusiastic about lining up to get slapped by a pretty naked woman.

There was one moment where I could see how much the volunteer liked it — face flushed, eyes closed, little smile.  ”Ummmmm,” he said, clearly enveloped in pleasure.

I could not help but notice how close it was to one of my other favorites: blushing.  I usually achieve that by requiring Holly to surrender her panties to me in a restaurant, but lo, here was another route.

The class ended, and I had to get over to the bootblack stand and get to work.  The next time I saw Holly she was being chased by a human pony (with a bridle and a bit and leather ears) and giggling madly.

Bryce made the rounds of the vendor booths with a lovely woman he’s been seeing lately.  There was dinner, with Bryce, and Holly, and me.

And then Bryce left.  Just me.  Just Holly.  And her lovely innocent face.

I don’t really remember what we were doing just before I did it.  Holly was still dressed, but I had her pinned to the bed.  She was face up, and her head hung over the edge of the bed a bit.  I grabbed her, first by the chin, and then by her hair.

Did I whisper don’t move?

First one.  Barely making contact.  I threaded my fingers through her hair, pulling tight. Second one. Harder.

“Ohhhh,” she groans.  Lips parted, eyes closed.  She looks…transported, her face as flushed as it would be during an orgasm.

She doesn’t move or try to get away from me.

I don’t actually know what Holly thinks of this — does she also see it as a gesture of disrespect, but simply find that hot in the way that having a top yank down your panties and make you stand in the corner hot?  Is it the same kind of erotic frisson that comes from sexually-tinged embarrassment?  Perhaps not having the respect of others, or being shamed by an authority figure holds no true terrors for her, leaving only the joys of the erotic playground, in which case, she is truly blessed.

I only know what her body tells me, and her body tells me it’s time to fuck.


Totally Fucking Lazy BDSM (Is Love)

It’s easy to get burned out on BDSM, especially if your style is a high-intensity one, like mine is.   If what you’re really into is the flailing whipping flogging chains and wax followed immediately by ripping, ravishing, pounding, ecstatic, transcendent, weirdly religious and transporting scenes with laughing crying biting awe.

That takes a shitload of energy — mental, physical, emotional.

Some days, I tell you pervs — I just do not have the oomph for this.

But the problem with that — and it’s a problem I’m sure some of you have experienced — is that when that intense activity disappears for awhile,  when you guys aren’t *ahem* Doing It,  it can feel like your dynamic disappears as well.

Where did it go?  If nobody’s dominating and nobody’s submitting, are you vanilla now?  Is it over?  Are we through?

A big part of my job as a dominant is to actually connect to what I really truly want.   Not in general.  Not what I think I should want. Not what I think Holly wants.  But what I actually really truly want RIGHT NOW, today.

The problem with that is that I find some of the things I want embarrassing.

Read more