Fear and Love: Thoughts on a New Year

“There are two motivating forces: ‘fear or love.” – John Lennon

The fear-or-love idea always puzzled me because we’re often told that we can’t have both, so we need to choose between them. How are those two feelings opposites, and why the hell can’t I feel fear and love simultaneously? I’m a big girl. I can multitask. I can think all kinds of soppy, romance-ridden thoughts andsob in terror at the thought of losing him.

Can’t I?

Apparently not.

Apparently John Lennon was right.

I have an abandonment complex. It’s a maladjustment that’s often classified as a phobia. God knows it generates as much panic. I hate blaming my past for today’s psychological debt, but here I go anyway. I was repeatedly rejected by my dad as a kid. He was in and out of my life like a jack-in-the-box. My mother was emotionally absent: she had enough hatred and cruelty to start a cult. By the time I hit seven I’d already learned that loved ones disappear. I never quite managed to unlearn that lesson.

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I’m a Slut and That’s Okay

When I first got involved with D/s, my dominant of the day called me a slut. Gah! I just about hung him from his own damned rope. By the neck. With a piece of ginger in his ass. I was a woman who liked sex, not a fucking slut. I went through the A-Z of feminist dialogue about the word in less time than it takes to burn a bra.

Then I grew attached to the title because of how much affection he used with it. I had to ask myself what *he* meant when he used that word, and rightfully so because slut has enough definitions to fill its own dictionary. I was going to take the compliment, feminism be damned.

Today I stumbled on a new definition for the word ‘slut’: A woman with the morals of a man. It’s better than other definitions, but for fucksakes, are we living in the 16th century? Are sex before marriage and monogamy the only right ways to do sex? No? Then precisely how does fucking whom and when you want to have anything to do with right and wrong?

Comedian, Jim Jeffries, defines ‘slut’ better:

“When you deep throat a cock it’s because you’ve seen it in a porn and you think your boyfriend will enjoy it. When a slut deep throats a cock she’s doing it because she can’t last another second without having a cock bruising the back of her throat. When you’ve got a cock in your ass, you’re thinking “This isn’t so bad. I hope he’s enjoyed his birthday.” When a slut’s got a cock in her ass she’s thinking, “You know what’d be good? Two cocks in my ass.”

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How to Get a Blowjob in a Hundred Thousand Easy Steps

I’m a blowjob connoisseur. That doesn’t mean I love giving blowjobs more than I love Ferrero Roche, although I do. It doesn’t mean I love giving blowjobs so much that I have a repetitive trauma injury in my fucking mouth, although I do (don’t ask). What it means is that I appreciate a man who’s good at getting blowjobs. Blowjob-receiving-skill is a real thing that exists.

There are men who behave like feral, primal, out-of-control animals when they get blowjobs and there are men who behave like my Aunty Loo does when she eats high tea with a cake fork. Two guesses as to which of those I like better. A man who can lose control so thoroughly that he no longer has a clue where his head is (pun intended) is worth his weight in Nutella, and that shit’s more valuable than gold.

When I’m giving a blowjob, I want a man who can let go. I want a man who’s clearly having the time of his damn life. I want a man who takes what he wants when he wants it—one who doesn’t give two fucks whether he leaves my throat sore for two weeks, doesn’t give half a fuck if he cums in my mouth and leaves my (poor neglected) vagina unsatisfied. I like selfish blowjob-receivers. I like them violent. I like them authentic. I can tell the difference between a controlled thrust and an Oh-mifucking-gooooodddd thrust, and if you don’t have the latter for me, you suck at getting blowjobs.

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Trust is Not a Four Letter Word

An ignorant top is a dangerous thing. Lack of knowledge of how important it is to avoid the tailbone and hip during impact play, combined with an unpractised aim, can leave us with permanent nerve damage or paralysis. An uncleaned cane or the wrong type of candle can leave us with infections. A fuckton of scars later, and we don’t come out of the scene looking as pretty as we did when we went in. Ignorance of how long a clamp or clothing pin can be left on can leave us with permanent numbness. Don’t even get me started on restraints. Even the simplest of them can create serious injuries if you don’t know what risks to look out for. The dangers of even the most innocuous types of play are often well-nigh impossible to guess. I’m no expert, but my belief is that you have to be taught. End of.

Nobody said BDSM came pre-packaged in a giant box of safety. SSC only exists if we work for it, hence the importance of classes, mentors, and plain old Dr Google to fill in the gaps. Sane scenes can only really happen if the top is selfless and diligent enough to make them happen. Subs have significant responsibilities, too, but I’ve already written reams on that.

Trust is a non-negotiable part of a BDSM relationship, but give it before it’s earned at your peril. If you’re playing dominant or top, you’re willingly taking on the responsibilities of that role. Someone is agreeing to put their life and wellbeing in your hands. If you’re blind to your responsibilities, it’s unlikely that you’ll care enough to do the learning necessary to sustain your subs’ trust. You won’t make yourself risk aware, and your sub will get harmed over… and over… and over again. Don’t fall into the trap of ‘it won’t happen to me’. Don’t fall into the trap of circumstantial thinking either–accidents rarely happen all by themselves. The truth of it? If you don’t know what you’re doing and you charge ahead anyway, there will be consequences. There are always, always consequences.

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The Unspoken Rules of Fetlife

Rule 1.01, rule above all rules on Fetlife is don’t create drama. Do not be the target of drama. Don’t even *use* the word ‘drama’ lest we throw you in a fiery pit of malcontent.

The second rule of Fetlife is don’t get affected by haters. If you do get affected, don’t admit it. Don’t talk about haters. Don’t get hurt by haters. Don’t even look at haters.

Rule 3: Don’t delete or block. Always keep assholes around your profile. Always allow blood in the water and let the trolls collect. <withering look>

Sounds like the household I grew up in: legalism reigns supreme, and feelings are bad, bad, *bad*. Some of the voices on Fetlife are pretty controlling, and I am tired of pandering to them. My profile. My rules. Don’t like it? Go to the next profile. There’s a comfy couch there and some really evil ways to make a masochist happy.

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The Dalai Domly Dom and the Fatal Case of Dunning-Kruger

I recently came across a noob sadist who believed his months of BDSM experience made him 100% free of risk.

It’s damned hard not to think you have infinite knowledge when you’re a noob because all human beings arrive on this green earth with potentially fatal cases of Dunning-Kruger effect. The less we know, the more we think we know. The more we know, the less we think we know. None of us is immune. If you think you’re too humble to come down with Dunning-Kruger, you probably have Dunning-Kruger about Dunning-Kruger. I’ll wait while you churn that sentence around in your head.

When we’re new, we’ve not yet had the time to become aware of all the risks and uncertainties of what we’re doing, which makes us pretty damned convinced of our expertise. That applies as much to rigging as it does to our careers. Telling me that you offer a 100% risk-free sadomasochistic experience is like saying you’ve learned how to fly because there is no such thing as 100% risk-free sadomasochism. There are always risks, even if you were trained for 15 000 hours on the top of Mount Fuji by The Dalai Domly Dom. <genuflect>

231H

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Love is…

Love is not the painting. It’s the crack in the wall with the paint chipped from it. Love is not the glossy Christmas present or the beautiful day at the beach. It’s the tears in between and the drying of them.

Love is the dark and the gritty. It’s the corner in the room with the carpets scuffed off.

Love is not the candlelit dinner date. It’s the dank closet that you visit on the worst days of your life. Love is the one who’s willing to join you in there and hold you until the light returns, and not judge the shadows.