My first profound D/s relationship taught me that BDSM spelled intimacy, love, and connection. These days, I’m struggling to see it that way. I can write you essay upon cerebral essay about what makes kink and abuse different. Intellectualising is hardly my weakness, but life doesn’t happen in logical chunks of data. It happens in a huge, tangled mess.
I’ve tried to disentangle it, and all I have is that BDSM and abuse cannot coexist comfortably. If a dominant is destroying your psyche, kink just leaves you raw and fragile, which goes with submission like a third-degree burn and a dirty blade.
There were times in my last relationship when I would cling to my self-worth for hours of his rage, but if I did manage to achieve that in the moment, it seems I lost the self-esteem I’d managed to retain every time we played. Being a masochist to someone who puts you in that state is just going to create secondary trauma, even when there is consent. I fought harder for him than for my own dignity, and without trust, BDSM doesn’t make holding onto your self-respect any easier. I only made it out floating on luck. Chance. A few stellar friends.
Submission pushes you to trust sooner than you would otherwise so it asks for epic levels of compassion from a dominant. When neither of those two things don’t exist, BDSM flays your spirit alive. Coercion, I could tolerate. Broken limits, I could tolerate. Having my trust violated in complete absence of empathy? That left me too ruined to get involved again, even in a vanilla way.
My inner slut was made for wild sex and threesomes, but my conservativeness has risen over the last year to the extent that I’m reluctant to risk having a kink relationship again. Submission used to be a pure and beautiful thing to me. Today, kink and ugliness must necessarily exist in the same sentence. D/s seems like far too much of a risk. I’ve removed myself from my local community, notwithstanding a few friends. I’ll need to stay single for a good long while, but I’ll find my way back. There is no alternative.
Now I want to bury my sexuality beneath a shroud where nobody will see it. Last week I wrote about surviving, and certainly, that’s what I’ve done, but it doesn’t extend to kink. Not yet. One day it will, but not today.