What I’ve Learned From My Block List

There are three types of people on my block list:

  • Those who hate feminists.
  • Those who hate men.
  • Those who hate everyone.

Scratch that. There is one type of person on my block list: Fundamentalists.

Fundamentalism is “strict adherence to the basic principles of” anything. In other words, it’s narrow-mindedness about generalisations, if that’s enough of a contradiction for you. If you want even more contradiction, please note that, in defining fundamentalism, I have been narrow-minded about a generalisation. This is what’s known as “A Postmodern Fetlife Post”, which is also known as “I can’t be bothered to fix my logic problem, but if I point it out first, it will trick readers into agreeing with me.”

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When my block list was young, I thought hate groups were the problem. Then my block list grew up, and I thought men’s rights activists were the problem. Then, I thought a particular kind of internet feminism was. Essentially, I got way too fundamentalist about the fundamentalists on my block list, so I couldn’t see how fundamentalist I was being. This is not a complicated post, I swear. Here. Have a cupcake. They’re iced with glittery meta-ness.

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All Hail the Rationality of The New Sub™

When I found my submissive side, I was so hooked on serving that I forgot about what I wanted from D/s. Sub frenzy made me a pot of bubbling hormones that exploded 20 times a day. I couldn’t think my way out of my own kitchen, let alone through a healthy relationship. The only thing that had rental space in my head was my dom.

Well, him and his mouth and his cock and his tongue and oh god I’m going to melt into a gooey pile of oxytocin and drown.

I had all the mental faculties of a toddler because sex was fogging up my brain every second of every day. It was delicious and debilitating all at once, but I was more interested in the tasty parts, which got their power from more submission, more frenzy, more deliriousness.

And more


I was too ecstatic to think about limits or safe words. He insisted on them several times. I told him “no”. All hail the rationality of The New Sub™. Submission gave me a high that limits and safe words would diminish, so I threw away caution and focused on pushing our dynamic to new extremes. I was so hooked and elated I might as well have had a needle in my arm.

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I’ve Suddenly Realised I’m a Domme

I’ve suddenly realised that I’m a domme. The unquestionable signs have been there all along, so I truly don’t know how I missed them:

  • I have a profound and lasting desire to have all my coffee made for me without having to ask
  • I’m sick of coming up with pranks that earn me spankings so I would like to demand them instead.
  • I really need someone to do my typing for me.

It’s not topping from the bottom if you’re the top, so I hereby announce that I am looking for a sub. He should be:

  • good at giving orders in a domly, yet subly way.
  • capable of domming his domme on command.
  • talented at baking cupcakes.
  • gifted with a flogger (also in a subly way, obviously).

He should also require no beatings. I’m a domme, not a sadist.

Basically, I require a True Dom cum sub who is into total power exchange wrought from my venerable new philosophy called “Bottoming from the Top™”. With a single domly look, he must make me forget that I bossed him into a violent face fucking.

Which person in the peanut gallery just called me confused? Fuck you. I’m perfectly clear about my role in a D/s dynamic: I’m a authoritarian slave who wants to be dommed into submission in a convincing, yet forgettable way by a guy who does what he’s told. It’s not complicated.

Since this concept is entirely new to the kink community, I’m benevolently allowing others to follow in my stead. If you have realised that you, too, are a domme like me, I will magnanimously allow you to copy my fine example of True D/s. I’m thus offering classes on the art of domination so that others may learn from my supreme wisdom.

Men with submissively domly cocks get in free. Just don’t expect any CBT is all I’m saying. Oh, and don’t forget to bring your belts. I will be demanding spankings.


Not All Women

Not all men are made out of sex and bourbon, but most of you are. Not all men are delicious, but you’re still my favourite breed of human. Not all of you are witty or sharp or fun to glitter bomb, but you’re usually at least one of those things. Not all men are respectful of women, but you definitely outnumber the bigots. Not all men are principled, but not all women judge an entire gender based on a few bad apples. Not all women are unaware that men, too, are abused. We’ve heard you. We don’t respond with “not all women,” so please hear us.

When we speak about our fear, we know that it’s caused by a minority. We know that not all men are abusers. Not all women need to be reminded of that because not all women blame an entire gender for our fear. Most of us already know that it’s based on risk, and not on the characteristics of every man.

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Not all complaints about rape culture deserve to be dismissed. Not all cries for empathy are baseless. Not all explanations for why we’re sometimes fearful are misandrist. Most of the time, such writings are responses to male irritation over our well-formed boundaries, so please stop telling us that not all men are sexist. We know.

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Cyberspace is a Funhouse Mirror

I’m not the sharpest sword in Chow Yun-Fat’s drawer without my keyboard in front of me. Most of those I’ve met from Fetlife have told me I don’t have a hell of a lot in common with my online persona. It’s not that I try to project a different personality. It’s just that my brain is a teacup ride, not a rollercoaster. It needs a lot of time to put a sentence together, and all you see at the end of all my efforts is the finished product.

My online self thinks as quickly as you can read her. If my offline self functioned that swiftly, I’d be running coaching weekends for pocket change, not writing on bloody Fetlife.


In cyberspace, anyone who can syntax can come across as Gucci to their real-world bargain-basement self. You read the edited, spell checked, elegantly metaphored words, but in real life, we’re um talking kind of like maybe what’s the word for that… um. Yes.. So what was I saying again?

Online disinhibition also makes many of us live more loudly online than off—yet another reason internet blogs are a crappy way to grok character. I suspect our digital personas might represent our values better than our personalities. I’m a dithering, clumsy, way less feminist person than you see on this site, but I do genuinely care about the things I write about. I just don’t care enough to talk about them more often than I do the howling dog choir next door—and that’s by far my favourite thing on the planet right now.

Most of us behave as though the internet gives us the bottom line about a stranger’s character. The truth? That “victims advocate” will steal your laptop for cigarette money. The silent one you’ve never even met supports more rape survivors than the feminist who shows up at every online debate. The guy who spells like a five-year-old is actually a dyslexic charmer. The only way to get a marginally more accurate idea of who we’re dealing with is to watch behaviour instead of words. That doesn’t overcome the fact that we can’t represent the blindspots in our characters because we can’t even see them.

The internet is home to some of the world’s utmost demonstrations of human greatness and compassion. Sometimes it lets us become more than we might ever be offline, and sometimes it does the opposite, making principled people seem like retiring passivists. Cyberspace is nothing more than a bunch of funhouse mirrors. Which reflections are accurate? I think I know.

But I’m often wrong.

A Lesson About Madness

My dad had the maturity of a toddler, but damn, was he fun and huggable. To him, life was rough and tumble without any safety gear. He always had love to spare, but his sense of responsibility was as absent as he was. My mother was the opposite. She was always there, but her affection only came out on special occasions. Usually, she was stuck on one setting: disappointed — in me, in my sister, in life, in everything.

There were no blacks or whites in my childhood. Only a gazillion shades of “what the fuck?” I can’t claim abuse but I can’t claim a healthy childhood either. There were smatterings of love and an equal measure of neglect.

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I once got caught out trying to hide a report from my dad. I told him I didn’t want to disappoint him. He said, “You could never disappoint me because I love you.” That was one of the most revelatory moments of my life. It was the first time I saw what unconditional love looked like.

I’ve spent most of my adulthood trying to remember that he found me lovable no matter what. Sometimes I get it right, others not. The swaying back and forth between self-worth and self-doubt is a constant one that only my grandmother’s influence can rescue me from. She taught my cousins and me that the crazier you behaved, the better. She served Kentucky Fried Chicken by candlelight under the table, not on it. She taught us to speak gibberish in public, have watermelon wars, and talk to the flowers.

She showed me that life is not about who you are, but how you experience the world—a looking outward, rather than in. She taught me that everyone is flawed, but that that’s a good thing. As my dad always said, “Imagine how boring the world would be if everyone was like you.”

Self-esteem is self-awareness, so as long as you have it, you also have the ability to lose it. When you stop looking inward, though, you see how infinite the sky is, how exquisite this world is, and how immutable its love.

Solitude is the Safest Place I Know

If I decide you’re my person you might as well staple yourself to me at the hip for all the indifference I’ll throw your way. I don’t just love. I adore, but I adore my own company just as much. When life starts screaming at me, solitude is my shelter because it’s the safest space I know.

I was never one of those girls who made out with strangers in clubs. While my friends were in the darkest corner getting acquainted with the sexiest mouth in the room, I was dancing alone next to the biggest speaker. They went home when the kisses got interesting. I went home because the sun was higher than my mood was.

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Solitude and I got along well back then, and we get along even better now. I exist happily between walls and silences. This is where I feel most at home. My mind has a thousand adventures for me that don’t require company.

Once you learn how dangerous people can be, solitude becomes the only fearless space…

… until it jumps up and assaults you because too much isolation can be even more dangerous than people.

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