I adore how in kink we call intimacy “playing.” I can go up to someone and say, “Would you like to play with me?” The same as when we were children. This dark obsession of ours is pure and bright, like when we forget ourselves pretending to have superpowers in the schoolyard or when we grow so enamored with a book we tenderly sew it up inside our hearts and spend hours over laptop screens and notebooks spiraling into its universe. We design our own toys and research different ways to make someone scream or pose properly on our knees, and we realize we never left those days escaping into our fantasy dimensions. Those who did not understand branded us odd, and that hasn’t changed either. As we graduate from playgrounds and swings, we isolate ourselves too much in our own strangeness; in our own imaginations. We must reach out and teach ourselves to play again.
Playing is giddiness and enthusiasm and innocence. Will you play with me? Will you share this love of mine and laugh it across our bodies in bruises, cum, and blood? Will you hold up your hand to slap my face as if you are a candle in a dark attic between two grade school friends sharing secrets when their parents think they are sleeping? Help me arrange my pain and pleasure alphabet blocks. You are a knight and I am a warrior. Your flogger is your stick sword, my skin is my cardboard shield. I am a dragon and you are a princess. Rapunzel, Rapunzel, I’ll leave scorch marks and pull your hair.
In our taboo corner, we seek safety under shadow. Our fantasies and longings stir inside us misunderstood and denied like the desperation with which we waved wands and secretly believed we were wizards. We sometimes find someone like us. Someone who knows magic and that other world one can’t put into words; the one that feels like fireflies in your belly. And in an excited, hushed encounter like two am at summer camp under the covers with comic books and flashlights, the only right way to ask is, “Do you want to play?”Love love love this
the kink monologues
There are moments that no one else understands. These special moments are for you. They represent who you really are and what you truly enjoy. It isn’t for anyone else but you and the Man you are sharing the moment with. It is a time when you are happy and root yourself in your submission. It is who you are.
Amen
so the other day i went to a dungeon for the first time you know whips and chains excite me etc etc and then in one room there were like a dozen queers just huddled up and happily knitting together it was precious and i need y’all to know this @genderhexe
Rope is a love language for me. Rope provided by mocojute.com. Taken during our performance at the Nawashi Kanna and Kagura intensive in Baltimore, MD.
One of the things that held me back from actively exploring BDSM and kink for years is that I didn’t see it portrayed in a way that appealed to me, or spoke to my tastes and desires. All of my early exposure was the typical black leather, serious dom, slave style submission. It didn’t resonate with me, I didn’t see myself in it. And then I found tumblr and was exposed to a lot more content that was made by women or curated by women, a ton more queer content, a fuckload more feminist content, personal narratives that showed kink in real life contexts rather than on porn sets or fancy photoshoots. Through those avenues I started to find other bratty submissives and little submissives, play pets and do-it-yourselfers, lady doms and femme daddies and gender queer tops and bottoms. I learned more about versatility and fluidity, spectrums and authenticity. I found kink aesthetics and dynamics that suited me, that felt right, that appealed to my senses. I found porn that turned me on and made me excited. I learned that a dynamic is whatever you build between you and your partner(s).
As long as there is consent there’s no wrong way to do it. It doesn’t have to be the polished demure face you see in black lingerie and serious faces, it can be messy and cute and loud and varied and queer as fuck. There can be boatloads of laughter. It can be whatever feels good for you. My cuffs are pink and my flogger is white and sometimes I’m a naive little bunny girl and sometimes I’m a Pretty mean Daddy, but either way I can guarantee you that my hair is messy and I smile. And my kink fits me, and I’ve found partners who it fits as well, and we figure it out as we go and build on the parts that feel right until we have something that we love and can’t get enough of. Do it your way, make it your own, grow and learn and change when it feels good. Your sexuality is as unique as your fingerprint.
Where does the desire to be used come from?
If it from a fear of disappointing someone?
Is it from an intense desire to please?
Perhaps it is simply to free you from guilt.
Are you scared of your own desires?
Do you want someone to simply take over,
to use you as an object?
Because, as you well know, objects cannot be blamed.
If you are used for the most perverse things imaginable,
you can’t be blamed, as you are nothing but an object,
being used for the perverse pleasure of others…
In discipline, it is the subjects who have to be seen. Their visibility assures the hold of the power that is exercised over them. It is this fact of being constantly seen, of being able always to be seen, that maintains the disciplined individual in her subjection.
Fingers in my mouth, his other hand resting at the back of my neck, those two things always get my attention. My mind quiets, my breathing slows and I can focus on just being. He’ll use that time to talk about things he wants to try with me. Rope, wrestling, positioning and posing. All of that, described in glorious detail. I sometimes catch myself humming and drooling a bit as he talks. My anxious brain can chill, if only for a bit, and I just take note of everything. The way his accent peaks out when he’s excited, the way his fingers bounce when he brings something new up, how our chests start to rise and fall in unison. It’s intimate and soft and true. Sometimes, he describes things that I don’t think I’d like, but that’s okay too. I’ll tell him so and he’ll gather information and move on or reformulate. That’s one of the best feelings. We can be vulnerable, and when it’s a no, that no is never harsh.
A Story with No Purpose, Part V
Standard“So what are we doing?” he asks. It’s the last day of the con. Breakfast is thinning out when he plops down across from me with his legal pad.
“Huh?” I stare stupidly.
With mild impatience: “We’re teaching a class in an hour. We should talk about what we’re doing.” Ah, right. That. I’m bottoming for his class. I’d assisted for this one before, but he wanted to quickly discuss which trance techniques he’d be demonstrating.
While I watch, he clicks the lead into his mechanical pencil and writes something on the pad. I focus on the place where pencil meets paper. My breathing shifts. I lick my lips slightly.
He notices. Hypnotists always notice. Thinking for a beat, then rolling his eyes, “Ah, this is feeding your weird experimentation thing.“ Ah. Right.
We move on, finishing our negotiations, but my wetness lingers. The legal pad, the pencil, the notes, the wide expanse of table between us, his dismissive tone, my unshakable sense of smallness. Eureka.
A Story with No Purpose, Part IV
StandardShe walked into the room we’d be sharing and exclaimed, “Thank God, another woman of color.” My feeling of lightness was instantaneous: the feeling of sinking into a warm bath.
I hadn’t interacted with a brown person since exchanging hair compliments with a black man at the airport. It had been twenty-four hours of rooms filled with white people. That morning, as a stopgap, I’d danced outside alone to Angel Haze, on repeat, feeling desperate.
We would have several conversations about marginalization during the white-filled, kink-fueled weekend, each heavier than the last.
Heavy can be good. Heavy keeps you grounded.