BDSM, Coming out, Feminist musings, Gender stereotypes, Stereotypes, Submissive tendencies, Unanticipated Satisfaction

(Stereotypes) Die Hard

I’ve been thinking why so many BDSM-bloggers seem to have emotional instability or a mental disorder of some kind. It seems to play all too well to the conventional truth that BDSM is just for the bunch of sicko’s who have been abused, bullied or otherwise marred. I remember all too well the time I kinda thought the same.

Hanging people from their piercings? From the ceiling?

Flogging someone until they start to bleed?

Fat middle aged women draped in latex?

Thin porn models wrapped in latex?

You can see why I was a little wary. It seemed like an odd cult. It seemed to be more about the way people look than what they enjoy. It’s just what Bitchy tried so hard to fight against. There is still no variety to enforce freedom in BDSM. There are no dominated boys, and there are no women to dominate them – who are not made out of porcelain. It’s a world of weird guys who can get away with just about anything because they secretly make the rules.

Okay, now then. I’ve come to realize that there are a lot of wanking, self absorbed, porn oriented guys out there who don’t care about the needs of others. They want what they want. Their weird little secrets are made sacred by the hiding, unconventionality and shame, and so they can never change. They can never realize that what should be most important to them is what the other one wants. Not what they want to see. But the porn industry has left us women pretty much on our own when catering to mens tastebuds and forgetting – in the porcelain-frenzy – about a tiny little thing clalled lust. Who could teach these guys, hell, who could even show them what it’s all about?

It’s a tragedy to be alone. It’s even more of a tragedy if you carry around a sense of overwhelming shame and guilt about what you need, want and like. Do not let yourself be shamed! It’s a good thing to be whole, and that means that you have to let go of the presuppositions you had. The stereotypes are just what they’re said to be – stereotypes. Not whole. Not even a good point of view.

I remembered today how it felt like when I first realized that what I like and what I should like were not the same thing. It was when my mother told me that you might be a lesbian then because I’d never had a boyfriend and I was 15 or so. I of course retaliated with stupid teenager stuff, but now that I think about it, if someone was to use that same undertone of accusation with me today, with the things I hold dear, I’d probably answer just like I did when I was 15. What’s it to you?

The thing was, before the conversation I had always kind of lived a two-fold life. My lust was a secret I only shared with my friend. She was my first and I didn’t even realize it until years and years later, because it wasn’t what I’d been told it would be. It was our secret. We’d talk about the boys we liked and then go to bed together and play. It was so simple. We knew it was somehow forbidden. We knew we had to keep it a secret. So it didn’t collide with reality, ever, before my mom said what she did, and I got my proof. It wasn’t okay to do those things with girls. It was something I could be accused of. I’d better watch out. And I did.

I never thought men were pretty or sexy at all. They were too foreign, too angular and without all the nice, warm and soft things I wanted to touch. But I fell in love with men. The sex was really awful. It was. Well. It was like brushing my teeth. Necessary but far from fulfilling. But with my (girl) friend, let’s call her M, I had orgasms upon orgasms and I wasn’t even 10 yet! Then I went through puberty and forgot how to and what I liked.

Wonderboy says that I was a lesbian then. But I wasn’t. I was misinformed. See, it’s like with this odd BDSM cult. I just felt weird and alienated with the porn model like porcelain girls and the big scruffy guys. The stereotypes were everywhere I looked. I just didn’t fit anywhere. There was no place for my lust there. My secret became sacred, covered with shame and guilt.

So, who taught me?

I don’t think I’d ever gotten past my inhibitions if it wasn’t for Wonderboy. It’s not that he’s the guy who made me do these things and then I realized. Like in the porn. Like in the fanfic. Like in the poor kinky bastard’s buried hopes. No. He’s the guy who is so safe that I can do anything with him. I am not afraid that he’d judge me. I am never afraid that he’d hurt me. I know that he only wants to please me. This is the key here, ladies and gentlemen.

Now you’re scratching your heads and thinking. Wait a minute! Isn’t he the big Dom and you the little girl subbie? He’s supposed to lead! He’s supposed to teach you and show you (no mercy)! Yeah, yeah. Stereotypes die hard, even harded if they have something to do with gender or sex.

I put his hand on my face and said could you please press hard. I didn’t know why or what I was doing. We were just lying around. I made him press harder. I asked him to hold me down, strangle me, suffocate me, degrade me, hit me, please hit me! And he did what I asked of him. Because he wanted to make me come. He wanted to see me enjoy. He wanted to see what I would enjoy!

So, from the first gentle games we have come to this, everything I’ve written and yet to write about here. I have to accept myself, the whole me, just like I had to with liking girls, too. It’s my dirty little secret, except it’s not a secret, and if it is dirty, it’s dirty the way I like it.

Suddenly the odd BDSM cult doesn’t seem so odd anymore. What, there’s a guy who locks his cock in steel so as not to be able to play with it? And there’s a woman who wants to flog his boyfriend and bind him in chains? Someone wrapped in plastic wrap, bound and masturbated by someone talking shit to them? Ooo yeah. It’s all the hard work (pun intended) that people have done here, in blogs just like mine. They write honestly, passionately, intelligently and most of all about their real life.

How could I not understand? I am, after all, a being of emotion and lust, just like they are. And for the part of being mentally handicapped? If you’ve come this far with yourself, know yourself this well, have done your homework, adjusted to being in the marginal, having to explain yourself or hide some aspects of your life (self?). Well, then. Why would you not accept your emotional instability too if you have already stepped out of stereotypes, of the need to fit in, be made out of porcelain?

Like Joe Ancis said.

“The only normal people are the ones you don’t know very well.”

It’s pretty hard to know yourself this well. That’s why we write.

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