Freed from safewords, I return to my essence with E. And I witness his too.
I’m writing this before the memories of last night fade away, like a dream half-remembered.
I don’t want to wake up.
I haven’t written any kind of sex confessional in a while–mostly because, well, my sex life has been generally unremarkable, and I am tired and stressed from school and work demands. But last night deserves something to remember it by, and I remember by writing.
It wasn’t going to be anything out of the ordinary, just my usual Sunday night date and sleepover with E. In the past two months we would have dinner, watch TV, play a little, maybe have sex, and go to bed. It was nice to spend time with him, but our intimate life was uninspired. We were going through the motions, but there was no intense or genuine connection happening. A little slap and tickle, an orgasm or two, and we were done.
I mean, that’s something that happens in relationships, even those without cohabitation. You get used to each other, you develop a routine, life gets in the way. That’s normal.
But I knew we could do better, that he’d been holding back, that I’d been quick to call my safeword when I knew I could take more, but somehow didn’t want to.
So yesterday morning, I text him, telling him I’m feeling itchy for something edgier, more intense. Something like the play we used to have in the first few months of our relationship. I tell him, “what if you took my safeword away?”
I know that taking safewords away is not something you’re supposed to do. It’s our emergency shutoff, it’s how we communicate limits. But E. knows me. He’s known me for four years now. I trust him implicitly, and I had an instinct that giving him the possibility to set himself free would create the sparks that have been missing.
And in the process, it would give me the possibility to finally fully give up, give in, to get in the space again, that space of pure sensation and reaction, almost a trance. Pain is not enough to drive me there: I need something more, a feeling of helplessness and vulnerability that only comes when you put yourself in the hands of someone you trust, of someone who is willing to accept the power you give them and use it.
Everything I’ve ever wanted when I imagined a scene, I got last night.
I gave in, but he gave in too. When he buckled the collar around my neck, it didn’t only mean that I was giving him my power. It also meant that he was trusting me with his dark, shambling monster, taking the collar off of it and giving it to me. I was the one now contained and limited (yet so free), while he unleashed himself.
When kinksters speak of power exchange, that’s what it means. It’s not just a bottom giving up to the top; it’s also a top trusting the bottom with what is set free in the process. It takes a lot of trust to let someone hurt you, but it also takes trust to let yourself hurt someone.
It’s heady, intoxicating, a magical incense burning odourless in the space between us. Breathe it in, let it take you over.
Many bruises, welts, and orgasms later (this is not a play-by-play you pervs :p), we were cuddling in my bed, and all I wanted was to melt into him. I love this man, but I had never loved him so much as in that moment, when everything about us was open and vulnerable. I had never loved him so much as in that moment, when running my hand through the hair on his chest made me shiver, as if we were sharing a single body. My skin felt electric under his fingers, now tender rather than cruel.
I have always felt a certain ambivalence about lifestyle kink. Is it a hobby, a twist on sex, or is it more essential and identity-making?
When kink feels like a habit rather than conscious involvement, when it is more like brushing your teeth than enjoying a fine meal, I lose sight of its identity-making power. I become a ball of stress and worries, unable to access essential parts of myself: my body, my physical sensations, all the stuff that I tend to shut down with my overactive mind.
But lying in my bed with him, spacey from endorphins and orgasms, I felt my body as a white-hot star radiating pleasure, a soft putty massaged to blissful release. I had forgotten this, forgotten the value of the meditative process of entering and leaving subspace.
I had forgotten how complete it makes me feel, the wholeness of being that comes with peak or near-peak experiences. I returned to kink-as-identity, to how this thing we do is essential to my happiness. I remembered again why I crave this so badly, why going without it eventually drives me nuts.
Last night was a special moment. I realized that I can get what I want, and that what I want is, for once, exactly what I need.