“Raise a glass to freedom, Something they can never take away.”
~ Lin-Manuel Miranda (“The Story of Tonight” from “Hamilton”)
I often write about the paradox of being dominated and free.
It fascinates me.
Because I am such a control freak in the rest of my life. I never realised how much, really. I’m quite easy going, in most things. You probably wouldn’t see the control freaky unless you got up close and personal. But there’s little things that indicate my need for control which stems from my anxiety about *everything*
I’m always ridiculously early to things. What if the bus is late? What if they arrive before me? What if there’s a traffic jam? What if the bus breaks down? What if. What if.
My handbag is filled with pills (most I don’t take myself), plasters, a measuring tape, phone charger, pen, paper, snacks, tissues, an umbrella and more. Because you never know when such things might be needed.
I’m calm in emergencies. I’ll take everything in my stride, I’ll be the one with the calm voice, giving support to others. Why? Because I’ve imagined everything that could have gone wrong and how to deal with it, so when something goes wrong, I’m ready for it.
I’m also the person who brings biscuits or cakes or sweets to a meeting, the person who’ll volunteer to make the brews (I don’t drink tea or coffee) and/or tidy up at the end. Because I want people to like me. And one of the ways to be sure of that is to bring bribery and be helpful.
So when I play, I hand over that control to someone else. Not entirely, of course, I can call stop whenever I want to. But I curate my play partners carefully so I rarely do have to call stop. I do all my control freakery in advance. Picking the person, agreeing to play, negotiating boundaries and discussing aftercare needs etc.
So when I play I can let that go. I mean, you might have to pry it from my fingers a bit, like, but slowly I do. Hit by hit, orgasm by orgasm, gasp by gasp.
Not from thought, usually. I am an author after all. I’m noting sensations, words used, sounds made. I’m silently writing notes in my brain for the stories I’ll write afterwards.
Although sometimes my brain switches off completely or I can’t find the words for what I’m feeling and I just let the sensations flow.
In the hands of another, or several others. Letting them care for me. During the violence, that is care for a masochist, and afterwards. With the clean up, the sweeties, water and the hugs. The gentle conversation that brings me back to myself.
And it’s not always through BDSM. Sex and wanking bring on that freedom too. A freedom to forget everything and everyone else and just revel in the sensual moments between me and myself or me and my partner. I pour everything in to those moments, silencing the ‘what if’ voices with kisses. Cutting off the doubting thoughts by begging for what I want. Relegating questions to the back of my mind with rolling orgasms.
It might not be a battle important to anyone else, but this battle is mine and the freedoms I win through sex and kink can’t be taken away.