In the decade that I’ve been experimenting in kink, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve moved a particular activity from the “maybe,” “I guess,” or “I honestly have no idea” categories in my brain over to the “hell yes!” column. What I have not experienced often, however, is the near-sudden migration of a hard limit into constant fantasy fodder.
Face slapping was one such rarity.
essays
Two Collars, One Sub, No Dom: Reflections on Self-Collaring
At the risk of sounding like a broken record, one of my favorite things about the kink community is our ability to tailor our kinks and dynamics to fit our needs, to attach as much or as little meaning as we like to certain words, phrases, objects, or body language. Collars, of course, are no exception: for some, they are akin to wedding rings, symbols of a deep commitment that are only to be donned after much time and consideration. For others, a collar is more of an aesthetic choice, a method of signaling to other kinksters in the wild.
Personally, I fall somewhere in the middle, and it’s very dependent on context. There were sexual encounters with a former FWB during which I wore a collar for little more than the utility of it; while I cared about him, I wasn’t romantically attached to him, and though we played with some power exchange, I wasn’t his submissive. I wore a collar sometimes when we’d play together, but I wasn’t collared.
With my ex-partner and Dominant, the idea of a collar meant a lot more. Several months into our relationship, we picked out a lovely purple leather posture collar at a sex shop together, which we used during scenes. Then, for our first anniversary, he purchased a beautiful silver o-ring pendant, which I wore nearly every day as a subtle day collar until our breakup. While not on wedding ring level for us, they certainly were imbued with meaning, symbolic of our commitment to each other – at least, that’s what they meant to me, as I suppose I shouldn’t speak for him. I got rid of both after our relationship ended, but the necklace was harder to let go; had I not left it in his car immediately after, when I was still in full quiet rage mode, I don’t know if I would have been able to part with it.
It’s been over 5 months now, but it’s still a little strange, not having it around my neck every day. And now that I’ve had time to heal and rediscover both my sex drive and my submission, I’ve found myself longing to wear a collar again – not because there’s anyone currently in my life to collar me, but because I want to better acknowledge, cultivate, and celebrate my submissive identity in and of itself.
In short, I think I want to collar myself.
Continue readingChoose Your Own Adventure: Kink Dynamic Edition
I first realized that I was submissive about 10 years ago, at the age of 20 and in the middle of my first “adult” relationship, i.e. my first relationship that hadn’t begun in high school. Looking back now, my kinks manifested in various ways prior to that – including a childhood period of fascination with historical methods of corporal punishment – but it wasn’t until college that I was able to attach a label to those desires.
Labels can be helpful. As I’ve written before, discovering words to accurately describe my queerness was a revelation, and finding labels to reflect my burgeoning kinks was equally eye-opening. But labels can also be restrictive, when they almost fit but not quite – like a pair of leggings that’s just a bit too tight. Suddenly, you find yourself uncomfortable, self-conscious, and questioning why you ever put the damn things on in the first place.
Continue readingBreaking Up and Getting Down: Reclaiming Sex After A Heartbreak
I drove down the highway, singing along loudly (and badly) to Janelle Monáe. The prospect of what I was hurtling toward in my little Toyota Corolla both thrilled and terrified me: I was about to have sex.
For the first time in over a year.
With someone who wasn’t the man I loved for over 4 years until he utterly broke my heart.
Continue readingSix Weeks Later
Six weeks ago, I endured a seismic shift in my life.
Six weeks ago, my long-distance partner of over 4 years told me that he had developed feelings for another woman, and that he was leaving me, in part so he could be with her. I had just arrived on a plane that morning, ready for a week of laziness and quintessential New England autumn activities, and instead I found myself in his new apartment (his job meant regular relocations), staring out the window at a city I’d never seen before that day while my world crashed around me. Everything I’d built up in my head, everything about what our lives were going to be like once that grand mythical day arrived and we’d finally live in the same place, crumbled.
But this isn’t about that. It’s not even about him, and it’s definitely not about her. This is about me, and what came after.
Continue readingNo, I Don’t Watch The Handmaid’s Tale: Consuming “Feel-Good” Television as Resistance
I don’t watch The Handmaid’s Tale.
I haven’t seen a single second of the show, actually.
I meant to watch it, back when I heard it was being made. I had every intention of adding it to the already too-long list of TV shows I devour – but then the election happened, and even though some of the shock of it had worn off by the time the show premiered six months later, a show about a totalitarian regime where women are literal property of the state just seemed…too real. It hit way too close to home, especially with Pence a heartbeat away from the Presidency.
So I put it off, mentally assigning it to the backburner of shows I would get to eventually, waiting for the day when I was in a better headspace to consume something so dark, so disturbing, and so horrifyingly plausible.
But that day never came – and with Roe vs. Wade hurtling toward a seemingly inevitable demise, I doubt I ever will. This is not a commentary on the show’s quality – I’m sure it’s exceedingly well-made and splendidly acted, worthy of this “Golden Era” of TV in which we are still living – or a hipsterish, contrarian backlash against what is popular.
I merely came to the conclusion that continually subjecting myself to women’s trauma, fictional or otherwise, as entertainment is not worth it for me, no matter the supposed deeper meaning behind it. Rape, domestic abuse, and graphic violence toward marginalized groups are not prerequisites for powerful or compelling storytelling, and I am tired of Prestige Television™ pretending otherwise.
“But you’re being a total hypocrite,” I can hear you saying. “I follow you on Twitter. I know you watch Westworld, Supernatural, and Stranger Things. And don’t even get me started on Game of Thrones!”
And you’re right, I do. My TV habits are not all light and fluffy, and I have endured countless instances of fictional women being fridged in order to further the character development of men – though I have nearly given up on shows before because of lazy, gratuitous rape plots (yes, Game of Thrones, I’m looking at you). But I have noticed that, in the last two years, I have made conscious efforts to consume more television that contains generally good people just trying to do their best – or at least kinda crappy people who are making an effort to be better.
Allowing oneself to watch and enjoy these sorts of shows isn’t just a method of media self-care; it’s an act of resistance.
Continue reading
In Defense of Fleur Delacour
Though the title protagonist is first an adolescent and then a teenage boy, the Harry Potter series is filled with smart, accomplished, compassionate women and girls to admire. There’s Hermione Granger, of course – she is the entire inspiration for my sex blogging alter ego, after all – but also Ginny Weasley, Molly Weasley, Minerva McGonagall, and Luna Lovegood, to name a few. Many Tumblr posts, Buzzfeed listicles, and tweet threads have been dedicated to these beloved characters, but there is one woman in the Harry Potter universe who does not get enough love, both within the fandom and the series itself: Fleur Delacour.
Ms. Delacour is of course beautiful, but she is also intelligent, bilingual, magically skilled, and deeply devoted to and fiercely protective of her family and friends. Despite these admirable qualities, she is often seen by others as merely snobby, vain, shallow, and rude. Unfortunately, some of my otherwise very favorite characters – Hermione, Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley in particular – treat her horribly at certain points in the series, in a perfect illustration of femmephobia and internalized misogyny. By the end of the final book, Fleur is a key member of the anti-Voldemort resistance movement, harboring fugitives and fighting Death Eaters – all while performing the brunt of the unpaid domestic labor, as is so often expected of women in both the magical and Muggle worlds.
Oh Hi, I’m Bi
So I’ve been thinking a lot about my sexuality lately – specifically, the bi part of it. (Personally, I blame Janelle Monáe, at least in part – I mean, have you seen the “Make Me Feel” video? Hnnngh. *heart eyes*)
See, I’m bisexual but heteroromantic. I’m in a monogamous relationship with a man. I’ve only ever dated men. I only want to date men. I don’t have romantic feelings for folks who are not men. That does not, however, hold true for my sexual feelings.*
*Note: I know there’s been a lot of discussion in LGBTQIA circles about whether or not the term “bisexual” enforces the gender binary/is transphobic/should be replaced with pansexual/etc, and I have feelings on that – but that’s not what this post is about. In short, bisexual is the label that I feel best reflects my sexuality, but trans and nonbinary folks are not excluded from my sexual attractions.
A Resolution I’ll Actually Keep: My 2018 Orgasm Spreadsheet
I’ll be honest, y’all: I’m not really one for New Year’s resolutions. I do tend to get introspective at the end of the year, reflecting on the previous 12 months and the things I’ve accomplished, and I try to begin January 1st on a positive note, mindful of certain intentions I’ve settled on for the upcoming year. But when it comes to standard, straightforward, concrete resolutions? It’s never been my thing.
But this year, I have a resolution: I’m keeping an orgasm spreadsheet for 2018. Continue reading
I Hope Your Soul is Changin’: An Open Letter to My Rapist
Trigger warning: this post includes discussion and depiction of rape.
The Aerial Feminist 
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