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Inner Child

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Several years ago, at the Burning Man festival, a sculpture was erected of two distressed adults; both seated with their backs to one another, heads in their hands. The figures were fashioned with a wire-like material, thus, making them transparent.

 

On the interior of both adult representations was a small illuminated child. While the adults faced away from one another, the inner children faced towards each other, their arms extended out, reaching for embrace.

 

This is one of my all-time favorite works of art, and like all art, it’s open to interpretation. Each admirer with a different take, and their own personal connection and symbolism to the piece.

 

To me, the sculpture conveys the idea that often, as adults we carry baggage, the responsibilities of adulthood in conjunction with our own meandering experience often leaves us damaged, and jaded. Particularly in regards, (but not limited to) romantic relationships.

 

We often tend to shut down instead of saying the words that need to be said. Both partners grow distant and stubborn, silenced by their pride, yet their inner children yearn to be loved, they yearn for freedom from the self-inflicted prisons imposed by their older selves…they yearn to play.

 

When it comes to conflict, often at times children work towards resolution in a much more functional and sensible way then their older counterparts. While adults tend to revel in resentment, children do not. Adults often cut ties and sever relationships in fear of becoming noticeably vulnerable, or in order to protect their own ego. At times, the argument resurrects from something senseless, and ultimately deemed as irrelevant once the damage is done.

 

Children haven’t yet been tainted by the world, they act on instinct. They do what feels right, they don’t consider similar situations that have happened in the past, or fear situations that may, or may not happen in the future. They truly live in the moment.

 

When it comes to children, arguments aren’t amplified by personal insecurities and irrational fears. Arguments are just arguments, and they’re often just as ridiculous as the adult versions of these. However, instead of bottling their feelings inside, and shutting the other person out, they verbalize their pain. They apologize to one another, share a fruit snack, and move on with their fucking day. In my opinion, a much more constructive and effective tactic.

 

As adults, we envy their sense of innocence, and value their honesty. They experience the world in a much more beautiful way then we do. As much as we admire their tactics we don’t endorse them on a personal or in an applicable manor. However, even (or especially) as adults, many of us tend to be attracted to those who bring out our inner child; to those who promote a sense of fun in otherwise dull situations. Those who remind us of the enjoyment and nostalgia of childhood, those who “play” with us.

 

This attributes greatly to the importance of play in the BDSM realm. Although in adult play there is a sexual undertone, the concept is the same. It is a healthy outlet for many adults, and it is an opportunity to allow our inner children to play. In those moments of escapism, we are free of responsibilities and judgment, we are free to let go of resentment and anger in an alternative way. We are no longer adults weighed down the world, but rather spirits free to explore it.

 

At times the play takes on a certain scenario or role (otherwise known as roleplay). It’s actually quite common to play out scenes from childhood, coined traditionally by therapists as reenactment. At other times, it’s less regimented with an understanding of likes and limits and both parties are free within that scenario. No matter how you prefer to play, in BDSM or any other area that it could be implemented, the point is, to play! Let that inner child free and you’ll be astounded by the benefits reaped by your adult self.

 

Psychological Domination

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You mumble inaudibly as you bite down on the gag, eagerly anticipating my next move. I drop the cane on the floor, the sound startles you more than the impact itself would have. I grab you by your hair and whisper in your ear, “not so tough now, are you?”

Even if there wasn’t a piece of plastic inhibiting your speech you wouldn’t of said a word. I slowly began to loosen the tightly bound rope around your wrists. I knew I had conquered you.

You came in so self-assured, so confident. Tense, defiant, completely over-inflated and under-aware. A self-anointed alfa, I was determined to break you, and I did…. I laughed, as I sent you on your way.

A few weeks had passed since then, and honestly, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. Although I was successful in sending you into a surreal subspace I was also exceedingly aware of your preconceived notions. The cultural credence that you are so invested in. The idea that women are somehow inferior to men, (obviously, we have vastly different views on the subject).

Yet, here you are, begging to come see me. Begging to submit. I contemplate a bit before agreeing. I didn’t appreciate the brash way you had approached me upon our first meeting. However, I did find it thrilling to turn the tables so effortlessly…so I agree.

You approach me noticeably more compliant then you had previously been. Not a word exchanged, but your demeanor tells me everything I need to know. I intently locked eyes with you, and with one stern snap of my fingers you are kneeling before me. I’m pleased.

I knew your new-found submission had nothing to do with the physical control I could have exhibited. For you it was mental. The truth is that you could have physically over powered me if you truly desired. You had at least 50 pounds and 6 inches in your favor, but that wasn’t what was diverting you, I had over powered you…just in a much more profound way. It was the psychology of it all that sent you to your knees, and this is where I found satisfaction.

People tend assume that my job revolves around beating people into submission, and although that does happen from time to time, it’s only the tip of the iceberg. A very small percentage of people are into intense physical pain, and as I am an extreme advocate of consensual play, I seldom get to venture.

However, it’s the psychological domination that you truly crave. This is the addictive component that you can’t get enough of. Anyone can use physical restraint to prevail, it’s the mental prowess that will leave you defenseless.

I say it all the time, but the art of domination is only about 10% physical, the other 90% is mental. There is something beautiful about the ability to make someone submit without malicious intent. It’s about manipulating the situation without imprecisely injuring the individual. The satisfaction isn’t in leaving someone psychologically weak and physically deflated. It’s about inspiring them to give into you completely, to get them to submit entirely with every essence of their being.

Regardless of how it may appear from the outside, it isn’t about imprisoning the subservient partner, it’s about freeing them in ways they couldn’t previously conceptualize. It’s not about rescinding previous beliefs it’s about disassembling them, and constructing something new entirely. Psychological domination is an art, and when demonstrated decorously it breaks down barriers, and is absolutely liberating.

Fuck That

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The truth is not everyone deserves you; most don’t even come close. This really pertains to all women, but Dommes in particular. However, for some reason, many Pro-Dommes end up in romantic relationships, with these awful guys who oddly enough seem to “dominate” them in every viable sense.

I always wondered why such beautiful, strong women would ever allow any man to disrespect them, let alone their partners. These are the same women who make an incredibly good living off of the fact that they are “Goddesses”. They are worshiped and adored by basically every man on the planet except the one they choose to give their heart to.

I could never really quite grasp the concept of this. I’ll be the first to admit that in my personal life I tend to be initially drawn to men that have some kind of alpha in them, but that really is mostly due to the fact that I like a bit of a challenge. If I can’t break them by the end of the first date, they won’t get a second.

However, I also tend to be drawn to intelligent and intuitive men, most of which innately know better than to cross me. Even in the instance I’m dating someone, if it becomes clear that they don’t value me in the way I deserve, or prioritize me accordingly, regardless of my interest in them, I promptly remind myself that men line up to lick the bottom of boots, and then show them the fucking door.

So anyway, today I’m browsing through my news feed when I come across an article about sex workers. Now, personally, I’ve never consider Domination “sex work” since there is no sex, but according to the ignorant man who found it fundamentally imperative to categorize such jobs, it is indeed sex work.

Ok, so back to the article before I get completely side-tracked and go on a 3-page rant about how the art of domination is about 10 percent physical and 90 percent mental…I’ll save that for another blog. Anyway, so the article was actually quite positive considering that the term “sex work” has such a negative condensation.

It was a pretty lengthy text, but the premise of it was that the reason sex work is looked down upon in such a universal way is due to the stigma perpetuated by males that the female workers accept as truth. The article didn’t really touch on Dominatrix’s, it focused more on traditional sex jobs, such as escorts and strippers. Now, it’s pretty obvious that stripping doesn’t entail sex either, but it is also categorized as such, so just to avoid further side-tracking, let’s just go with it for now.

Nonetheless, the article got me thinking about these beautiful, smart, professional Dommes that I know, that engage in such toxic relationships with such worthless men. I started to think about it in less of a personal regard, and more in sociological terms. We are culturally cultivated to look down on women that use their bodies, or any aesthetic attribute in a way that produces revenue. Yet, we are constantly bombarded with images and expectations we should meet; However, when were fortunate enough to have those attributes, and intelligent enough to monoplolize on that, suddenly we’re whores. And we as women accept this, but why? We’ve been beaten down and manipulated to such a staggering degree that we feed into this bullshit…but fuck that!

And fuck you….to every guy that has ever found it acceptable to mentally or physically demine a woman and blame it on her profession. Fuck you to every “man” that has been intimidated by a powerful woman and in turn made her feel powerless. Fuck you to any man that has ever cut a woman down to size in order to feel bigger. Fuck you the men that are willing to rob a woman of her inner beauty so she can match his own reflection. Fuck you to the insecure men that will break you down in every way possible, so you are forced to become dependent on them. Fuck you to the freeloading losers that will spend his woman’s money while simultaneously slut shaming her. And to all ignorant assholes who are passing judgment, without even having the intellect to comprehend what they are judging.

And fuck you, to anyone that ever makes you feel less then you are…you are nothing short of spectacular. You are beautiful, you are a boss, you are fearless, you are strong, you are a fucking Goddess, and the only thing you should be ashamed about is picking the wrong man, but we all make mistakes. So wipe the mascara from under your eyes, apply that perfect shade of lipstick, put on those boots and strut your sexy ass right on to better things. Keep slaying ladies!

Instinct

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I couldn’t help myself. I knew better, but the desire to have you was almost animalistic. Of course, I didn’t want you in the way that you want to be wanted. My intentions toward you were something different entirely. It wasn’t enough for me to just have you, I wanted to own you…sounds kind of selfish right?

I couldn’t seem to conduct myself in a non-predatory way; despite my best efforts every time I was in your presence, I could only focus on controlling you. The core intent in every action I made was to seduce you. But I didn’t seduce you in the way you wanted to be seduced…I didn’t want to lure you into my bed, I wanted to force you to your knees.

Now of course this wasn’t your forte, not that I’d ever come right out and ask you. That wouldn’t be fun now would it? Normally I have no problem just relaying my rigorous list of demands and expecting my subject to eagerly comply. However, that wasn’t the case this time. You started to become more of a conquest and less of a person.

I felt guilty. As someone that so strongly advocates the consensual side of play I was ashamed of my actions, but just couldn’t help myself. I had to have you, and it had to be in the way that I wanted it. It wasn’t manipulative or malicious, just primitive. I wanted you to want it, and I knew that if I could just get you in the position to taste it you’d develop a craving. The loss of control I felt over myself only propelled the need to control you.

You wanted me, you made that pretty evident from the beginning. You wanted me in the same way that all men want me; perhaps even something more. You’d always look at me in awe with indescribable admiration. I wanted you to admire me; but not in the way that you did. It made me feel bad.

I had no intention of loving you, of course I’d love you to some extent; the practice of BDSM seems to create that bond. I suppose it’s something to do with the implicit trust. I wanted to share that with you, I wanted you to see how beautiful it really is. How freeing it feels to be owned, but I knew that wasn’t the kind of bond you were looking for.

I was afraid I was going to ruin you, you craved a certain normalcy that I could trump entirely. I just wanted to expand your horizons, and offer you experiences you couldn’t obtain in the past. I wanted to give you something you didn’t know you needed, but I knew if I gave it to you, you would start to fiend for it. I wanted you to have it, but I couldn’t be the one to give it to you.

I’m good at reading people, hearing the words that are never spoken. I knew you in ways you probably didn’t even know yourself. I knew your body without ever exploiting it. I knew you’d easily become addicted, and I’d easily become bored. I also knew you’d easily become hurt, and as bad as I wanted you, I decided to back off completely.

It was easier to resist the urge if I cut off contact with you, and so I did. Several months went by before you finally gave up. After a while I forgot about the urge entirely. I didn’t think about you much at all after that, and I could remember the impulse to own you, but couldn’t remember quite how it felt. Then the other day I’m going through my emails. I notice one, and written in the subject line is, “I need to be controlled.” I open the email, and guess what…it was you.

The Mistress & The Therapist

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I approach him in a generally more affable manor then I’m accustomed to; his unease palpable. This isn’t the usual submissive nervousness that I’m familiar with, but rather a genuine fear. The confidence he exhibited on the phone somehow shatters in my presence. He trembles as I remove his clothes, slowly fastening a collar around his neck.

When we spoke prior to the session he informed me that he had seen a professional dominatrix in the past, but now I’m not so sure. He watches me intently as I walk to the corner of the room and remove a pair of fishnet stockings and pink frilly panties from the dresser, I hold them out in the air. He stares at the items anxiously as I motion him toward me with a deliberate movement of my hand. He slowly crawls over, shaking more ferociously then before. When he reaches my feet he kneels before me, terrified.

I reach down and slip my finger through the ring on his collar, pulling him towards me. “Put these on” I whisper in his ear. Without another word he removes the items from my hand. He studies the garments for a few moments, trying to comprehend the correct way of fashioning them. He takes a deep breath before slipping them on. Once he’s satisfied with his efforts he stands motionless, hanging his head in shame.

I softly run my hands over his shoulders, before hugging him tightly, “you look so pretty,” I say as I tense my grip. I can’t see his expression but I can feel him ease in my arms. After a moment I pull away so I can get a good look at him, tears are streaming down his face. He smiles at me and says, “you think I’m pretty?”…. “I do.” I reply, and I mean it.

To him, booking an hour with me wasn’t about simply indulging in some satisfying sissy play, it was about finding a place that he could just be himself, and doing so in front of someone that wouldn’t judge him. I was so honored to be his safe place. It reminded me why I’m so adamant to defend what I do to people that don’t understand, why I’m constantly defending the psychosis behind it, and so tirelessly endorse the psychological benefits.

The truth is, that being a submissive, a fetishist, a expeditionist, or a voyager doesn’t mean that you need a therapist, but administering it is often a form of therapy. Very seldom do our desires stem from a traumatic event as a child, though it can usually be traced to an event from our childhood. The age of the root cause is often irrelevant, but the point is that what we do in playtime is sometimes a form of reenactment or acting out, or acting through something we innately need. As long as the results are positive, then how can what we do be wrong? It’s not.