At the risk of having some of you see me as less dominant, I must confess… I started seeing a psychologist (the word “shrink” makes me feel like a nut case). There has been a spell of about two months where I felt blue and empty and started reading stupid existential stuff like Jean Paul Sartre and Camus. Talk about putting out the fire with gasoline! There was one particular Sartre story where he looks at his girlfriend upside down… just her face… upside down, as she is lying on the bed. And he pointed out that when you look at someone’s face in close-up and upside down, the image of that person makes them soulless and carnal, like a cut of steak on a plate. Just by turning a face upside down, it becomes nothing more than a piece of strange looking meat. For “fun,” take a close-up picture of just your face, print it out, and tape it in front of your desk. When you look at it, you will see the meat I’m talking about. It doesn’t matter if the image has a smiling face or a neutral face. Meat.
And so I started to dwell in this soulless place. I started losing my sexual vim. My normal frequency of masturbation dropped from about 4 times a week to about once every three weeks… and even that one felt like a lot of work.
So what changed in me that I suddenly felt depressed and clouded? Was something wrong with me? Too many times as a sub getting oxygen deprived? Run out of slaves to whip? Nope. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Enter the psychologist. Madeleine. She’s only a couple years older that me. She’s cute… and fucking smart. But before you think this is going to turn into some steamy little post about ballgagging my therapist and hogtying her in 5 inch pumps and shoulder-length leather opera gloves… don’t worry. This is a merely a little purge of my private thoughts. Feel free to bail right now if you are expecting a woody. That may happen in subsequent posts, but for now, I’m just exposing myself. Not very exciting.
Still here? I’m not kidding… this post is not about how I may want to lock a slave’s head into some steel stocks, shackle their widely spread legs to the ground, whip them with a riding crop for an hour and then leave them for the evening while I go watch a flick. But that would be a nice post.
Okay so here’s me:
With almost all the slaves I see for sessions, there is always a sense that they aren’t satiated after the session. Sure, the look relieved and relaxed, especially if the session is particular rough and emotionally draining. But in the end, their eyes tell me that they still haven’t filled that hole inside of them. It’s a hole of loneliness, wanting to be accepted, wanting to feel, wanting to forget the woes of daily life, wanting anything!! Sometimes you can tell that a person will take anything you can dish out. Those are the people that want that whole filled so badly that they beg to have more and more discomfort. They literally want every single orifice in their body crammed to capacity. These clients thirst for simultaneous overload. So I stuff an inflatable gag in their mouth and pump it to max out every space in their mouth, forcing their jaw to the full wide position. I have them stick a large dildo in their ass and pussy (if it’s a guy, then his cock has to be tied or clamped down really severely.). I put earplugs in their ears, duck tape their eyes, then strap an eyeless hood over their head with only the nostrils for air. They I strap their neck into a rigid posture collar and restrain them at every joint. I whip them or cut off their air. And even though it is scary and exhilarating for them, they are never able to fill that “hole.”
And that’s me. Sometimes I feel like I want something that is impossible to describe or ask for. There’s just this longing and a simultaneous feeling of pointlessness. My life is kind of a “groundhog day” : Get up, do shit. Piss away some time, go to bed. Not very dominant is it? Of course, my slaves think I really have my shit together. They all want to be with me and approach me about being their slave for life or even wife. But even if I were to go down that road, there would be no chance of it working out once they saw that I really having nothing going in my life besides being able to wield a good whip. For now, at least I can fill their void for an hour or so. For that period, they can feel what it is like to be complete and not have any thoughts outside the present. Me too. I get off on being a dominatrix because, just like the slave, I forget all about my daily life and tune into making someone suffer. So it’s a win-win. They get their void filled with discomfort, and I get mine filled with perfecting the craft. When they are in ecstasy, I really get off too. Sometimes seeing someone writhe can literally get my juices going. It’s hot to see someone letting go. It’s hot to see someone forgetting who they are. When a slave is licking my thigh high boots for an hour, I don’t let them know that I have already come at 45 minutes. And that’s just from them licking my boots. I secretly rub the riding crop against my clit and the slave doesn’t even know that I am getting my void filled too.
But when the lights come up and the slave has gone home. It’s just me. Me in an empty dungeon… cleaning up… thinking about how I am going to go home to nobody. And occasionally, I have encounters at home, like this one chick from the Whole Foods, or Candice or whomever, but they always end up going back to their lives. And I’m just a fix. Like a nice meal, eventually you shit it out. So I that high of domination has been dulled by my knowledge that it is only momentary.
And so I started thinking about what I want in my life. What are my older years going to be like? Will I have kids? Will I be able to love them? Will I have a husband who loves me for something more than “filling his hole.”? If I died tomorrow, would my life have meant anything? What about if I died in 5 years? The truth is, even if you are Einstein, your legacy is not meaningful to you because you can’t experience it. But I think everybody wants to be able to point to something in their lives and proudly say, “yep. I created that.” And when I don’t have things like that in my life, it makes my void ever more present.
So I started swimming a lot. It helps me feel more connected to myself and my body. I love feeling something positive happening with me. I can literally see my body changing and improving. It feels good. I think it prompted me to exercise my mind, too. And that’s why I decided to see Madeleine (the shrink).
It was terrifying for me to interview psychologists in deciding which one to go with. A few of them immediately told me they can help me get over the shame that is causing my kink. YEAH, FUCK YOU. I like my kink. It’s me. It’s my sexual orientation. I could never get off on making love on a bed of rose pedals. Gross. Seriously, several of the first few psychologists I saw were hell bent on “curing” me. Again, “FUCK YOU!” It was enough to almost turn me away from the whole notion.
Sidebar: Why is it that kink is a bad thing? Why can’t kink be a part of our legitimate culture instead of being cast off as deviant or perverted? It’s perfectly okay to have a Victoria Secret catalog come to your house, but if an “Extreme Restraints” catalog shows up in your mail, suddenly you are a loser sex fiend. That bullshit is perpetuated by the mainstream media who only shows kink in the most freakish or comical portrayals. All you gotta do is look at the countless movies where some guy in a cheesey dog collar and harness is tied up with pink ropes in a closet. Ha ha. Eveyone laughs. That is the big joke scene in the movie. Real fucking funny. Or look at the daytime talk shows where some slave is paraded out before a snickering studio audience by his “dominatrix” to broadside his wife, revealing his secret fantasy of being dominated. FUCK ME.
That’s why I gotta hand it to movies like “La Maitress” (Gerard Depardieu), “Secretary”, “Fetish,” (a documentary), “Black Snake Moan,” and the like. These movies go for the real feeling of S&M. They touch on that heavy void that we all feel. They show kink as something capable of profound aching that is the antithesis of those lame talk shows.
Okay, back from my sidebar:
I finally happened upon a male therapist (whom I had rejected because I would only feel comfortable opening up to a woman) who suggested there are many kink-friendly psychologists out there. Music to my ears. He gave me a list of 5 of them in my area.
The first one I called was Madeleine. She sounded totally normal… kind of sweet, but exceedingly professional. She immediately took my kink seriously and assured me that if we started sessions together, she would give great respect to that part of my life. You mean I could still masturbate with my riding crop while a slave licks my heels? And I could still get mentally healthy and optimistic about life again? Cool. I’m in.
The very first real session was crazy! Madeleine was as cool as a cucumber as she started hearing about my life. But the more I talked, the more I started having serious physical reactions. Physical, I’m not kidding. First my hands got really sweaty, then I was starting to shake, and then I was getting really fidgety and nervous and kept apologizing for being so tense. And when stuff came up about me craving bdsm for most of my life, I suddenly felt like a freak and felt very shameful for having those thoughts. In fact, I saw myself from above… outside my body… listening to myself, and my kink sounded so artificial and psychosomatic. It felt like I could just as easily had a fetish for riding on airplanes. It just seemed so unfounded, arbitrary, and goofy. But yet that has been the thrust of my life. So there was this dueling feeling of watching myself describe my sexual orientation while also feeling really turned on about the description itself. My mouth started to get dry and it was just so odd. But Madeleine was really cool and kept assuring me that it was a safe place to say whatever I wanted to. I never expected such a physical reaction. But then I realized… some of the thoughts and memories I was telling her have never been uttered from my soul before that moment. Much of it was stuff that I had never told a single soul about myself. And I try to blog pretty honestly, but that session was a whole different echelon of honesty. For the last 25 minutes of the 90 minute session, my legs were quaking and I developed this shiver from being cold. I know it sounds retarded, but I was a wreck… just from talking out loud.
Madeleine was so supportive and said she hoped we could continue to meet and work on some ideas together. She gave me some homework to do. Yes, homework. She wanted me to try to start trying to see the world in more shades of gray and less in stark black and white. So the homework was this worksheet where there were different scenarios listed and I had to circle the word that best fit in the blank. Here an example:
1) I got an unexpected bill in the mail this morning for $2000. It was __________ way to start off the day. (“a terrible” or “not my preferred”).
Obviously, the point of the homework is to start seeing that, for example, life doesn’t end because of a bill. So there were several sentences like this on the worksheet. Madeleine also told me to practice describing things in my day the same way and to avoid superlatives and definitive descriptions. And having a sense of humor, she also said I could make an exception in the dungeon with the slaves and it would still be ok to call them worthless pieces of shit who deserve nothing better than to lick the heel of my boots. She said my slaves probably are pieces of shit in the dungeon, but that once I’m out of my corset and shoulder-length gloves, it would be helpful to find other ways of describing people. Madeleine also said I should keep swimming. I feel good. I want to keep seeing Madeleine. Maybe I’ll start coming out of the fog more and more. But if that bitch ever gets in my dungeon, she is in for some hard core restraints!!
