Friday, December 11, 2015


How is it that one person can contain both the cruel sadist who pinches my nipples and pulls them until I scream helplessly with the pain of it, and the darling sweetheart who hugs me to him the next morning and tells me how much I enrich his life?

Both are him, both are real. The wonderful joy of such a thing doesn't translate clearly to people without kinky - perhaps even only masochistic - tendencies. The thrill of knowing that the man who hugs me randomly in the kitchen and who clearly adores me can also torment my flesh and tell me that his cock owns me later that same day is surely as good as the high from any drug.

When the morning after a particularly intense fuck I whisper that my insides hurt because he kept shoving his cock into me whether there was room for it or not and the only sound from him is a little pleased "mmm," and he pulls me closer? I know that whatever I have awakened in him, in what I thought was a sweet vanilla man all those years ago, is definitely there to stay. The intrinsic goodness of him doesn't go away because he's sexually aroused by hurting me. So long, that is, as I am also a willing participant in the activities. Which of course I am.

Sex is so interesting. How we relate to it, how in so many polite company conversations we're not supposed to mention it, how what turns us on can so often be used by others who find these things out to indicate some kind of bizarre character flaw.

The nicest, best, most kind-hearted person I know is a sexual sadist. Our sexual desires don't say anything about us as people except what our sexual desires happen to be.

If only teenage me had gotten that memo. How many people are living in some private hell because they think the perfectly normal ways that their sexuality functions is somehow abnormal and wrongheaded and is going to send them to hell? Like life isn't hard enough. Like fitting in all the things we must do and all the things we'd like to do and all the people who give our lives joy and fulfillment and contentment doesn't eat up enough of our brain cycles, we focus on something that's meant to bring us pleasure and instead wring anguish from it. How good are we humans at screwing ourselves up?

Embrace the dichotomy. Life is there to be lived, and sex is there to be enjoyed. Consensually. Of course.

Happy holidays, blogland.