This is our truth, tell us yours
Content note; BDSM and consensual sexual violence
It’s a common theme here; that there’s not been enough sex on this blog recently.
There’ve been lots of words though. Good words. Blogs about politics, about power relationships, about the world we live in. As much as this blog is a broadcast to the outside world of what we think, and, we hope, a contribution to a wider, active debate, it’s also a conversation between two people who met through sex, and discovered they liked each other. The sex has always been good, but the liking each other has been a revelation. Nowadays, I hope the liking each other feeds back into the sex, a reversal of the situation when we first met, when I hoped I liked Jem, because the sex was so damned good.
We don’t do Sex101here; this isn’t a didactic blog, trying to teach other people how to do sex our way. It wouldn’t work if we did. What works for us is personal to us.
We were talking yesterday about Jem’s bruises after a recent session of play that was intentionally harsh in its beginnings. I don’t have to explain to Jem why some sessions begin in that way; it’s become an accepted part of our sexual vocabulary, like the conversation the day before about preparations and requirements. I took it as read that Jem knew it would begin that way; that’s why she was asked to lay out the crop and the canes on the bed. That conversation is about preparation, but it’s also a form of foreplay. I tell her what needs to be ready, and she can conjure pictures in her head that mean she is aroused when I arrive at her door. Sometimes I’ll intentionally plant ideas, trains of thought to help her along, and sometimes I’ll deliberately misdirect her so that I retain the power to surprise.
And the sex itself? It’s a conversation punctuated with heavy breathing and physical interaction, with moments of studied violence and deep, lips against shoulders and eyes closed moments when the world shrinks to a space bounded by a bed frame. And, too, there are the moments when she knows that my needs are being acted out, and I can feel her pleasure in giving up herself for that moment when her desire for sex and her desire to serve intermingle.
We were talking yesterday about men who consent to, who seek out, bad sex in uncomfortable places that is never quite as satisfying as they desire. I was talking about cottaging, and about the overlaps between men who cruise and cottage, and those who seek out street sex workers for a quick fifteen minute fumble around the back of an industrial estate.
Reflecting on that thought this morning I was struck by the thought of how much cottaging, in my youth, depended on non-verbal cues, on not saying anything that might break the spell or distract the other. I had one of those mental visions, so much like a memory but as much about insight as recapturing the past, of willing myself not to speak in case I said the wrong thing, or worse still, a taboo thing. Unbidden the thought popped into my mind of saying to Jem that I think the cruellest thing I have ever done to her is insist that she tells me what she wants. The kindest, I hope, is that I listened.
I still think that’s the case, and I’m proud I did it, and that the memories of conversations and the ability to hear all of each other lasts longer than the bruises…