When Gods Speak

There are things we do that make gods speak

You guide me into it

My back pressed into the ground, skin smeared with sand and ash

And in my eyes only sky, only stars

But you are close by: the tightness in my stomach tells me

What I desire is wrong: the sacrifice. The horror. The frenzy.

But when we do it together it is right.

The primal need for my blood fulfilled.

So we do the things that make gods speak:

I cover my face with dirt, and feel my rib cage collapse under the pressure of your feet

Each bone snaps in ecstatic chorus

A shock wave of ache and fear as my spine folds in on itself

This is how I am opened

This is how I am transmuted back and forth

Through lifetimes

These rituals unfold again and again:

The torment. The bliss. The blood. The skin.

You are my healer. You are my savior. You are my destroyer. You are my life ender.

And only the gods can hear my desire: the strange craving for the pain you inflict.

But we have done this many times before

Lifetime after lifetime

It is the only way we can make the gods speak to us

I go as far as I must to hear their voices

And I do

So this is what I asked for

So this is what I suffered to find

So we stand still and listen.

Lost in You

You are the father I always wanted

You are the lover I always needed.

Next to you I was as calm as a rock.

With you I was as wild as a storm.

So I came back again. After everything. I could not stay away.

I know now: You are no soulmate. And this is no fairytale.

It was a frenzy. A flock of sparrows that swarms and then comes to rest suddenly.

I cannot explain us in moments. It was in the movement we made together:

The flashes of dark. Sudden ruptures of light. Bursts of secret sadism. The pain of pushing and pulling endlessly.

And finally out of my throat black spores erupted all over you.

This was my deepest fantasy, manifested as raw as sunlight. I could never have enough.

So we dug down together, until it collapsed all around us.

And now I am sick of you. I am sick from you.

I will never be so deeply lost in you.

Sexually liberate yourself!

Sexual liberation is such an important journey to take and it is often so misunderstood. For you it may be just as liberating to acknowledge that you like basic things in bed as it is for someone else to admit that they like all sorts of rough and freaky things in bed. It’s okay to like it sweet and gentle, it’s okay to like it hard and edgy. What’s not okay is to not know yourself- to deny yourself. To not know what you really want. What’s not okay is to stay in a relationship with someone you are not sexually compatible with. Who doesn’t satisfy you. The specific practices you engage in are not related to how sexually liberated you are. Owning what you want, whatever that is, and finding people with compatible desires to own it with- that is whats important.

Being sexually liberated does not mean you have to be kinky. It does not mean that you have to like having sex a lot or even at all. It means that you have gotten to know yourself deeply without shame, without judgment. It means you understand the deep roots that trace back through your life that has caused your sexuality to develop the way it has. It means you understanding the influences that have sculpted your sexuality. And it means that you revisit your desires often, letting your thoughts and your fantasies shift and unfold as you change over time. It means embracing your own unique version of sexuality, whatever that looks like for you, and find ways to practice and celebrate it with others who want it like that too.

It’s okay to be kinky

Being kinky doesn’t mean you’re a broken person, but it’s also okay to feel broken and be kinky.

Being kinky doesn’t mean you’re damaged in some way, but it’s also okay to feel like you’ve been damaged and be kinky.

Not all people are kinky because they’ve been traumatized, but some people are. And that can be okay too.

It’s okay to be proud of your kinky feelings and to flaunt it, and it’s also okay to keep that part of you private.

It’s not wrong to be kinky. You can be kinky and be mentally healthy. You can be kinky and be mentally ill. Kink can be an expression of empowerment and of self love, no matter what your experiences have been.

The only thing that’s wrong is to use kink as a way to practice hate, towards yourself or a partner. But it’s up to an individual and the people who know them best to decide what that looks like, not for outsiders to make judgments about.

Giving it to you

Even if I try, I know,

I cannot give myself to another

How I give myself to you.

I can’t expose my soul to another,

The ways I show it to you.

I tore myself open, sharply-

You tugged at me until it oozed out:

My heart thick like jelly.

My soul sticky like glue.

You say that you want to be in control of me-

You want me to prove to you: that I can stay here, secure in your restraints.

You move slowly to see if I will wait for you-

You push me ahead when I am reluctant-

You watch, still as stone, while I dance around you frenzied.

I pass every test. I am tamed. I am kept tight on your leash.

Even if I wanted to, I know: I cannot give myself to another.

I am yours.

Worshiping You

There are days that I worship you,

that I kneel for you like you are my god-

but I forsake you- I turn away.

I don’t know how to let you accept me when I am not perfect.

I don’t know what to say to you when

every part of me cries out for something different.

Each hurt on my body whimpers with its own special pain.

You see me crumble when I cannot be calm;

you watch me prickle over when I forget how to be soft.

There is a part of me that wants to destroy you: that despises your tenderness.

But what would the rest of me do without you?

You have me reined in tightly. You tell me that you have tamed me.

But there is something in me that can never be roped down.

There is a place so far inside me that your fingers will never reach.

Sick

Cw: age play

 

 

He knows that I have a sickness. I call him “daddy” and he likes it.

I find reasons to cry in front of him. I beg for his attention. I wait for him to pet my hair.

Tonight he will let me sleep in the same bed with him. He decides when it’s time to hurt me. He decides when it’s time to be soft with me.

It’s like I’ve never had a daddy before now. He touches me and I want him to. He makes sure I’m taking care of myself. He knows that I try to be good and he never gets mad.

He promises that he will always protect me and I believe him. He squeezes me so close that it scares me. It has never been like this before. I have never had it this way.

I want to neatly untangle the meaning of my sickness- trace things back along a straight line through my life. But the sickness is not so simple. And all I can do is throw it up into his lap.

Now I’ve never been so happy. Now I’ve never been so sick. I fuse it with his love. I fuse it with his safeness. Embraced with the depth of my sickness.

Kink, Collusion, and the Patriachy

My sexuality is mine. And it is also a product of the culture I was raised in. I will never be sure if I truly and authentically desire something with the core of own self, or if I have been conditioned to like it by a patriarchal society. I don’t know if the two can be separated- even in theory. I don’t know if I really have an authentic self I can remove from the misogyny of my culture. And maybe that is okay.

I know there is judgement from others about the ways I have sex, and the sensations I desire. It’s fairly common to hear people refer to BDSM as a product of misogynistic brainwashing, as a collusion with violent patriarchal forces, as the sad experimentation of unevolved people still living under the shadow of violence and sexism.
Sometimes I say my sexual orientation as a whole is simply ‘kink‘. Sometimes I feel like I’m only kinky in relation to masculinity. Sometimes I feel other ways. It is difficult to try to explain the complexities of my sexuality. And yet always I am coming up against this idea: that there is only a particular range of sexual behaviors and desires that are anti-oppressive, that are authentic, that are empowering, that are good.
I can’t stop thinking about BDSM. I think about being held down, beaten with canes, pushed and shoved, talked down to, tormented with knives, made to be afraid. I have terrible, disgusting fantasies. I play them out with people who I trust, who I explain my fantasies to, who understand what I want, who will listen when I say what I don’t want, who will push me right to that edge of “too much”, who are turned on that I ask them to do such terrible things to me.

I am comforted by pain. I am addicted to the feeling of release it gives me. It’s one of the few places I’ve experienced true bliss, flying high on adrenalin, my eyes closed, bracing for the next impact. It helps me feel like I can cry- it helps me feel like nothing matters except for each present moment.
I think about how my feminism fits into the things I desire. How can I respect myself? How can I portray myself as empowered? I am accused of colluding in my own oppression. It looks too much like abuse. It looks too much like misogyny. I am accused of being complacent in this social context of violence and patriachy.
I will never know if I’ve actually been brainwashed by society to want the things that I want. But I do know that I want them. I know what feels good to me, and I will continue to seek out those things. I like playing with my own boundaries of fear- it’s sexy to run along the edge of what I will trust others to do to me. I enjoy the feeling of being helpless- of putting my life into the hands of another. During these scenes I feel on top of the world- I feel an intense release of stress and tension.
How can I reconcile my desires with my ideals? Am I deluding myself? I question my motives incessantly. Maybe I do really like it. And maybe I have also been conditioned to like it by this patriarchal society.
Two things can be true at once. I embody the images of female submission that have been fed to me since birth. And I like it. I truly desire it. I have also been told to desire it my entire life.
Am I resisting or colluding? Can I be doing both? Maybe it is messier than either/or. Maybe it is more complex than one way or the other. We don’t have to make a line between “good” sexual expression and “bad” sexual expression. We don’t have to close the gate and call some women “empowered” and others “brainwashed“.
I know what I like and I know what I want. And I know the things that I want don’t feel wrong.
Two things can be true at once: I really do like it. And I have been conditioned to like it by our patriarchal society.
In the end, if I like and it makes me feel good, does it really matter?

Masochism

It is so wrong

Knowing you could kill me if you wanted to

As i feel the smack of your fists against my legs

He finds that spot where the pain rings purest and sweetest

Where the surface tension breaks, revealing that pool of deep emotion.

I know you will not kill me because you adore me-

you cannot stop thinking about the way that I yield myself to your hands-

the way I curve myself into your blows.

Our desire for each other is twisted- you will torment me over and over again and I will keep coming back to your door.

It fascinates you- It enthralls me-

and it will continue on: I will cry hot tears and scream your name but not so you will stop. I scream for more of you.

Thrill

I am so easily bored,

taken over by my endless need for thrill.

It won’t leave until I am dazed and spent,

until I can no longer speak:

until I am crushed beneath the weight of your hands and legs.

My endless need for thrill:

I ask you to beat away the dreariness of life.

I won’t be satisfied until I am bruised and burned,

until I’m broken and put back together:

I want it over and over again.