Many years ago, when I was vanilla – and I was convinced I was vanilla for a long time, even in the face of small stacks of evidence to the contrary- I was in bed with my ex. We were drunk, as we often were, and we were fucking. I don’t remember what I was doing to him, but I know it was outside of my usual remit and I know he was very obviously into it. I know this because I very clearly remember him looking up at me with a surprised, amused look in his eyes and whispering ‘you filthy little cunt’. It was, without any shadow of a doubt, the most exciting moment of our otherwise fun but unremarkable sex life.
He was entirely decent in bed: loved giving head, almost always made sure I came, kissed and stroked and did all the things a good vanilla partner is meant to do. But I wanted more- I wanted him to hold me down, and spank me, yes…. but I wanted not just actions but words. I wanted his voice in my ear. In retrospect I wanted to be forced to answer questions, to access a new way to see and describe myself.
In the end, those questions are at the core of why I do kink; what are you? What are you for? Who do you belong to?
When playing with power, my first toys and my most- loved weapons are my words. I need you to love them too, or it isn’t ever going to completely work.
I love words. I love dirty words. I love having mucky filthy words whispered in my ear when I’m getting fucked. I need affectionate insults. I adore being called horrible names. I love being told I’m a slut, especially when I’m, you know, acting like a slut. If I’m lying on my back and you’re thrusting your cock down my throat and I’m gagging and my nose is running and literally all I give a fuck about in the world is making your cock harder and harder until you come all over my face… call me a desperate little slut. It’s accurate; in that moment being a slut is my highest ambition. Being called a slut is confirmation that I am living my best life.
I once had a short- lived thing with a man who loved calling me cunt. Sometimes he’d call me his little cunt, but more often it was just ‘Cunt’; as if it was my given name, written on my birth certificate. ‘Good morning, Cunt’, he’d say to greet me, and I’d melt entirely both between the ears and from the waist down. It’s not about degradation- I don’t feel humiliated by being referred to in such a way. Rather I feel reduced; not in a negative way, more in the sense that you reduce something down to its essence, shave away what is extraneous.
At the same time I cannot comfortably be called a slut, or a cunt, or a whore and nothing but, if I do not truly in my heart know that I am a beautiful multi- faceted human with a huge amount to offer. I cannot comfortably offer myself to you as a toy whose only function is being fucked and giving pleasure if I am not convinced I perform a large handful of roles in this world effectively and confidently. I cannot tell you I belong to you if I do not know first how totally I belong to myself. I adore these paradoxes. I adore how completely I can say these things, how entirely I can mean them, whilst knowing that I simultaneously believe the absolute opposite.
It’s one of the reasons I enjoy playing online. Obviously I love in- person play: the eye contact, the heat, the move from slapping to stroking, looking up from below, being looked down on from above. My first experiments with D/s were via a long- distance online relationship which lasted for about 3 months before the lack of touch became too unbearably frustrating. For a lot of people, that lack of touch is a deal- breaker: they wouldn’t get anything from a relationship which never came to fruition face- to- face.
And I can sympathise with that view to a great extent, partly because I know exactly how much it’s possible to truly desire a person based on nothing but the way they use language. If you’re playing online with someone who truly loves words and exerting their power, who doesn’t just press your buttons with their words but metaphorically alternate between fondling and then pounding them with the flat of their hand until you’re in a sort of fugue state where everything you see and hear and feel is gently tinged with eroticism, then the knowledge that you’ll never feel those hands on your skin can be an absolute pain in the clit. I mean that absolutely literally.
And when it’s bad, or engaged in lazily- I’ve done it, it’s easily done- wordsex can just be two people who don’t know anything about each other, regurgitating the words they suspect will have the required effect on the basis of previous experience, with very limited connection or intimacy. But to me, a word- based (generally long- distance) D/s relationship- or even a vanilla one- while necessarily limited, can be enormously fruitful.
When you call someone a name (that you know they love being called because you’ve asked them, in a long, twisty, fascinated dialogue of mutual investigation) it builds a connection. When you tell someone that you want them, describe the things you would do to them or have done if such things were possible, when you know it’s unlikely that your connection will be consummated, that generates a very particular kind of yearning. When you ask someone to repeatedly type an honorific, and that repetition becomes habit, you moderate someone’s behaviour. These are not to my mind inferior ways to have sex or build intimacy. They are just different.
In the end, I want relationships with people I can touch. I can’t just investigate someone’s brain- I want to investigate their body too, use mine to please theirs. In my last relationship words and stories and spoken fantasies played a massive part, and that exchange was a source of huge joy that the physical and the lexical could be combined in such a fashion. But my years of writing filth at people have taught me so much about myself- who I am, what I want, how I want it. They have taught me about power, and connection, and touching people. They have taught me who I am.