I have been wanking. No toys, no porn, no fiddle faddle; just my fingers in my warm wet cunt, rubbing, caressing and pressing my clit as I think thoughts so dirty that only one person will get to hear them.
It’s not that I’m ashamed of these thoughts. I’m not ashamed of the things that get me wet, not any more. I am sometimes embarrassed, and there’s a difference. Embarrassed is when my overriding instinct is: I don’t want to tell you this. I’m scared you will judge me, and think of me as a slut (even though I am a fucking slut, and you like sluts anyway so who fucking knows what the deal is with that) and so I would like not to talk about this please thank you- look, over there, it’s squirrels.
Embarrassed is I’m scared you won’t be into this thing, and will think I’m basic or unoriginal or super intense and weird in a bad way for being into it, and you’ll like me less as a result, so I coyly umm and ahh about my answer, desperately scraping my suddenly desert- empty brain to find the right words to articulate my desires, desires that I will more than likely have never said out loud because, well. Nice girls don’t. Good feminists don’t.
(Ashamed is when I can’t even admit something to myself. It’s not that I can’t tell another person all the fascinating and repellent things I want: I can’t even speak them out loud to myself. It’s a closed, constricting space, like the trash compactor in Star Wars, and not a place I want to hang out in any more).
There’s something about this kind of embarrassment which I love and hate: I love it because it takes real effort to get past it, to be honest and vulnerable and risk judgment, but it’s effort I’m happy to make in order to please the person who’s asking. Because if someone’s asking me what I think about when I’m getting off, the chances are that I deeply want to please that person with my response, even if that process is challenging.
Okay, accuracy check: I’m half happy to make that effort, but it’s also the part I hate. I hate it because vulnerability is hard and trusting people is harder. I hate the gunky, squirmy, reluctant feelings I have to be in before I can get past them. The effort is worth it: it’s worth it when the response to my stuttering self- exposure is not the non- plussed silence or a ‘well, okay…’ of my worst fears but a laugh, a grin emoji or even that Holiest of Grails, a ‘Good girl’ . But the bit before I get there, the summoning of enough courage to say the words in order to stop the tiny journey into self- castignation where I tell myself I’m pathetic and repressed and that’s there’s something wrong with me, that a better sub would say this stuff without hesitating… That isn’t fun.
But then it’s done. Mouth opens: words come out. There’s often stuttering, it often looks and feels inelegant and unpretty. I don’t like people seeing me at my messiest- I actively avoid it a lot of the time. There are huge chunks of my life and personality that are not for public consumption, and for me one of the great joys of submission is being forced to expose some of the darkest of those corners to another’s investigating gaze. Being told: I want to know this about you, and you will tell me what I want to know, because that is part of the power we have agreed I will have over you. To be perfectly honest, being seen like that? It makes my cunt throb, a fierce, siezing throb like a kick drum.
One of the most freeing revelations I’ve had over the last few years is that there isn’t a single thing about me, my life, that not a single person knows. There are quite a few things that I keep for a select audience- and if you’re reading this then that’s a group of which you are a member, obviously- and there are a few secrets that I have reserved for a couple of very trusted friends. And then, every now and again, I realise that I’m telling someone something and they are the first person ever to know this about me. This generally happens when exploring a new kink, and to a greater or lesser degree it will also involve that slow and torturous movement through embarrassment, inarticulacy and effort.
Then it’s done. It’s out there: one person knows that one thing. They probably won’t stay the only person in the world who knows that one thing, whatever that one thing might be. At one point or another That One Thing has been that I thought I might be submissive, that I thought I could possibly be into being humiliated in public, that I badly wanted to be fucked in front of an audience of strangers, that if I was talking to my Dom in my head I usually referred to him as ‘Daddy’, that I liked the idea of being dressed up in pink and treated like my opinions didn’t matter (and not just when I was pre- menstrual). Many things that were once closely- held secrets become consummated acts and topics for public discussion and that progression thrills me.
And now there’s a new thing that makes my cunt wet to think about- so wet, sopping wet- and only one person knows about it. For now.