This article originally appeared on VICE Canada
The very first time I experienced my version of perfection was when I met a gorgeous man in Monaco last year. He's young, a multimillionaire (I mean, you have to be to live in Monte-Carlo), and during our date at the Hermitage Hotel terrace he made a comment during our conversation that he thinks biologically, deep down, all women want to be dominated. I raised my eyebrow at him and quickly disagreed. There is nothing about me, or my life that wants to be controlled by a man, outside of the bedroom. I left that last part out in my objection because quite frankly, I didn't want to give him a bone in this debate that would only encourage his views on women being in a position of servitude. Little did he know, I was soaked all the way through my panties.
We didn't sleep together that first night, but when I went to say goodbye to him the next day before my flight, he came up behind me as I was looking in the mirror and turned me around and kissed me. I took a deep breath and convinced myself "Oh my God yes, just YOLO this one time please." And I felt my usual anxiety of sleeping with a stranger vanish. He was absolute perfection. In every word he said, in every placement of his hands around my hips, neck, hair, face; it was pain and ecstasy at the same time, and I have him to thank for finally realizing my fantasy and making it come true.
Life's rough when you're a feminist who likes to get fucked. And I say that with every single pun intended. On a day-to-day basis, you really can't tell me shit. But behind closed doors, I'm trying to look like an unchoreographed Olympic gymnast getting her freak on.
It can be an embarrassing task to reveal these desires, especially when we live in a world where women demand equality. I pursue what I want, I'm not shy to share my feminist views on a first date, and most importantly: I cannot be told what to do. I've been suspended from school for "disobeying authority" more times than I can remember so it's safe to say I have an issue with anyone policing my actions. So navigating through this mentality while having to admit that I just want my brains fucked out while you say nasty shit to me is hard enough to explain to myself, much less another person.
Gone are the days where I thought I just don't really get that wet. I realized that much of my arousal was hindered due to inadequate foreplay and assertion from my partner. And not voicing my concerns basically led me to having to settle for vanilla sex with lots and lots of lube. "Well why didn't you just tell them you want them to be more dominant?," I've been asked. Seems like the logical thing to do right? Absolutely not. No later than the words "rough" or "dominant" leave my mouth, they try to ram their dick in it, and I get their novice version of a 50 Shades of Grey scene, coupled with some reenactments of some fucked up shit they saw on Pornhub. I guess the challenges of kink are that it's a broad term that covers everything from light spanking to needles, electrocution, and other extreme methods of inflicting pain.
Rough doesn't always equal BDSM, and BDSM does not always equal rough.
It's a scary thing trying to find a man who understands this fragile balance and makes me feel safe enough to let them take control of my body, without them bringing in their own premeditated ideas of what they think it should be for the both of us. I mean, how do you tell the man you asked to be in control, to not do what they want to do to you?
I understand that it can also be difficult for some men to get into the swing of things. I've had the ones who are nervous and so intimidated by me that they don't know what to do, so they just hammer away like they're having a seizure. I've had the ones who have no clue what it means to be sexually assertive, so they request such a carefully calibrated routine, that I might as well be directing porn and getting paid to write a storyline. And worst of all are the ones who think I want to be punched in the face and licking the bottom of their feet. Hell. No. Red flags go off and I abort mission immediately if there is even any mention of this in the itinerary.
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Domination is all in the actions, the movements, micro-insinuations, and the placement of hands and body parts with clear intent and control. It's a delicate dance with someone who knows how to lead. That carnal feeling that somebody wants me, desires me, and finds me sexy is something new to me that I never felt growing up. Being teased for being petite and flat chested—I'm still currently working with 32A cup breasts—I never got chosen for seven minutes in heaven, and throughout my teen and adult years I had sex with my shirt on or at the very least a bra. It took me a very long time to feel sexy, and even then it's not all of the time.
Tiptoeing on the line of being hurt just enough is thrilling. When a man is taking his time to explore me and push me, he is giving me his undivided attention; and that is ultimately what turns me on. When my body physically reacts to something my brain normally rejects, it's confusing yet overpowering, and I can't deprive myself of that based on principal. I'm afforded the opportunity to make a decision to relinquish control of my body, and that gesture in itself is powerful and liberating. The real test is just finding somebody who can perform these almost degrading acts, while still recognizing that after I swallow your load, I am not to be fucked with.