The Problem with Cohabitation is that it Requires You to Cohabitate

“Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.” – A Room of One’s Own

I’m the Pol Pot of duvet sharing. I will forcibly relocate the sheets from right under your butt by 1 am, and I don’t need to raise you from the mattress to do so. I’m committed enough to achieve it one millimetre at a time. I don’t know why I need the entire duvet. I just do, but I steal it sexily, so I believe I’m worth it. (You do not get a say in this. I am always worth it.)

My sleep habits are a massacre of sleep mumbling and ball sack kicking. My feet and hands are made of dry ice, and I will put them all over you because every man needs to be felt up while he’s dreaming of England. Do you think Jon Snow whines about being cold? No. No, he doesn’t.


I also crave blow jobs the instant I wake up. This is an excellent quality in a woman, especially when she habitually wakes up at 2 am. I also won’t go to sleep until I’m 1, 000% sure there’s no more sex to be had, and if you can’t sleep by the light of my lust and a lamp bulb, it’s probably best you chase me onto the couch.

Continue reading “The Problem with Cohabitation is that it Requires You to Cohabitate”


King Dom and the Hopeless Submissive

You’ve met him on Fetlife. You’ve seen him at a munch. You’ve attended his flogging classes and dated him on Tinder. He’s the dominant who’s so domly he comes with his own damned domly pants. He’s such a sadist he carries a trigger warning. He’s so masterful he can make you his puppet without your even noticing. Be careful, sweetheart. He’s the worst and the best you’ll ever meet–the most loving, ethical, humble dominant in the scene, and if you take the risk of speaking to him in full sentences, there’ll be no going back.

He’s not like those other guys. It’s true. He’s a special one, and this bragging tells you all you need to know about his little-boy heart and big-boy ego.

Ego never did get my panties wet, but you’re welcome to form a queue on the left. He says he’ll drag your intestines out of your belly button, and it must be true because, well, he said so in this 300-word piece of smut he wrote last Thursday. Look at all these hordes applying to be his subly muse.


What? He’s single? Well, I guess he’s involved with “Someone Not on Fetlife.” He’s so poly he invented poly, so ethical he wrote the book, and he has all these pictures of floggers from Google Images to prove it.

Continue reading “King Dom and the Hopeless Submissive”

The Hottest Kinky Sex I Ever Had Came Without Rope or Wands

The hottest kinky sex I ever had came without rope, floggers, or magic wands. It was just me, him, and his black, black mind. With nothing to restrain me, he wove control out of words. He threw it at my lust until I wanted to scream. I felt as though I was being flayed alive. Years later, I fell in love with a man who had little more than a pair of restraints. He didn’t need much more. His thoughts were every bit as evil as a violet wand. He felt for my sexual weaknesses until he knew exactly what to do with them. He took and he gave until I was a knot of unmet desire, crawling in a muddy corner, frayed and degraded.


I found the kink scene after that, and ‘round here, everyone had a toy shelf. They made floggers and wove their scenes out of things that buzzed and shocked and suspended. The rope was sublime. The buzzing was better, but I came to miss BDSM that relied on the mind alone. At parties, everyone has their favourite set of toys. Everyone has a skill. Everyone has a class.

Continue reading “The Hottest Kinky Sex I Ever Had Came Without Rope or Wands”

People You’ll Meet at a Play Party

  • I’m so ropey I can do the Handstand Scorpion Pose while flying a foot from the floor so that my rope top can easily suspend me from my left toe. My abs are basically quarried from Mars rocks.
  • I brought canapes that are held together by teeny handcuff-toothpicks, which I fashioned out of watermelon and this gelatin I made out of vegan agar powder, sourced from the bed of the Amazon River. What did youbring? Chips?
  • If you call me “Lord 69” I’ll let you fondle this butt plug.
  • The more naked you are, the more kink cred you have.
  • We sit in the smoker’s corner wearing Doc Martins and talking about which weapons we’d take to a zombie apocalypse.


  • Is my carotid artery severed in two? Oops. Sorry. I’m too masochistic to notice such things.
  • You’ll probably never find out why I’m kneeling under this table with half a carrot sticking out of my mouth.
  • I’m cisgender, but I accept LGB… um… DQIUERAK… What I’m trying to say is some of my best friends are trans.

Continue reading “People You’ll Meet at a Play Party”

When the Romance Gets Up and Leaves

In almost every love story, there’s a moment when the magic gets up and leaves. Suddenly, all that’s left are shopping lists, laundry, and cutting onions for yet another weeknight dinner. Last week, you were crying over the impossible beauty of his mouth, and this week, you’re crying over a chopping knife and some vegetables. You transpose your boredom onto a list of petty grievances because at least that gives your feelings an outlet. If he’d just stop leaving the milk out and start putting the lid back on the toothpaste, you’d stop feeling so fucking unhappy all the time.

I once fell out of love with a beautiful man. D was bright, creative, and honourable. He treated me as though I was as precious as starlight. Then one day our technicolour romance turned into greyscale:

Shopping lists.
Cutting onions.

Our relationship was perfect, but I felt perpetually dissatisfied.


Last month, I went on a massive hunt for a bunch of keys I’d last used two years ago. I emptied my cupboards, climbed on chairs, and reorganised my drawers. Three days of hunting later, I unlocked my back door as I did every day, and realised my lost keys had been on that key chain all along. Sometimes, the thing you’re looking for is right in front of you–like Dorothy’s shoes, the tin man’s heart, and that amazing man with the indigo eyes.

Continue reading “When the Romance Gets Up and Leaves”

We Are the Hidden People

My kink secret is like a massive bell hanging from the ceiling of my lounge. I spend a great deal of my life crouching underneath it and slipping past it. One wrong move and it would let out a clanging racket the entire neighbourhood would hear. I must hide the noise, and so I keep my toys in unidentifiable boxes and don’t open my Fetlife window in polite company. I dodge references to one of the most important facets of my life with much hand waving and many generalisations.

“I can’t come over because I’m going to a party. No, you can’t come because… because… you won’t like the people. No, it’s nobody you know. There’s nothing untoward happening here. Where did I meet the host? Well, through my blog. What? No, I don’t share my blog with friends because… well, I just don’t, and it has nothing to with distrust. I just…”


Sometimes, I feel as though I’m being tied into knots, which is apt, I suppose, since this is BDSM doing the tying.

We’re the world’s hidden people. In a society that’s still becoming comfortable with bisexuality and polyamory, we hide our floggers and rope in dark rooms. There’s no getting around it. BDSM loses custody hearings, ends jobs, and destroys families, so we must learn silence without adopting shame. We must leave our stories untold without feeling as though they should be untold. We must stay silent to avoid judgement without thinking too much about the fact that our truth would attract judgement. We are exiles, and that has consequences.

Continue reading “We Are the Hidden People”

Power Exchange isn’t a Pack of Two-Minute Noodles

I’m no insta-sub. My submission isn’t the kind you just add water to and then serve. It needs to be tended over a hot stove one degree of warmth at a time–with one ounce of love, two of respect, and four of trust. Still, my sense of duty is inherent, so in my last relationship, I feigned submission before the warmth drew out something true. It was a dire mistake that took two years to recover from. I was utterly battered, and I became so ashamed of myself that I struggled to speak to my own friends.

Slow submission has inbuilt safety mechanisms. It arrives naturally like the tide, drawn by lunar force. It submits because it’s drawn to, because it’s adored, because it’s impossible to respond any other way. It doesn’t prostrate itself until it feels safe, and that’s how a sub survives in a community crawling with predators.


Many a dominant has accused me of being a fake sub. If I put the word “submissive” on my profile, I must submit on their terms: immediately, blindly, and stupidly. If I don’t, I’m a fraud, they say, but maybe that opinion points to a deficiency in their dominance rather than my submission.

Continue reading “Power Exchange isn’t a Pack of Two-Minute Noodles”