I might have recovered from rape, but that doesn’t mean I’m done with it. Somewhere between trauma and recovery, I developed a preference for degradation, sadomasochism, and most of all, consensual nonconsent. I want to tell you it’s a therapeutic thing, that it erases my rape like an etch a sketch so I can redraw a scary monster as a cuddly lamb.
To a degree, that’s true. It’s just not the whole truth.
Before I recovered, rape was my constant. It took up an absurd amount of my conscious life, so I spent many years associating sex with assault. It was only a matter of time before it became a kink. What else would a sexual masochist do with her history of criminal debasement? Send it out for take-outs? Nope. Consensual nonconsent makes me wet.
Rape integrated into my sexuality as a fantasy I would ultimately consummate with any partner willing to take me there. It’s hardly a safe activity if you’re prone to triggers. Rape play doesn’t have cracks to fall through, but crevasses, but it compels me anyway.
When a dominant loves me, ownership and control make me feel like a diamond. Being objectified makes me feel valued. Giving up control makes me feel powerful. I’ve always been a citizen of the darkness. I’ll take my days with peace and joy, but sometimes I need to jump into an abyss. That’s where the contrasts live, where I discover the meaning of lightness through shadows.
D/s is an exploration of yin and yang. Its contradictions are inseparable because darkness adds dimension to a one-dimensional world. The ordinary becomes sublime when I look at it from a place of horror. You’re welcome to suggest I be sent to a psych ward, but I swear I’m sane. I just enjoy a little grit and pain.