It makes sense then that BDSM piqued my interest. I thought it might break my bad habit. Back when I was listening in on the online discussions, I decided to go to a couple of meetings, gatherings of the community. They weren't what I expected. The drawn-out conversations about rules and safe words seemed painfully self-conscious and somehow timid to me, and the pot-luck refreshments alongside the demonstrations of various whips and bondage techniques left me cold. It was a Tupperware party, and it was confusing. I wanted to be rattled, awakened. I wanted some kind of passion that would insist on my feeling it. I wanted what I eventually collided with in that hotel room.
Once, on the way to a restaurant with that man, I was egging him on, being playfully truculent and willful — a bad girl. He stopped short, grabbed my wrist, swung me around and slapped me hard. I felt a thousand needles on my cheek. I may have seen stars. But then looking over his shoulder, I saw a woman across the street. She had stopped short too, dead in her tracks, and was staring at us with a look on her face that was not just alarm but real anger, immediate and starting to seethe. I laughed. I made sure she saw me smile, but that didn't change the expression on her face. For the first time, I felt afraid for him, for us. Was she going to call the cops? And if they came, would they believe me? Would they trust me? Or would they just assume I was protecting the man whose handprint was splayed across my face? And if she confronted us, what would I have say?
Was she going to call the cops? And if they came, would they believe me? |
If I told her my life story, would she understand that I wanted it? I could've told her that once he gave me "permission" to slap him. He asked for it. I could've told her that when I ratcheted back my arm and let my palm fly, my courage failed me. My hand landed weak and soft, like a clumsy and self-conscious caress. And that I couldn't tell if he was as disappointed in it as I was in myself. That I felt selfish, not being able to give him what he gave me, even if he didn't need it. At the most, she might shake her head and walk away, wondering how two people could be so fucked up.
I know it's not for everyone. And I admit I lucked out with the stranger in the hotel room. After all, he could easily have been someone who wanted to inflict harm instead of pain. It was a risk, and risks don't come with "safe words." For me the risk was crucial. I needed to accept the consequences without negotiation. I couldn't be allowed to escape. I happened upon someone who not only understood that, but was strong enough to play it through.
