Every story of one’s self is a fiction. But one can at least try to speak some truth. I write here not as a woman speaking for all women, but only for myself. Take from it what you will.
It is hard to know where to begin, for there is no beginning, really. I have constructed this visual and textual journal as a way of exploring, putting into words and images, my sexuality and erotic desires. This is far from simple. Most of what I have seen out here in cyber strikes me as deeply false. There are exceptions of course, but the majority of stories and images seem never to touch on those things that really put us into question. I don’t mean that in some abstract philosophical sense, but merely in the more quotidian one of asking: What do I desire?
For me, asking these questions and slowly discovering the answers has not been easy. In the process of discovery I have been tempted to return to empirical and causal explanations of my desire. Although past experiences surely shape my desire, these kinds of explanations have increasingly come to seem like an escape from facing the desire itself, as if knowing the cause would create a sense of relief: “It is not me, it is them, it is they or he or whomever who has made me this way.” But no one made me as I now am; what I am and desire is a creative mixture of experience, fantasy, and just a lot of erotic energy with no final cause or explanation at all.
Facing this fact—the mystery of my desire—has been for me liberating. Curiously enough I was able to face it for the first time with, and in many respects thanks to, a man who is the sole human being that knows my past as it was. Speaking it allowed me to release myself from the illusion of causality and to inhabit perversion as my own. By this I mean something different from the consumable items found at your local website. I don’t doubt that some of you, those who may read this, will consume it like a cyber hand job. Be that as it may. It is more likely that you will not get past this paragraph.
Perversion is for me not a practice of consumption but really a way of being in my own skin. It is, in a sense, about accepting your skin and yet wanting, needing to break through the boundaries of being in this body and no other. There is, I think, a tremendous amount of violent energy in my sexuality—the desire to be broken down by another person and to break that person down--and accepting that violence is the key to pleasure and discovery. Likewise, it is for me crucial to accept that there is no reason whatsoever for our separateness, that is, I cannot be you or really know you as you know you. I cannot be in your skin/you cannot be in mine. I can only break momentarily into you/let you break into me, and in this sense visit an utterly strange space or place where I no longer know my way about and, for that very reason, might just discover something new.
For me the new discovery was the depth of my desire for submission. Although I have had submissive fantasies my whole life, I had rarely if ever faced them. They seemed incompatible with my self-image. They seemed utterly, stereotypically “feminine.” No knowledge of their masculine version attenuated my sense of humiliation. Insofar as I have spent a great deal of my life and energy combating social stereotypes of all kinds, I could never square these fantasies with who I am. They were something to be defended against, shut out of my consciousness with that steel door of repression we all know so well. These fantasies were/are both heterosexual (in relation to men) and homosexual or “queer” (in relation to women and persons of uncertain gender identity).
There are patterns in these fantasies, which I shall discuss later, but the main point now is this: they unsettle me. Keeping them packaged as fantasies to be taken out selectively in order to masturbate was somewhat disturbing, but easy enough. I could “get off,” then get up and go on with my normal routine. What has been really difficult has been bringing them out for another person to see, and to ask—in this case—him to live them through with me, doing things to me that seemed, according to social criteria of what is “normal” and “respectable,” unspeakable. Needless to say this has involved a tremendous amount of trust, for at a certain point I gave up my anonymity in relation to him. But beyond whatever anxieties I have had about being “exposed” at work, to my husband, my family, friends etc., I have discovered that the most difficult aspect has been exposure to myself: facing who I am, what I really want and need, and not only facing it but, as I said above, accepting both the danger and the pleasure.
These feelings are complex, for I also desire another's submission to me. I desire his/her deep submission. I want to break him/her, penetrate and make him/her beg. I don’t know what to do with these feelings at times, how to express or “manage” them. I often wish they would disappear, making my desire clearer, simpler. I fantasize about giving myself over completely, letting go of this desire to break another down, just becoming a thing, to use and abuse as another person sees fit, a sex slave. And I do want that. But then the desire to break him/her reappears, and I want nothing more than to stand over him/her, dressed in a black corset, stocking, and heels, and tell him/her to shut up and do what I say, wear what I say, be what I say, just get fucked.
And I have known men who wanted nothing else. I could and did oblige.
With this journal I want to document this complexity of desire, not as an attained state, but more as moments in which I feel something start to gnaw at and slowly unravel my very being. I will do this in the form of textual vignettes. I don’t profess a creed of perversion, or a manual of what works, merely a modest but I hope truthful account of the sexual energy that runs through my being and which makes me feel, probably for the first time in my life, really alive. Although I try to avoid obvious narcissism (e.g., painting a flawless image of my perverted self), in all honestly, this journal is for me. If you can find something in it, all the better.
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Vignette 1
Sitting here at my computer I am wearing a black skirt, black stockings and garter, no panties, white sleeveless T-shirt with no bra and extreme black high-heeled sandals.
I sometimes imagine you, crawling on your knees to me, under the desk, at my feet.
I want you to beg me.
For . . .
Permission to touch my legs, stroking inside my soft thighs, feeling me become warm for you.
Permission to take your finger and slide it inside my pussy, which is hot and wet for you, as always.
Permission to move down my legs with your mouth and kiss my toes and red painted nails, sucking on them through my stockings while I stroke my clit and almost cum. (You do that so well.)
Then I would not want you to ask for permission but, rather, I would want to take you. Bend you over the pale couch here in my study, pull down you pants, and, without a word, just fuck you with my fingers and probably with any other object that seemed reasonably suitable. And I would feel your anus closing around them and know I was inside you—inside. And I would make you tell me that you want it, you always wanted it, for me to make you my bitch, my slut. How I want to dress you, make you wear a wig, lingerie, make you into an object to be used for my pleasure—nothing more.
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Vignette 2
I like to dress for, and serve, him.
In a French maid’s uniform, for example. It is black, very, very short, with a white lace apron and low cut top. Worn with black fishnet crotchless pantyhose and black high-heeled shoes of course.
I picked him up one night, wearing it under my coat. At my place, I became afraid to take off the coat, almost afraid of exposing my desire to serve him in that way. So blatantly degrading myself like that.
Which is what he wants—to humiliate me, make me serve him, give up my self-respect, just make me watch myself in the mirror as he breaks apart the whole bourgeois persona and its aura of respectability.
As I am forced to prepare his meal, bring it to him, not look up at him, but serve it with downcast eyes. Forced to kneel at his feet as he eats it, expressing some pleasure, which gives me a sense of not having failed him. Forced to lick his feet slowly as he eats, then his cock, to suck on it, going down on it to the point where I choke. Then, putting his plate down, telling me to turn around while he lifts my skirt, exposes my ass, and pushes me down on his cock, making me fuck him like that. Telling me to shut up or he will have to gag me. Then turning me over and bending me over the chair and fucking me hard from behind, so hard that I think I will break in half (I am small, he is big). That feeling, just being fucked hard, violently like I am nothing but a hole—nothing—is beautiful. It feels like, with that pain, all the other pain just leaves my body. Redemption?
I crave and fear this violence within me.
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Vignette 3
“He likes to test me.”
“Do not move until I return.” Those were his last words. The door closes softly and I am alone, blindfolded, hands bound behind me, feet tied, on my knees. It is dark and quiet. I am afraid—but I know he will return.
Time goes by, minutes, hours. I don’t dare move, afraid he will return and I will no longer be in the position.
I hear voices in the hall, then the key in the door. He is back. A woman’s voice. Through the blindfold I can tell that the lights have been turned on. Then I hear her gasp. “What the hell…” “Oh, don’t be disturbed,” he says, “she has been waiting.”
“Are you sick!” the woman exclaims. “The poor thing. Untie her right now or I’ll call the police.”
“I’m telling you that she wants this. She craves it in fact. She is nothing but a disgusting slut. Don’t believe me, check her cunt. I bet it is soaked.”
“I’m not going to check her cunt, as you say. I couldn’t care less if she is wet.”
