A lifetime of kink shame and controlling boyfriends

I knew I was kinky from a very young age, but I was deeply ashamed of my sexual desires. They were dark, they were sinful. They meant there was something wrong with me.

Because even watching porn was too edgy for me, I used to read erotica about women being tied up, dominated, and used by men. The darker the fantasy, the more explosive the orgasm. But as those orgasms would bloom through my body, I was horrified to learn they were actually made of shame. Exquisite, forceful, dark, terrifying. I’d panic and shove it back into my womb. Then I’d straighten myself up and go back to pretending to be a feminist who loved herself.

My first experience exploring sex with a dominant man solidified the very lessons that I’d gleaned from 50 Shades of Gray: dominant men are abusive. Having kinky sex must come at the expense of my physical and emotional safety. Anyone who wants to experience perverse things does not get to have their boundaries be respected.

I took this lesson so deeply to heart that I chose to marry a vanilla monogamous man who I knew had no interest in having the kind of sex I wanted. I thought I was choosing the smart, safe path for myself. After all, what kind of person would choose sex over love?

Quick introduction to my methodology: I believe we’re all made up of many parts that developed at earlier moments in our lives to protect us. As long as they’re unconscious, they come out anytime they perceive a threat. They throw a blindfold over your eyes and take the wheel.

The truth is that I had a deeply submissive one in me, who longed to relinquish control to a strong man. Because I believed she was wrong and bad to have in my system, I disowned her and denied her existence. The result was that she took the driver’s seat permanently in my relationships. I crafted all my relationships and eventually a marriage such that she got to have her needs met in the shadows with extremely controlling men. I was a powerhouse in my outward-facing life, but behind closed doors I had no boundaries. I accepted my husband’s will as “an unstoppable force” and submitted to it, even as he drove us farther and farther away from the life I desired.

When I left my marriage and finally dove into exploring kink, I found that giving my submissive one a sandbox to play in changed everything. I also found that the foundations of the BDSM community are actually clear communication, consent, and safety. E.L. James didn’t know about this world. The dominant man I explored with didn’t know about this world.

But when I started exploring and allowing my submissive to be met in a lovingly negotiated BDSM container, I got to meet her. To know her desires and delight in how hot they are. She gets to feel every last delicious moment of her powerlessness and worthlessness. And the thing is, in her fully expressed truth and her empowered choice to exchange her power, she is stunningly powerful. I love her for all the hotness and freedom she has brought into my life.

Because now I can see her consciously, I can straight up ask her what she wants and then GIVE IT TO HER in containers crafted with total love. And because her needs are getting met, she doesn’t blindfold me nearly as often. Et, voila: no more unconscious attraction to controlling boyfriends.

The truth is that we all have darkness in us. We all have dark desires. And while not everyone is practicing BDSM consciously, you can. Bringing shame gremlins into the light is utterly transformative, and it can absolutely be done in a context of respect, consent, and deep love.

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dDLG Scene of a Lifetime

In my personal life, I’m in a Daddy Dom/little girl relationship with one of my partners. We met through kink. I knew I wanted a dominant partner who would be kind and caring while administering all the kinky things I was into. What I didn’t realize at the outset was how much I sought this relationship out because my inner child needed so, so much healing. And while for the first few years of exploring kink I just laughed uncomfortably while shrugging and saying “I guess I have daddy issues,” I now stand firmly in the truth that yes, my childhood father wounding is deep, and I have a little girl in me who still longs to be met in particular ways. And letting her get met in the context of this beautiful relationship has brought me such powerful healing.

I like to think of the relationship like this: we relate to each other as our higher selves (as best as anyone can stay grounded in their higher self all the time), and we’re in a romantic partnership as equals. And I have a prominent part in my system, which I sometimes call a “creature” (thanks to Light Dark Institute for coining the word): my little girl that comes out to play in kink and sometimes in conversation or on dates, or when I’m sad or scared. He has a prominent part in his system that resonates to the daddy frequency, and those parts in us play with each other as a part of our relationship. (We have other sets of creatures or parts that like to play with each other too.)

The following is an excerpt from my writing about the scooter accident that happened on our last day in Thailand celebrating my Divorce Moon. It provides a glimpse, not only into how I experience my parts flowing and arising in my own system, but also how much conscious BDSM can permeate your life without needing to bring in sex. How you can create a portal with an intention and step fully into your parts to let them be expressed and get what they need.

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I see my Daddy’s scooter tip and him sprawl out into the street. I slam the brakes and skid on the loose dirt, realizing in an instant that it won’t be enough. I’m going to hit him or his bike if I stay on mine. I can’t tell how far he’ll spill into the street so I can’t be sure I’ll get around him. Nothing to do but jump ship. I dive off my bike to the right, onto my hands just the same way I did three years ago when my bicycle got hit by a car. 

I lay still, in shock.

Then I realize I don’t know if my Daddy is okay. I scream to him, and at the sound of his reassuring voice, burst into tears. A moment later my Daddy is pouring water on my wounds. But…when did his fingers get so dainty? I peek up from under my disheveled helmet to find two strangers in front of me. Their concern is expressed intensely and wordlessly. 

My Daddy appears, bloody but calm. He thanks the strangers and sends them off. He gently tells me we have to get out of the road.

I sit on a rock and sob. My Daddy is the Daddy. He softly tells me that I’m okay, that I’m safe. He has alcohol wipes and bandaids in his little daypack–because, well, Daddy. He rubs my hand with an alcohol wipe and I howl. It blows away. He swears. He starts breathing heavily and I see him swat at the sweat dripping into his eyes. I know instantly that this is the thing that will push him past his threshold. I feel him about to break down, and before I’m even conscious of it, I am the Daddy. I tell him assertively to get out his face towel and wipe his face. Then I tense. The Punished one in me shoots adrenaline through my body, awaiting vitriol for having dared to tell him what to do. (I’m supposed to be the sub, remember?)  She’s confused when it doesn’t come, then my Higher Self remembers that this Daddy isn’t like all the ones before. He’s actually grateful for the instruction and he gets out his towel and wipes his head. He can feel that I’m holding him now, so he unloads his overwhelm, ruddy with fear: “IhitmyheadandmyneckhurtsandIdon’thaveenoughbandaidsforbothofusandIdon’tknowwhatweshoulddo.”

I’ve got him. I tell him that he’s okay and that he’s safe and that we should go back to the hotel to assess the damage and clean ourselves up. He nods.

In an instant he is the Daddy again. He picks up my bike for me and turns it around.  He figures out directions, finds a pharmacy, goes in alone so I don’t have to go through the ordeal of bending limbs to take off my strappy sandals and put them on again (I never did buy those flip flops like I meant to).

We get home to our little bungalow. We drink water. We take ibuprofen. We smoke a big fat joint. 

“Are you ready for the DDlg scene of a lifetime?”  I ask him when he tells me we need to clean up my wounds in the shower.

We’re in the shower. He is the Daddy.  I’m five and I’ve fallen off my bike and my knee is raw and filled with gravel. I’m in more pain than I know what to do with, and I’m scared.  

He washes the first wound and I recoil from the pain. He is stern. We have to get it clean so it doesn’t get infected. “I know,” I plead, “but I just need a break,” and burst into tears. He softens. “Oh baby, of course you can have a break. Thank you for telling me what you needed.”  I negotiate which wound will go next. I decide how long I can stand it under the water. When I need a break I take it. I scream and sob openly. I can’t believe how fat and round the tears are as they pop out of my eyes. 

It feels good to cry like that. I haven’t cried like that since the last time I let myself be little. As the pleasure of it dawns on me, another one comes forward in my system. The Punisher. It’s not safe to cry like you’re little. It’s pathetic. Humiliating. And anyway, showing him your unfiltered pain will make him feel guilty. It’s your job to make sure he doesn’t feel hard things. And you’re blowing it. Get it together. Grow up.

My Self becomes conscious again. I remember that this Daddy is big enough to hold it. I don’t have to protect him from my pain, so I don’t.

We work our way up to what we both know will be the most painful wounds to clean. We reach my palm, where I can see how many layers of skin have been stripped away. I can’t believe how easy I’m getting off as I can barely feel him wetting and rubbing soap onto it. But when we rinse, the pain hits me and I almost fall over. Grasping to cope, I pretend it’s kink. God, do I hate stingy pain. But for the first time I’ve ever noticed, I have a choice as to whether or not to shoot my awareness outside my body in the face of it. I choose to stay and to feel it. Incredibly, I’m not dying. I can hold this pain.  It’s the most I’ve ever held without leaving. 

I choose not to leave because I intend to hold so much sensation in this life that I’m building… and the more pain I can hold now, the more bliss I can hold later. My Daddy reminds me to breathe. (See? It feels just like a kink scene.) I breathe. I take it. I stay with it. I’m lightheaded. My body is considering forcibly making me unconscious…but I fight to take a few more deep breaths before I know I’ve reached the edge of my capacity. I announce to my Daddy that I need a break and I need sugar.    

Bed. Gummy bears. Slow breathing. Then back to the shower for the scary knee, which isn’t actually as bad as I expected. Bacitracin. Bandages. Wiped up mascara. He leaves me set up with his iPad and goes to the 7/11 to buy me ice cream and rum. 

My Little Girl is giddy. Sure the accident was scary and it hurt worse than we could imagine but… she finally got to be little today. Her Daddy held her exquisitely, never trampled her consent even for an instant. Didn’t startle her with surprise anger. Her agony was allowed. Her bravery was rewarded. And she got to eat ice cream.