It’s an odd business, being paid to hurt people, although arguably rather odder, paying to be hurt. Plenty of my fellow dommes enjoy analysing the psychological make up of their clients, the likely trauma or experience that has lead them to their door. If paying for pain is odd, what of those who pay to be humiliated? Who tell you of their darkest fears and deepest shame, expose the softest part of their underbelly, then point to where you should stick the knife?(Metaphorically, you understand. Knife play isn’t for me). Men who want to be told their penis is too small to satisfy anyone. Those who want the foulest ethnic slurs screamed their way by a white woman holding a whip. I see a solider who’s been taught techniques to withstand torture: he was forced to employ them when tortured in Iraq, still bears the scars, and in his spare time pays to be tortured by me. What on earth is going on there?
I don’t worry about it. I assume his sub-conscious knows what it wants, and has chosen to explore its weirdness in a safe, controlled, professional environment, with a trustworthy, sympathetic sort. I’ve got my own weirdnesses going on I choose not to examine too closely. I’m a squeamish soft-hearted vegetarian who delights in causing anguish, watching welts rise, hearing screams. I’m terrified of suffocation, so naturally I adore breath play. And I regularly fantasise about public humiliation: surely nothing could be more appalling, so every night I drift to sleep imagining ever more excruciating details.
Clearly there’s some profound eccentricity happening in my head too. But it seems almost rude to interfere with
what one’s subconscious self is trying to accomplish. Trust it to seek out what it needs; don’t disturb the process by trying to involve your rational, conscious self. With some obvious qualifiers in place about consent and safety, do what feels pertinent, self-soothing, interesting, horny.
We must take responsibility for our actions, but surely our fantasies and desires are ours to enjoy without judgement, should we choose: to dress as a bearded schoolgirl who’s been caught stealing sweets, dressed in galoshes and superman cape, without a naggy superego quibbling why. If you can find someone to play them out alongside you, sympathetically, without asking for explanations, you’re truly blessed. This week a man sent me pictures and diagrams of how he would like his trousers removed. He stood before me, trembling with joy and anticipation, as I did exactly what he’d dreamt about for decades. Would it have enhanced the moment had he suddenly remembered as a tiny child his mother used to perform the same action, with the same frosty glare? I seriously doubt it.
I’d make a lousy Freudian. But then I don’t much fancy therapy either. Ruminating on past traumas never seems to make people happier, only poorer. Instead perhaps we should try saying, “Well, that was shit. Thank God it’s over. Hey, what’s that over there? Wait, is it a pretty sympathetic lady who’ll dunk my head down the bog then encourage me to wank over a stuffed duck with nary a judgement, nor even a raised eyebrow? How perfectly marvellous. What larks await!”
