First Time for Everything

I dress quickly and throw my toys and shoes into my backpack. He stays undressed. At one point, I playfully smack his ass, thinking he'll let me get away with it. In a flash he grabs the back of my neck and forces my head down. Through my startled giggling I choke out, "Sorry!" and he lets me up. This will be one of my favorite memories later. While I'm rushing around, he shows me some handmade floggers he and his friends made. I'm impressed, but late, and I feel a sudden need to get into the open air. I kiss him quickly and dash out the door. I take a picture of myself in the stairwell, hoping for an attractively messy post-sex image. Instead I'm alarmed by the glassy look in my own eyes, but note appreciatively that after everything, the bright red lipstain I put on earlier is still visible.

My friend is late to acknowledge my check-in and I'm pissed off while driving home. He apologizes and suggests that maybe he needs to be beaten, and the idea has an instant, visceral appeal. I feel shaky when I get home but fall asleep immediately.

I work from 7-3 the next day and have only a coffee for breakfast. During the day, I notice the soreness and bruising on my wrists and rub at them periodically. I feel gleefully naughty and can't wait to tell my friend about my night. But by the time I get home and eat, I'm shaking with hunger and almost due for my post-scene check in with my play partner. My ribs have started hurting, and the deep ache makes me feel vulnerable. I suddenly don't want to call him at all, and feel defensive and falsely cheerful on the phone. He tells me he prefers not to meet again. We'd talked about that possibility ahead of time, and I feel angry and hurt even while I'm telling him I don't mind. I do thank him, genuinely, for taking good care of me in scene. I tease him a little, pointing out that I can give him shit on the phone without worrying about retribution. He thanks me again and again for sharing that experience with him and helping to fulfill a longtime fantasy of his; he offers to stay in touch and tells me to let him know if anything else comes up. He says "Thank you" before he hangs up; I say "You're welcome," feeling a sudden fierce unwillingness to thank him for the entirety of the experience.

Later that afternoon, I confess my feelings of fragility and rejection to my friend, who reassures me with sympathy and promises of hugs and declarations of my sexiness. The confession triggers another flood of tears and I awkwardly cry at the coffee shop where I'm hanging out. A band starts playing and I realize the shop serves alcohol; the red wine and dark chocolate goes a long way toward making me feel better. I write an email to my play partner and express myself more honestly.

In yoga class the next morning, I resent even my teacher's simple instructions. I act out a little, taking my time and staying a beat behind the rest of the class. Later, in a Warrior pose, I feel my mind and body re-connect with a soft click. I recognize the feeling as resolving dissociation and wonder where in the scene it started. While we're lying in Shavasana at the end of the class, the teacher says, "Know that you are safe, and allow yourself to soften." I wonder what made her say something so perfect.

I have lunch with a good friend and we take her dog out to the park. She raves about how proud she is of my professional success. I suddenly realize that one of the components of the scene was being stripped of the respect my professional identity usually affords me. I feel relieved to have it back. I give her the Cliff Notes version of the evening; she is shocked and gleeful when I confess what I've done. "That made my whole day," she says. My cousin has the same response. "I'm jealous of you. That sounds great!" I start to feel better, even a little proud of myself.

I text my play partner and ask him to check his email and respond when he can. He thanks me for the reminder and promises to do so. I feel better. I spend the evening curled up in my recliner, drinking tea and watching old DVDs of boy bands and animated movies. He responds around 9pm, thanking me for expressing myself and reassuring me that my feelings are normal. As I requested, he tells me how hot various parts of our scene were for him, flattering my ego and detailing the scratches and bruises he discovered after the fact. I don't write back. I realize that I don't want to meet again, either. I marvel at my ability to feel simmering resentment for him on a visceral level, yet cognitively feel certain that I don't regret the experience. I continue writing about my experience for most of the next day, entering an alternate reality of re-experiencing and processing. I feel a sense of comfort and normalcy interspersed with waves of deep aching arousal, anxiety, dissociation, anger, and incredulity at the details of what I am writing.

What have I learned? Well, I'm definitely a switch. I couldn't live in that one-sided reality without a sense of control. I have a deep desire to hurt my partners, even if they're topping me. It was infuriating not to be able to. At the same time, I loved being forced to change my behavior. I especially loved having the choice to act out and receive more pain, or surrender and get relief. I gained a sense of confidence in my decision making process - I felt like this play partner was someone I could trust to take care of me in scene and respect my boundaries, and he did so with amazing precision. I deeply appreciate his post-scene responsiveness - the unconditional invitation to be honest was helpful and necessary. Overall, it simultaneously felt like too much intensity and not enough - I want more of the pain and that sense of having my will broken. I feel intensely brave for having tried it. But the post-scene drop was harder than I expected; I feel a sense of having touched something hot and snatching my hand back. I think the next time I play with BDSM, I'll hold my hand over the flame a little more cautiously, instead of plunging it straight in.