This was both better and worse than what I had expected. I was fully clothed and there was no whipping, so that was good.
I partnered up with the man who wanted to “ravage women.”
I stood across from him and placed my fingers in my ears, making direct eye contact. Despite my best efforts, I could hear everything he was saying. I tried hard not to listen though, because what he was saying scared me.
“I pretend to be a nice guy, but I’m not. It’s a lie. I don’t care about anyone’s pleasure but my own and I want to rage-fuck women. In fact, I want to fuck you. I want to fuck you and use you and abuse you.”
He smiled maniacally.
Keep your face neutral, I thought. You’re not supposed to be hearing this. This is a safe space to admit any desires. Stay calm.
It was hard because I was terrified. It was the longest two minutes of my life.
Finally, the time was up and I was grateful. I didn’t want to be near him any longer. Even though I was supposed to be non-judgmental, I made a mental note to avoid him for the rest of class; something was off about that guy.
My next partner was an attractive, dark-skinned man in his mid-twenties. His face was angelic, which made him look sweet and kind. He seemed like someone I’d hang out/make out with. I placed my fingers in my ears even though I knew it was a farce and I could hear him anyway.
He looked me directly in the eyes and I felt a connection that I hadn’t felt with my last partner.
“I’m ashamed of the color of my skin,” he said.
I could feel my heart break, saddened that was the first thing he said.
“I feel ashamed that I’m here today. That I like this stuff. I feel like I’m letting my family down. I’m ashamed that I’m not making more money. I’m ashamed that I’m not further along in my career and I don’t know if my life is ever going to come together,” he said.
There was nothing psychotic or scary about his gaze. He was just a man, standing before me, vulnerable and human.
More than anything, I felt deep compassion and love for this person.
I wanted to brush my fingers gently across his cheek and say, “Your skin is beautiful and so are you. It’s okay that you’re here; you’re not hurting anyone. We all feel like we should be further along.” I wanted to caress his face with kisses and whisper in his ear that everything was going to be fine.
But I didn’t. Because I wasn’t supposed to hear any of it.
So I just kept my face blank and moved on.
Next it was time for the listeners to become the confessors.
I partnered with an older, petite woman with brown eyes. She had offered me some almonds earlier. Her hair was pulled neatly back in a bun.
I stared into the eyes of a woman I had just met and sucked in my breath. She smiled at me. The wrinkles around her eyes indicated that this was a familiar face for her to make. Her sweet-tempered demeanor should have made it easier.
It didn’t.
I opened my mouth to speak but the words got stuck.
They had been buried for too long.
I knew she was going to hear everything. Even with her fingers in her ears, she would hear.
“I feel ashamed of . . .” I stumbled over my words and stopped.
It was too hard.
“It’s okay,” she said, nodding with reassurance.
Tears began to pool in my eyes until finally I said, “I’m embarrassed that I haven’t had sex in forever. That I haven’t had a lot of sex and I might be bad at it. I feel ashamed that I’m a compulsive overeater . . . that sometimes I treat my body like shit. I feel ashamed that I had to borrow money from a friend to pay my rent, that I’m twenty-nine and still struggling with my finances.”
Then for the next two minutes, I told a perfect stranger everything I felt ashamed of.
I told her things I thought I had long forgotten, things that had happened years before, like an STD scare in college and something mean I had said to my first love when I was eighteen.
Another tear rolled down my face. It was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. I felt exposed and self-conscious, but also lighter. There was a weird power in saying things aloud. In some ways, I felt like it freed me from some of that shit I had been carrying around for a long time.
My partner, with her kind eyes, reached out and hugged me, holding me gently as I tried to sniffle discreetly.
“Have you made that shame your story?” Rao asked as we found a new partner.
I had. Especially about sex. I was the girl who didn’t have sex. It had become ingrained in the narrative I was telling about myself, to myself.
We did it again with our new partners before rejoining the group to sit down. It wasn’t any easier the second time around. I cried twice as hard.
I slumped in my seat, hiding my face and my runny mascara. I pulled a tissue out of my purse, and avoided talking or looking at anyone else. I felt gutted and I wanted to be alone.
“And that is exactly what BDSM is,” Rao said, trying to regain control of the somber energy in the room.
“Being the Dom,” he continued, “is about creating space for someone to be that level of vulnerable. It’s about being 200 percent responsible for that person, making them feel safe enough to trust you with their body. Being a Sub is about being that trusting. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
It actually was.
My mind was blown. I had always assumed BDSM was about taking power. I had never dreamed it was also about vulnerability and trust. It challenged everything I thought I knew about BDSM.
“Alright, we’re gonna break for lunch, but when we get back we’re going to do rope-play,” Rao said.
I was still recovering from the exercise and in the middle of a heart-wrenching, life-changing, mascara-dripping-down-my-face moment, when Rao’s like, “Okay people, let’s get sandwiches.”
I stood up to leave even though I wasn’t ready for chicken salad and chips.
I walked to a deli and the man at the counter asked me if I was okay. I knew my eyes must have still been red and blotchy. It required too much explaining to say, “Not really, I just confessed all my shame to strangers at a BDSM class.” So instead I said, “I’m good. Turkey with mayo on the side please and coffee to go.”
I sat on a bench in downtown Brooklyn, picking at my sandwich, feeling emotional and raw until it was time to head back in. I stopped in the bathroom to fix my mascara.
Post-lunch it was rope time.
Instructor Rao pulled out fifteen red, braided ropes. We were going to use the ropes to practice dominance and submission.
He did a demo, folding the top in half and looping the two sides into a knot. We practiced tying the knot a few times to ensure that we got it.
Easy as pie; anyone could tie a freaking knot.
“Now find a partner,” Rao said.
Not so simple.
The closest man to me was the one who wanted to fuck me. I didn’t want to work with him so I jumped from my seat as quickly as I could and headed toward the cute, inexperienced Irishman.
He was quiet. His demeanor seemed gentle.
I liked gentle. I related to what he said earlier and asked him to be my partner. He agreed.
“Most people prefer to Dom or Sub, but for this exercise, you’re going to try both,” Rao said.
“I don’t think I’m gonna like being a Sub,” I said. It was the control thing again.
“We’re a perfect match then. I don’t think I’m going to like being the Dom,” he said.
I was surprised, I assumed everyone wanted to be the Dom.
Rao instructed us to hold our partner’s hands and look into their eyes.
The Irishman’s were green with flecks of gold.
There was a lot of eye contact in this class. It was intimate. Probably more intimate than I’d been with anyone in months. It was nice. And too much.
As the Dom, I was supposed to use my eyes to communicate that he was safe. I did my
best to send that message through eye contact and by rubbing his hand with my thumb.
My Sub held up his hands as I tied the rope around both of his wrists and tightened until I had the perfect knot. I admired my handiwork and also noted how beautiful the red rope looked against his pale skin.
“Subs, lower your eyes. You are no longer allowed to look at your Doms.”
He lowered his eyes.
“Doms, make sure your Sub feels cherished. Reach up and stroke their face. Slowly.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I stroked someone’s face like that. Yet here I was on an intimate level, stroking the face of a man I had met a few hours ago.
I couldn’t even remember his name.
Tony?
Juvoni?
Alex?
I ran my thumb across his cheek, moving toward his bottom lip. I gently caressed it as his mouth opened in anticipation.
I crawled my finger up his face toward his ear.
I was starting to enjoy myself. The sexual tension was palpable.
“Subs, get down on your knees,” Rao said. “You are in service to your Dom.”
I followed Rao’s additional instructions: holding the rope in one hand and restricting his ability to move his arms.
“Use your other hand to caress their neck and their collarbone. Make them feel safe. You are responsible for this person. They are trusting you with their body.”
It was weird because this was the kind of thing that I thought I would hate about BDSM. An uneven exchange of power. Someone on their knees who wasn’t allowed to look at me. I thought every bone in my body would be repulsed by it. I wasn’t.
I was enjoying it. A lot. My lip curled into a feral snarl. My eyes hardened. I felt powerful and sexy.
My Sub leaned his body into my hand and moaned slightly.
“Do you like this?” I whispered.
“Immensely,” he whispered back.
I studied him to see if it was a lie and when I saw he was enjoying it, I had a revelation. My partner liked being submissive. It turned him on. Everyone took the role they wanted. It wasn’t about stealing someone’s power. It was about that person willingly giving it.
“Doms, raise your Subs to their feet. Look into their eyes.”
His eyes were a darker shade of green, tinted by arousal.
Staring into his eyes I felt a lot of things too: arousal, compassion, power. Along with something else I couldn’t identify, something that felt similar to aggression. It was something I had felt before, a primal urge to bite someone a little too hard. I quickly suppressed that one and focused on arousal instead.
“All right, switch roles.”
I took a deep breath and scowled. I did not want to be the Sub. I didn’t like anyone telling me what to do.
“Remember, being a Sub is an incredible gift. You get to surrender while someone else is taking full responsibility for your body and your pleasure. It’s almost easier and more enjoyable to be a Sub,” Rao said.
I wondered if that comment was related to my scowl.
The Irishman tied my wrists and pulled them behind my head. He was tentative and cautious about hurting me. I liked that. He was right; we were a good match.
I lowered my eyes, though I couldn’t help but smile. He was trying hard to be the Dom. He was going through the motions but his gentleness permeated everything he did.
“Kiss your sub’s cheek.”
He cautiously lowered his lips to my face. His lips brushed my cheek.
“Run your hand down their arm.”
As he increased the force of his hand, I tried my best to truly submit. I wanted to let him feel what it was like to really be in control. It was surprisingly easy but I think that was only because of his tenderness. I probably would have resisted if I had been with someone else.
I expected to feel helpless and weak. I didn’t feel that at all. I didn’t feel disrespected or lesser.
As I got down on my knees, he ran his hands over my shoulders, powerfully massaging me. In that moment, I felt exactly how Rao had instructed the Dom to treat the Sub—cherished. With every caress of his hand, the Irishman made me feel like he loved touching me.
“This is what good BDSM looks like,” Rao said. “Too often it’s one person getting what they want. A Dom spanking their Sub out of anger. That’s not a game that ends well for anyone. Both parties must consent. Both parties must get what they want.”
He was full of gems. He was like the Gandhi of dominance. The Mother Teresa of bondage. The Oprah Winfrey of leather.
The exercise ended and the sexual tension in the room was noticeable. I had never been in a space that sexually-charged. I felt certain that some couples were going to sneak away and have sex on the next break if they could.
We headed back to our seats. One of the class assistants grabbed me on my way.
“I was watching you during the Dom exercise. You’re sexy. If you ever wanna go with me to a dominatrix den, let me know. There’s plenty around the city,” she said.
I laughed.
I wasn’t exactly sure what one did at a dominatrix den, but whatever it was, I probably didn’t belong there. They’d see right through me. I’d probably trip the alarm at the door and get kicked out before I even walked in.
Then again, I guessed I shouldn’t rule it out. I’d never thought I’d be at a BDSM workshop in the first place.
The final lesson for the class was focused on spanking. As Rao went over the rules, I found myself zoning in and out. It had been a long and emotional day. It was a full-day workshop and despite the arousing subject matter, I needed another cup of coffee. I grabbed a cookie instead and returned to my seat to jot notes, yawning the whole time.
Rao called up one of his assistants, Ramona, for the demo. She was tall, six foot five, with a commanding presence. Completely naked, she strutted to the front and leaned over the table, ready to be spanked. She was a foot away from my face and her vulva was visibly wet. Rao demonstrated how to cup one’s hand and pulsate the movement.
I winced as he increased the intensity. I didn’t like it. It felt anti-feminist or something.
When the demo was over, another woman asked, “I can see how this is enjoyable for him, but how is it enjoyable for you, Ramona?”
Ramona laughed. She stood up to her full height.
“Well, to be honest, when I get spanked, I feel pain and a little bit of humiliation. Fear. Danger. I love that. Those feelings turn me on.”
Her answer was clear, articulate. Once again, I was forced to question my own preconceived notions. I had ill-formed ideas about what it meant about someone’s psychological state if they liked to be spanked or liked spanking someone. The truth: It didn’t mean anything. It turned her on, simple as that.
Now it was our turn.
I wanted to work with the cute Irishman again but the guy sitting next to me asked first. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I said sure.
We moved to a corner of the room and debated who would go first, until we settled on me.
“Are you gonna keep your pants on?” he asked as everyone else in the room was disrobing.
“Yes,” I responded, aggressively enough that the couple next to us laughed.
I leaned against a chair and stuck my ass out.
Within thirty seconds I realized that, unlike Ramona, I was not into this.
“Try moving here. Faster. Never mind. Do this,” I instructed.
He was right, it was hard to feel anything through my jeans but I refused to take them off.
“Shhh. You’re supposed to be the Sub,” my partner whined.
Oh yeah. I forgot. That’s why I wasn’t a very good Sub.
My mind wandered back to the beginning of class when Rao had said, “You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to do.”
Smack. My partner was spanking me a little too hard.
I wasn’t enjoying it, but I was going through the motions to spare his ego. Rao was right, I shouldn’t
be doing that.
“I’m not really feeling this,” I said. “I want to stop.”
“Are you sure? Maybe if I . . .”
“It’s not my thing,” I said, kindly, but firmly.
We switched roles. Maybe I’d enjoy it more if I was doing the spanking.
I tried spanking him a few times before realizing that I really wasn’t into that either.
We stopped, which gave us an opportunity to watch everyone else.
Most people were in their underwear. The Metamucil woman was totally naked and getting spanked by the “I want fuck you” guy from the shame exercise. Her face was contorted in pleasure. She was moaning loudly.
The sexy dark-skinned man was getting spanked and Dom’ed by a beautiful woman. He too looked like he was enjoying himself. A few people were fully clothed and chatting. I guess spanking wasn’t for them either.
I spotted the Irishman and walked over to him.
“Don’t like spanking?” I asked.
“Nah, I’m not interested in it.”
I smiled. He was sweet. In a different phase of my life, I’d probably have gotten his number but I had too much to process from the day to even think about going on a date with anyone.
I was deep in thought when a man approached. I hadn’t seen him earlier.
“Hey, you’re Olive? I’m Sheng. Thought I’d drop by at the end, say hi to some friends.”
Sheng was younger than I expected, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five with wavy, wild hair.
How could someone so young be a sex coach? I wondered.
He had an air of seriousness about him and intense, dark eyes.
“This was amazing. Thanks for inviting me.”
He asked me how the rest of my adventures were going and when I told him I didn’t have anything else planned, he said, “If you ever want to try OM’ing, let me know.” He handed me a business card with his name written in gold embossed letters.
I folded the card carefully and put it in my pocket.
Everyone finished spanking and we all took our seats. While Rao was taking questions, I was reflecting on the day.
The Coitus Chronicles Page 2