Page 53 of Sicken of the Calm
My first, knee-jerk reaction tohis suggestion is an immediateno way, and I can tell it’s what Ezra isexpecting. Instead, I pause, thinking of self-fulfilling prophecies.
The truth is, I’ve also beenreading up about BDSM on the internet. Initially, it was simply to followEzra’s suggestion to read up on sub-space and sub-drop. However, despite thefact that I haven’t directly interacted with anybody – haven’t even consideredit – I’ve moved beyond simply informatic sources and into more people-centredblogs and forums. A lot of them I’ve disliked, to the point of finding some ofthe people in them creepy. I didn’t like the feeling, wanting to be acceptingof other people’s needs and desires, but it wasn’t so much the kinks that mademy stomach churn a little, it was the language people used, proprietary andgeneralized instead of intimate and caring. I knew that this wasn’t exactlyinappropriate in a public context, but it made me draw away viscerally. On topof that, the fact that almost everybody used male pronouns for the Dom andfemale for the sub didn’t help the creep-factor any.
It was hard to find an experiencewhich truly spoke to mine, I realized, under the wide umbrella that BDSMrepresented, but I did manage to find a singular blog that resonated with me.It was written by a sub, a girl who sounded close to my age, if not a littleolder. Her most current posts were well-written and formatted, depicting aknowledgeable sub in a committed relationship. The fascinating thing about herblog, however, the thing that had kept me hooked late into the night, readingpost after post, was that the blog went back years, preceding her experience orrelationship, to a time when this was just a confusing and upsetting topic inher life. Her frank, strikingly intimate posts told her story in real-time,taking me through her fears and internalized disgusts, her fights against partsof herself, her victories. There were a few kinks that differed from mine, likecalling her Dom ‘Daddy’ and her love of feminine underwear and gifts, but mostof her basic sub needs were almost identical to mine. It was fascinating toread someone else depict such a deeply-hidden, intimate part of me; describethat glowing mixture of control and praise, that feeling of being taken careof, of the catharsis of complete trust, the relief of giving yourself over tosomeone who would appreciate every single drop of you. Despite knowing that Iam technically part of the BDSM community, so many of their practices and likesare so different from mine that it is difficult to truly identify with thegroup. This thing between me and Ezra, whatever you may call it, is just that;something between me and Ezra. Maybe if I had explored it before, if I had doneit with other partners, it wouldn’t seem that way, but that isn’t the case. Ican’t help but have moments in which I feel this is just mine, ours, a uniqueexperience between the two of us. Reading someone else with a similarexperience, however, seeing her bloom and gain confidence, has been bothdisorienting and reassuring. Some of her posts are so eloquent, so moving, thatI found myself holding my breath, thinking,yes, that. Exactly that.
So, despite the fact that I amhappy being a simple observer in the public spaces of the BDSM community, I knowthat there is something to gain from some level of interaction, and I know thatEzra needs it more than I do in that respect. For him, I think, I could tempermy instinctual desire to remain in my safety zone.
“Ok,” I say in response to hissuggestion. He blinks, looking at me in surprise.
“Really?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, not pointing outhis incredulity. I am a little incredulous myself. Going to a meet-up topotentially talk about this with strangers is my literal nightmare.
“Oh. Well, cool, great. And, youwon’t have to – I mean, we don’t have to share anything. It’s no pressure, it’smore like…a safe space to ask any questions or just hang with people in theknow, you know?” he says. The edges of my lips tilt up a little.
“Peoplein the know?” Irepeat. Ezra huffs a laugh.
“You know what I mean. So…you’resure?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok. If you wanna leave at anypoint just, like, squeeze my hand three times and I’ll make up an excuse.Although I’ll probably be able to tell by your face if you wanna go, to behonest,” he muses.
“Ezra, I can handle a socialsituation. Just because it has to do with, you know, BDSM, doesn’t mean I needa safeword. Or a safe-squeeze,” I say, although without annoyance.
“I know, I just – ok yeah, I getyou. But, I mean, that’s something that all couple could do, have a secret ‘getme out of here’ sign. It’s not BDSM related really, I just want to…” Thesentence finishes there. I look at him for a moment, feeling that now-familiarwarm clench in my stomach.
“Ok. You can do the same to me,then,” I suggest.
“Deal,” he says.
Despite my show of confidence, Ispend the subsequent days dreading the meet-up. I try to keep it from Ezra, buthe looks at me knowingly, bringing up the topic casually as if to desensitizeme. On the day, he stops me in front of the café, holding my hand. I think he’sgoing to give me the whole ‘we don’t have to do this’ speech. Instead,
“They’re just people, yeah? In,chat a little, out. Ok?” he says, looking at me intently.
“Yeah,” I nod. With a finalsmile, his hand still in mine, we walk in.
True to Ezra’s word, they’re justpeople. It’s a group of fifteen or so, surprisingly diverse in age, gender andsexuality, although most of them are white. We’re clearly one of the youngestthere, however, most of them seeming to be in their thirties and older, whichisn’t really a surprise. There’s a couple in their sixties, the organizers ofthe group, and they’re the ones that greet us and invite us to sit. They’vepushed a few tables together in the large café, tucked against a wall. Theatmosphere – the sound of the coffee machine, the soft music, the otherchatting patrons – adds to the casualness of the situation, and I feel myselfrelax a little as I sit, Ezra taking the chair beside mine.
Thankfully, Ezra takes thereigns, introducing us and how he found the group. Most of them recognize his nameand greet him with smiles. I wave a little awkwardly when I’m introduced with a“this is Joaquin”, and I realize that Ezra and I haven’t discussed how to callour relationship in public. The group doesn’t ask, however, probably used to alevel of tact in this area, but the absence of a title lingers inside me,rubbing me a little raw.
Despite Ezra’s description of thegroup, I hadn’t really known what to expect, but he had been right indescribing it as “hanging out”. As I sit there, pulled into small-talk and thenmore interesting conversation, I realize that, for all of my life, I’ve prettymuch only hung out with people around my age. There have been a few exceptionsduring college, socializing with mature or post-grad students, but even thathad been few and far between. My social circle has been mainly contained to thepeople I have constant interaction with, such as my class or teammates. It’sinteresting to suddenly interact as an equal with people who casually mentiontheir children or even grandchildren, who talk about the responsibilities ofmaintaining a house or the demands of a job. Mostly, though, we talk aboutthings I would talk with other people my age – the last splashy news story fromthe White House, the surprising entertainment from animated films with childrenas their primary audience, anecdotes from their lives. Ezra tells them aboutthe shelf-breaking haunting incident, and his perfect use of inflexion and widehand gestures has got the rest of the table laughing helplessly.
“It breaks like once a month,” Iinterject. Ezra looks at me with raised eyebrows.
“And has it broken since thepurification ritual?” he asks.
“Ok, that doesn’t-”
“Has it?”
“No, but correlation is not cau-”
“I rest my case,” Ezra finishes,lifting his nose in the air haughtily. I laugh at him, poking him in the ribs,and he catches my hand, grinning back.
Amidst all the normalcy, kinkwill be mentioned with complete casualness. A young woman, long blond hairpulled in a messy pony-tail, shows a man looking in his forties pictures of aspread-bar set, and they discuss the improvements of the new models. Severalmembers mention a club they have all seemed to attend, and rib athirty-something looking man called Josh for a particularly steamy“presentation” he performed at said club. It feels and sounds like just a bunchof friends with a similar hobby, and it makes me realize that my adventures onthe internet may have given me a distorted view of what belonging to thiscommunity is actually like, which should have been obvious – what isn’t tentimes worse on the internet?
Still, sitting at this table,surrounded by people who have done this for years, who have made the effort tobuild a safe community around it, who have informed themselves and looked tospread this information in a friendly and inclusive way, I am forced to look atthe fact that part of me had still thought that what I am doing with Ezra is alittle wrong. When I’m with him, all the doubts crumble away under the force ofhis stare. But, when I’m alone, old, ingrained beliefs mutter in the darkness,the voices that have come to believe that there’s something fundamentally wrongabout wanting to be submissive in a society that equates success with independenceand power. As I look around the table, however, I realize that I can’t tell whois submissive and who is dominant, not by size, gender, or even confidence. Thesubmissive aren’t all waifish women or attentive, big-eyed men, and the Doms aren’tall successful, large men in a three-piece suit.
