While I was Hogtied On Your Dining Room Table
Let’s just say you misunderstood where we stood on having your dick in my mouth while I was hogtied on your dining room table. We spent all morning dirty talking each other about the things we wanted to do. You wanted to see what my breasts would look like in rope. I wanted to see my ass on fire from a paddle. This is how seasoned Kinksters negotiate.
And being the kinky fucks we are, we got all roped up talking about bondage and totally forgot to talk about sex. Instead, in haughty tones we patted each other on the back about what excellent negotiators Kinksters are, and about how those Vanilla folks could learn a thing or two. Instead, I examined your toybox, and fussed over feeding you, and looked at bondage porn.
Instead paying attention to the details of our consent, we reminded each other what we already knew. That risk aware consent means being able to take away activities from a scene once it begins, but never being able to add them. Because, as we each preached to the other’s respective choirs, once the scene begins, you’re drunk. There’s a chemical cascade of adrenaline, dopamine, and endorphins rushing through the grey matter behind your eyes and making it so that you can’t see clearly.
And in that fog your cock found its way between my lips.
When I told you I might not have consented to oral sex had we discussed it prior to the beginning of the scene you said, “But you didn’t push me away….”
We both know how little that means. We both know that the absence of no is not consent.
It was like watching a vehicle crash into a solid brick wall. I watched your face contort as you tried to reconcile the conversation we just had about consent to what had just occurred in couple of hours that followed. Your nose and mouth crunched up into a look of contempt. How dare I question you. You. Whom others call a leader in the community. You. Who has a spotless reputation as someone to be trusted.
You’re afraid I’m going to name you publicly as someone who violates consent. You’re afraid I’m going to tell people that you invite young, inexperienced kink-curious people your private home, and suspend them from your rafters. You openly admit you wouldn’t be able to do that if there was a public space available for kinksters in the area that wasn’t constantly in danger of being shut down by religious puritans hell bent on saving our souls. You know what you’re doing is wrong.
But I’m not going to point a finger at you. When I see you in public, I’ll act like nothing happened. If people notice a tension between us, it will be because your guilt is dripping off of you like beads of sweat. I'm going to let you hang yourself by your own rope.
I’m pretty skilled at recovering from this by now. You’re not the first person to violate my consent.
There was my best friend’s older sister’s boyfriend who french kissed me in the guest bedroom when no one was looking. I was nine.
There was the personal trainer, Jerry, at the gym across the street from my dad’s work. I used to go there with him and work out, but when I told my dad Jerry kept touching me, and the way he looked at me made me uncomfortable, he shrugged me off. But he also stopped bringing me to the gym with him. I was ten.
There were the boys at school who squeezed my breasts if I didn’t walk down the hall with my binder covering them. All through elementary and middle school.
And the one who slid a finger between my legs as I bent over to get a drink of water. And the teacher that gave me detention for punching him.
By thirteen, I had heard this line delivered a multitude of ways: “Stop squirming. You’re wet. You know you like this.”
There was the manager at my first job at Six Flags who kept asking if I was sure I was only fifteen, and who taught me what the term “jail-bait” meant - just so he could be sure I was cool with a grown man asking out a fifteen year old child.
By fifteen, I could no longer sleep in my childhood bed with those demons, and ran away.
In my twenties, I passed out in the parking lot of a club, and woke up to a man fondling me through the open car door. After I managed to wrestle his arm out from under the hem of my dress, he stole my cell phone, and jumped a fence. The female police officer on patrol shrugged. “He’s probably already too far away.”
There were others. So don’t flatter yourself. You’re not worth the trouble. And it wouldn’t do any good. There’s nothing anyone in our “community” can do about it. Their hands are tied. It’s just another story to add to the collection. You are just another bad guy in another trash pulp fiction story.
You can always tell who the bad guy in a story is. Every character in a story has an arc, a journey of growth that carries them through from the beginning to the end. We see them struggle, and be humbled by their own deficiencies as a human. Every character will then turn those deficiencies into a strength. They will grow. Except for the villain. He is always prideful. Never willing to admit a mistake. Never taking responsibility.
The villain never learns.
I don’t want or need the the people in our collective to do anything except believe me. I’ve been raped before, and this wasn’t that. But it was still a violation of consent, and it still needed to be addressed as such. I don’t believe in Consent Utopia where no one ever makes mistakes. I believe people make mistakes, and I believe people learn when they are humble enough to admit them. All you had to say was, “I’m sorry.” But the time passed, the public snubbing, and your oozing contempt has made a serious infection in what was a small flesh wound.
You will never apologize to me. You will never admit to a mistake. There is too much for you to lose as a person of influence in the Kink collective, and too much for the community to lose to say anything against you. So it goes in every kink collective across the country. The same story repeated ad nauseum.
“Our fearless leader,” they called you. And I had to laugh because you looked awfully scared when you saw me walking toward you in the restaurant that day. I made you afraid that I might tell the truth about you, and nothing is more worthy of your contempt.
You will remain a leader. But you should be afraid. You should be terrified that this would ever happen again.