I'd Like to Have an Argument, Sir.

Being in a kinky, poly M/s relationship, arguing with my partner presents some rather unique challenges as compared to past relationships of mine. Namely, that yelling, “fuck you and your taste in salad dressing!” and slamming the door will earn you immediate punishment instead of hours of pointless passive aggressive debate.

         

         Now on the outset the idea that arguments could be solved with a simple Master-is-right-slave-is wrong-unless-it-pleases-Master-for-slave-to-be-right mentality was really refreshing, because it meant that it often wasn’t worth it to get into dumb petty arguments about shit like toilet paper, or what to have for dinner. So we never did. Honestly, I thought I’d stumbled on the magical solution for those petty relationship squabbles. I would walk through the grocery store listening to couples fight over steak or chicken and think “I am so above that shit. We are so above that shit. Isn’t it wonderful that a power dynamic solved all my past relationship problems?”

         For those petty stupid problems an M/s dynamic actually does work quite well for resolving conflict, I’ll get behind that. Because if one partner is given unilateral power to make those little decisions that breed ridiculous resentment and discontent, and for the other partner acquiescing to those demands is sexy… well, I see no problem there.

         There is, however, a problem when that attitude bleeds over into major life things. When, in my own head I began to internalize the idea that arguing with my Master was not only pointless and unslave-like, it might de-stabilize our dynamic. My desire to serve might be called into question. My role in his life might be a little less convenient. It was compounded by my Master’s tendency, when called into question, to get aggressively defensive.

          So rather than argue with my Master about major life issues, I began instead to

just alter my needs to fit with changing circumstances. Rather than calling him out over several serious violations of our Poly agreement, and major general Polyfuckery, I agreed with him that I was simply not as good at Poly as he was, and would have to get better at it. Rather than argue with him about the amount of play I was getting, I resolved to do with less. I gave away more and more of my agency in the relationship, because arguing with someone you’ve given your power to is hard. Because gaslighting yourself seems like the right, most slave-like thing to do.

        

To make arguing even more challenging for me, I had such positive re-enforcement given when I simply caved to his every whim, because when he’s pleased with me, its like being face raped by the brightest fucking rays of sunshine. So to call him out, see him upset, and know that you’re just going to end up feeling like the one wrong anyways, plus now he’s going to be pissed…Well, that’s like being ass raped by the Queen of England wearing cactus for a strapon. Its uncomfortable- hell it fucking hurts, but it’s the goddamn queen of England and you should accept her displeasure.

Now, to my Master’s credit, we’re much better now. But it took a third party to point out that I was letting the triple threat of my desire to please, his aggressive defense tactics, and my overarching belief that he truly, always knew best, get in the way of my voice in the relationship. I let these things get in the way, too, of something of value I bring to relationships, an astonishing capacity for analyzing the past, determining patterns, and applying them to potential future outcome. Long-term foresight- I’m really great at it.

         I should have seen the damage that going along with everything my Master said would do, and I failed to see it. He now owns his mistakes, and has done everything in his power to set them right, giving up quite a few of the conveniences of having a girlfriend with no real say in the direction a relationship takes. Yet even now that this serious flaw in our M/s dynamic has been pointed out, arguing with someone I’m in a power dynamic with continues to be a challenge, because its always a struggle to determine whether what I’m upset about is of consequence, or not. When you throw in decisions revolving around non-hierarchical poly into the mix, its even more confusing.

         The awesomely kick ass thing about poly though, is that I now have this loving third party, with investment in my partner and understanding of my Master’s unique whims and ways to bounce things off of when I’m unsure. A person to say, “Hey, so this thing, I’m not sure if it’s a PROBLEM problem, or just a problem.” Often times, its this other voice that tells me when its time to swallow my slave-y pride and say “with all due respect Sir, I think you may need to think about it this way instead.”

         This isn’t to say that having another invested individual around makes arguing within a power dynamic suddenly simple. Quite the opposite in fact, as now there are three relationships in play, two power exchanges, one delicate dance of metamours, and three very different ways of dealing with criticism all attempting to deflect each other. When my Master’s puffer fish-esque defense tactics run into my black hole of suck and negativity, its bad enough. Throw a word vomiting over-analyzer into the mix and all of a sudden you’re feeding each other’s bad conflict resolution habits. It’s like Poly survivor with people making allegiances and voting each other’s understanding of their relationship realities off the Poly island.

         Ultimately, when it comes to arguing in a power dynamic, I guess I’ve settled on this weird grey area where I just try to keep this one idea I’ve had on my mind lately in the forefront of my decision making. The very best way I can serve is to strive to help my Master be the best fucking human being he can be. Sometimes that means making sure his house is spotless, his dishes and laundry done, and his back rubbed, so he can focus on himself. Sometimes that means supporting him, holding him, having his back when he’s going through times of uncomfortable personal growth. But sometimes- sometimes the very best way I can serve is to provide alternative insight and perspectives into the things he’s struggling with. Insight and perspectives that he’s overlooked, or isn’t seeing.

Sometimes that means pinning him down and bashing him in the face with his mistakes and shortcomings. That sucks for everyone involved, and temporarily shifting the balance of power in our relationship is sometimes the fallout of one of those Come to Jesus talks. More often then not all three of us get involved, and while early on these talks were full weekend State of the Union affairs, lately, they seem to be going easier. Fewer tears, better resolutions, and fewer “wait, you guys are doing/did what/ did who? Regardless too, of the outcome of these talks, they always end up bringing me back around to stand at his side, rather than over him with his issues wielded like a club. And it’s at his side where I feel I really belong. Sometimes falling in step, sometimes trailing behind picking up the pieces, and sometimes, dragging him kicking and screaming down a new, better scary path, knowing all the while that as long as I’m in the front, I’ll be able to head off the pitfalls and thorns.

         It’s been worth it every time I’ve done this, taken the lead and a face full off thorns for it. Its worth it, because more often than not on the other side there is a better, stronger Master, supporting me in turn, caring for me, and quietly sweeping aside the thorns on my own path that my super duper awesome powers of uber foresight failed to see. 

When Sexy gets Sidelined.

I feel like quite often I'm reminded that "sexy is a mindset", that, as Dan Savage so astutely points out, it's not about being in the mood, but rather , being in the mood to be in the mood. The problem I've been running into lately is that as a bi, poly-ish, kinky slave temporarily living with her Master and Owner in a sexy rope-filled utopia, a veritable cornucopia of hot sex and filthy deeds, I'm never in the mood to be in the mood for anything other than back rubs and a Game of Thrones marathon.

Being the proud owner of a brain with an exciting array of mental health issues, when it comes to sex, means my motivation can, without warning drain away. Like I'm a cheerleader pandering to an apathetic crowd that has completely lost interest in bouncing titties and skimpy outfits.

Gimme an S!

Gimme an E!

Gimme an X... Please? Anything?

Now, back before I threw myself into this heady life of sex positivity this was relatively easy to manage. My profound lack of positive self image meant when my bleachers were full of adoring sex fans, I could go out, get wasted, revel in questionable male attention, and make poor life decisions. Like hooking up with a guy for a random threesome, and two days later ending up back at his place for a coke fuelled attempt at fisting while his elderly cat spitefully shit all over my leather coat in the next room. It was reckless, and stupid, and filled with wild abandon and drugs and made me feel like some kind of enlightened sexy creature with a superpower for naughty adventures.

But it would never last. It never does, yet in vanilla world that was ok. It's somehow more acceptable to go months without a shag, especially for a woman. If you happen to be in a relationship when this sexy ship goes down? It's cool, that's just what happens. You get bored of each other, sex becomes less frequent. Welcome to adulthood t, where everything is in moderation and your crippling cycles of hyper sexuality and total disinterest don't matter!

Enter kink. Surrounded by every fantasy pretty much all the time (I know, I'm spoiled), it gets harder to hide when your lady bits have mysteriously gone on vacation and you're left with the equivalent of an HPV crusted sensation-less maw between your legs.

There are only so many orgies you can politely bow out of before someone waves a hitachi in your face and insists that no, really, you just need a good orgasm or twenty and your mojo will be right back where it left off.

And god, do I ever want to believe them. Because when my mojo disappears, when sexy time becomes this weird mashing of disjointed body parts into someone else's sloppy lubed up body parts, all the other things that go along with my sexuality, like my need to serve, my masochism, all of those go with it.

Which, in vanilla world was fine, because I wasn't consciously integrating those into my day to day life anyways. But as the s in an M/s relationship, it's one hell of a strain to be told "slave t, please clean the apartment, do the laundry and tend the garden." and think to myself, "no thanks, I'd rather watch adventure time for the next 5 hours and draw velociraptors on my phone."


Fitting my mental health challenges into a relationship partially grounded in mutual exploration of our sexual selves, means that when my sexual self checks out for a spell, it's like a pillar has been knocked out of our foundation, and I have to scramble to throw up some scaffolding and shit while I wait for the repair crew to arrive.



And that, friends, is the wonderful thing about kink. Back in vanilla world, when my sexy brain went AWOL, there

were no other options. Connecting with my partner, with other people in general got paused while I sorted my shit out. That ended most of my healthier relationships. Yet, with a kinky poly M/s relationship, that doesn't have to happen. Because there are other, less sexual, less hard ways for me to connect. We've got puppy play, and t-bone is my chance to be the sweet, adoring and vaguely service oriented being that normal t just can't be right

now. Because t-bone, my puppy persona, is separate. She is a construct of the part of me that makes my Master and Owner my whole world, amplified, and more vulnerable, but also kind of asexual. In this way despite me not feeling connected, and sexy, I can share those experiences with my partner. I'm not completely shutting him out.
I've also got Lady T,  my dispassionate sadist self, casually inflicting unspeakable acts on pretty young things. Distinctly disconnected, the epitome of ice queen bitch. She ticks a box for me that I still can't describe, fills a need to inflict pain, without harming myself.

My Owner and I have also got rope, and taking out the sex in rope just means sharing an experience that is inherently intimate, without me feeling the void in the place of my sexual self.

A few weeks ago, my Owner very sweetly arranged for one of my greatest fantasies to be realized- a gang rape he coordinated with around a dozen people. On stage, hooded, and beaten, and being penetrated by what I later discovered was my Owner being bodily picked up and used as a finger banging battering ram by half the rape crew while shouting "RAMMING SPEED!", I felt the beginnings of the dissociation that heralds a period of asexuality for me.  As I was lifted, and tied with my hands above my head, beaten and covered in strangers spit and sweat, I found myself suddenly worried. Not that I would be hurt, or traumatized, but that I would be expected to cum. Because in that moment I suddenly realized I wasn't going to be able to. And I knew that I wasn't sure I would be able to again for an indeterminate amount of time. This could have tainted the experience for me, sucked all the sexy joy out of being publicly gang raped. Instead, it altered my focus. As the hood was whipped off and I was spun to face the crowd, surrounded by my kidnappers, I didn't feel aroused, I didn't feel humiliated, and I didn't feel particularly happy either. Instead, I felt the warm supportive glow of being surrounded by my kink community- a community that will band together for gang rapes, but also for support.

I may not be able to hide my current state of sexy in absentia, but I am able, unlike in my vanilla world days, to fill in the vacuum created by my desire's absence. And unlike in my vanilla days, where that gap would be filled with food, and drugs and self harm and bitter self loathing, its filling with a form of connecting, that, while not sexual per se, is still fulfilling, and valid and grounded in my relationships with the people around me. My community.

It's bittersweet sometimes to stand idly by while your partner is balls deep in a gorgeous young thing, and all you want more than anything else in the world is for the motivation to get in there and sit on her face. And it's ok. Because smiling from the sidelines I know when I get home that a certain puppy is going to come out, and be cuddled, and loved, and give puppy kisses, and maybe get into some rope, and ignore all the dishes. Because unlike slaves, puppies don't have to do them.

Chinny-Chin-Chin

The thing about chin hair is, as a women, you’re not supposed to have it. We grow up knowing that boys will have beards, and girls will have pretty razors, and bikini waxes that will hurt like a bastard but also induct you into the club of being a womanly badass. To a younger me female chin hair was something other people’s Nanas had (not mine, chic and sophisticated even now in her 80’s). So when Kristen Morrison walked up to me while we waited for the bus one afternoon in grade seven, pointed, and said both to me, and to the gaggle of girls in conversation around me “what’s that on your chin?” my biggest concern was that I might have some lunch on my face. Kristen reached out, and for the first time in my life I experienced the sensation of having a thick coarse hair plucked from my body.

“Why do you have a beard hair? Oh. My. God. You’re a MAN. You guys, Tifereth has a beard and is probably actually a man.”

For an adolescent athlete with more muscle than the average pubescent boy, the revelation that I was growing hair in places reserved for men came as yet another blow to my flagging self-confidence. When I arrived home I ran to the mirror, frantically scanning for any sign of wayward body hair. I already shaved everything from the chin down, was I going to have to start shaving my face too? How was I going to break the news to my family that they needed to start buying me face razors? Filled with trepidation I went to my mother, expecting to be whisked off to the doctor, to Sick Kids hospital, or a barber, someone, anyone, any professional! Instead she just laughed.

“Sweetie, you’re a Ward woman, you’ve got the Ward thighs too. Wales was cold, we were bred pale and strong and hairy. It’s a pain but you get used to plucking. We’ll get you some tweezers, and we can take care of your eyebrows too. The nail salon on the corner does waxes if you’d rather do that.

I cursed my Welsh heritage. I cursed their sheep, and their cold wet winters, and every one of my female descendants for passing on their defective hairy faces and well muscled thighs. And I plucked. Oh, I was vigilant. Every morning searching out the roots of the little buggers, relishing when I pulled them (I imagined screaming) from their follicles. As my sport career took off and I began looking to the Olympics I balanced my increasingly masculine physique with extra attention paid to making my face as feminine as possible. I would be beautiful despite my tragic genetic shortcomings. Those chin hairs didn’t stand a chance.

Until, in June of 2008 I suffered a complete mental breakdown.

I developed Dermatillomania, an anxiety disorder similar to OCD, characterized by the obsessive need to pick at one’s skin. Almost overnight I went from being the girl with the flawless face, to the girl with what appeared to be acne, to the girl who’s face was covered in open sores.

The summer of 2008, I left my house three times. Twice were for doctors visits, the other time was to be dragged to the zoo by my mother, face slathered in makeup and shielded with a cap. In the years that followed I watched frozen in apathetic depression as the life I had so carefully constructed crumbled around me. Too anxious to leave the house, my Tae Kwon Do career ended. I failed the courses I signed up for- I couldn’t bring myself to face my peers knowing the radical change in my appearance would no doubt fill them with the disgust and contempt I’d been fleeing from since grade school. I gained 50 pounds. In the midst of all this, my chin hairs grew out. I let them. I lay on my bed, gouging my face to the bone and occasionally would feel one of them brush against my fingertips. I didn’t care- I’d let all of my body hair grow out. Nobody was getting close enough to my face to see them anyways, and if they did, what are a few hairs when you already look like a leprosy suffering meth-head?

Eventually, I gained enough control of my anxiety to begin small forays out into the world. I even found a boyfriend in a high school acquaintance I’d kept in touch with online. Yet the chin hairs stayed. I was damaged, and so was he. Our toxic co-dependence kept us from even the smallest self-improvement, because who did we think we were, making ourselves too good for the other? My chin hairs lingered on, even after I began shaving my armpits for him. Covered by my makeup, they were barely noticeable against the cavernous holes in my face, the areas that looked like road rash mixed with infected cigarette burns.

It took me two years to end things, to decide that mutual destruction was no longer an attractive option. For a further year and a half I wallowed in an on again, off again relationship with my tweezers and self-pity. Alternating between months of crippling depression and hairiness, to months of wild drug abuse, partying, and furious plucking and waxing.  Twice I bottomed out, becoming the walking cliché of the girl in long sleeves covering stitched up forearms.

I was still riding the high of pseudo-successful self-mutilation when I met my current boyfriend and Owner. The morning of the bondage photo shoot I’d scheduled with him on a whim, I plucked my chin hairs and cut the 8 stitches out of my arm. I remember washing the stitches along with the chin hairs and all my other bodily hair down the drain, noticing as I did so that you couldn’t really tell the hair from the wiry thread. I was curiously numb during that first shoot as he tied me, took my picture, and fucked me, taking more pictures after all was said and done. It was only when he told me to stop posing, to lie there “like a girl who’s just let a stranger bind her and fuck her” that, for the first time since I’d sliced open my arm two weeks prior I felt something stir inside of me. I felt like I’d been given the opportunity to openly flaunt what damaged goods I was. I stopped worrying at that moment about whether or not the light was highlighting the picked at areas of my skin. He could have been photographing those chin hairs for all I cared. It wouldn’t have mattered. He wanted to see the kind of girl that gets fucked by strangers, and here I was giving it to him in all the broken glory I could muster.

We’re still together, him and I, exploring the joys of what being Master and slave, Owner and property can bring. I pluck my chin hairs again, every few days.  I also now brush and floss regularly, get haircuts, care for my skin. I exercise. I take pride in being the very best slave I can be. It fills me with joy to see his face light up when my skin is looking better, when the dishes are done to perfection. Hearing “good girl” motivates me to better myself. This is my dirty little secret too- its all for him. Everything. All of the amazing, radical 360 degree change for the better I’ve made in the year and a half we’ve known each other, everything at its core has been to please him, to be better for him, to make him proud. So what does that say about me?

I’ve wielded my tweezers to fit in, and in a desperate attempt to feel more feminine. I’ve shelved them to enhance my own sense of victimization, and to derail my own healing process so another wouldn’t have to feel shame over his own lack of personal growth. I’ve plucked again in an effort to fit an ideal I entirely imagined another person desiring. My chin hairs have been at the mercy of my profound lack of positive self-image since that very first one, plucked by another while in line for the bus. I can honestly say I have never once looked at them without feeling shame, burning with humiliation, or reveling in my constructed apathy.

My chin hair does not define my femininity. It does not inform my decision to feel shame or humiliation - those emotions have their place, but not here, not directed towards my body. I’m not sure yet where my chin hair fits into my bourgeoning concept of self. Whether I’ll ever be able to honestly say, to love me is to love my hair, I don’t yet know. But I do like to think that one day Ill be able to make the decision to pluck or grow those hairs from a place of self-acceptance.

To love myself is to take ownership of this stubble I sprout, and with ownership comes responsibility. A good Owner acts with a deft hand to guide his property. The very best I can wish for my chin hair and me going forward, I think, is the wisdom to guide my property. Guide these contentious hairs with a steady, occasionally tweezer wielding hand, and a smile for my past and for Kristen, made no less beautiful for the stubble beneath it.