“She had what it took: great hair, a profound understanding of strategic lip gloss, the intelligence to understand the world and a tiny secret interior deadness which meant she didn’t care.”—Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless (via electromagnetik)
Today’s theme is saudade, a concept with no direct translation into English, one that describes a vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist, for something other than the present, a turning towards the past or towards the future; not an active discontent or poignant sadness but an indolent dreaming wistfulness.
There are two outcomes: either your partner doesn’t care and reveals that they are indeed insensitive misogynistic self-centred scum (and you can dump their sorry ass) OR they learn how to give you real orgasms. Either way you are better off.
I’m kinky. I get off on power dynamics and pain and pushing my boundaries. My husband enjoys adventurous sex but isn’t interested in D/s play, it doesn’t turn him on. We are both completely comfortable with this, and since we are ethically non-monogamous it’s not an issue in our sex life.
Before I started out-sourcing my kinky play he would sometimes tie me up or offer a beating with a flogger or belt for my benefit, but it often left both of us feeling a little unsatisfied. It wasn’t mutually thrilling because his actions weren’t driven by desire; it felt forced, which made it hard for me to let go of the anxious commentary in my head and enjoy myself. Taking my kinky needs elsewhere took the pressure off of him and allowed us both to focus on the many things we mutually enjoy in bed.
He’s been really supportive as I spread my wings and tip-toe into the world of bdsm and everything that goes along with it, at first it was difficult for him but lately his encouragement has been enthusiastic.
Then last week something happened.
He came home with a large heavy-bound book of seasons tickets for his favourite sports team. He splits them with friends, but he had just picked the whole years worth of tickets up and was revelling in the novelty of holding a package worth thousands of dollars (and plenty of beer-fuelled moments of glory) in his hands.
I was laying face down on our bed, half-listening to his excited ramble about the upcoming season. He could tell I was bored with the conversation already, without hesitating he lifted my skirt and brought the book down with a heavy thud on my bare ass. It was just the right weight, it felt delightful, that delicious sting, the sound still ringing out. I looked back at him, he was smirking. “That felt really good, do it again?” I requested, curious. He did, and then adjusted his pants, “Hmm… that made it move a little.” This was a first.
In the past I would get frustrated with him for being too heavy handed and missing the nuances of consensual pain-giving. He would push things too hard too fast, conflating ‘mean’ with ‘dominant’. ”Ugh, you don’t get it!” I’d snap, my disappointment palpable. “But I thought you wanted it to hurt?” he’d say, his confusion genuine.
This time was different, he took it slow, gradually increasing the strength of his delivery. “Is that okay?” he asked regularly, “Mmmm…. harder… more…” I’d reply, my voice muffled by my grin and the mattress. “You should see how pink your poor little bum is,” he said, half surprised half impressed. When he finally delivered his heaviest smack I yelped and thrashed around a little on the bed giggling. He put the book down and rubbed my cheeks, laying beside me, I wiggled into the crook of his arm.
"That was fun," he said. I nodded in agreement. "Let’s do more of that tonight?" I searched his eyes; he really meant it.
We stared at each other for a while with silly smiles.