I had an epiphany last night. You wide boys
who come into my DM’s telling me all the
filthy nasty things
you want to do to me, and all the
nasty, filthy things
you want me to do to you, when
I don't know you
and you don't know me,
and we are strangers behind two different screens,
I have never understood why you'd think
that that was ok. Acceptable. A way to act
with a woman you hope to get to know.
But I think, perhaps, now I do. Just maybe.
I like porn. Who doesn't? My personal flavor
is sub torture. A me (let's face it, younger, thinner,
prettier) with make up smeared down her face
as she tries to please the master in front of her,
as she tries to take all that he has to give. And
a little more. I see that and I know she loves it,
really. That after all the crying is done,
when she's wrapped up in a blanket with
chocolate and tea, she'll smile. Melt into him.
I can see it, in my head. Just like I can see
what happened in the before. Slow moments
of connection. Slow moments of building trust.
Communication. Negotiation. Starting small,
and soft. Check ins. Calling red and then long talks
into the night. Brick by brick building the trust
that tells her he will hurt her, break her,
make her bleed
and make her cry
and then he'll hold her and tell her she's a good girl.
I know how it goes, from beginning to end. But
you don't. You don't see the journey, the tiny steps
that were taken on the way to that moment,
where she's bound and spread, head back,
screaming, and he's calling her his whore and
whipping her, slapping her, fucking her, spitting on her.
You only see the climax. You only see who he is
in that moment. And so, perhaps understandably,
you think that's who he is. All he is.
How do we learn? By copying. So you copy.
You come into my PM’s and tell me I'm your whore
and that you'll have me, bound and spread and
screaming. But you won't. Because
You joined the dance right at the end of the song,
and all you know how to sing is the chorus.