I stood at the door afraid to knock and afraid not to. Beads of sweat rolled down parts of my body not exposed by my fitted low cut shirt and ankle length pencil skirt. In that moment, I questioned the choice to not wear panties. But it wasn’t my choice. It was his, and I obeyed without question. I never questioned him, from the time he slipped me the naughty catalogs on the bar as we watched the naked woman dance seductively on stage to Jimmy Hendrix, to the phone call that gave me directions to that hidden hotel.

In that moment, I thought of how willingly I walked into the devil’s lair without hesitation, or a second thought. Behind that door, I hoped to find the answers to the hunger that panged me. The hardness of the door against my rapping knuckles was almost painful, although I knocked softly. I could feel single hairs rising on the back of my neck and wetness pooling in between my pussy lips. And then, panic. Not from not knowing what to expect, but from the fact that I was late.

He opened the door and stood taller than I had ever seen him. His white skin seemed to glow, and the silver hair that cascaded down his shoulders shimmered. He stood before me a lord, and I, a lamb looking for shelter. I fumbled for words to explain my tardiness and brushed past him. He said nothing, but the locking of the door behind me rung through my ears with a piercing force. Before I turned completely around, he was in my face breathing heavy against my lips. Before I could utter another word, my face was stinging from a swift blow to my cheek. I lost my balance, and my eyes were greeted with uncontrollable tears. But I was not in fear. I felt so good down to the blood that ran to the tips of my toes. I tried to hold on to the sting, but it left as quick as it was delivered, and I wanted more.

No words were exchanged, only actions that a vanilla being would classify as abuse. He did not maliciously abuse me. He ushered me into a world that I had tip-toed around since I was ten. And in a single moment, I fell in love. After our session, he ran to my aid because he thought he had gone too far. He massaged my bruises, and my brown flesh that now glowed red. I took his hand in mine and thanked him for his gift. It was then that I knew I belonged in a world that at the time was so far hidden you needed a password to find.

I am 34 years old. I am a lesbian, bisexual, black, Cuban, vanilla, and submissive. I have watched women have sex for drugs, married men whore out their wives, pastors court prostitutes, women getting gang-banged, subjects pierced with fifty needles, pins driven into nipple holes, fucking machine appendages forced into holes smaller than the tip of my finger, and human ponies. I hold my head high, but behind closed doors, when it comes to my sexuality, I speak with the confidence of one who is proud, and within my soul, I cower from silent judgment.

I cannot make excuses for what I am, because my heart will not allow me this luxury. I can tell my soul what I want it to have while it makes me do what it knows I need. I envy pain sluts for the torture they are able to endure. I admire the pioneers of BDSM who have made a life of teaching those who still hide underneath their white linen made beds. But again, I cannot apologize for who I am.

Am I kinkier than most? I think that is relative. I am different than those in my circle. But behind closed doors, those who have had the privilege of becoming my lovers fall in love with my acceptance of their deviances, even if I just watch and listen. But once we emerge from our respective dungeons and welcome in the light, they refuse to speak of our “moment”. I don’t judge them, even though they would persecute me at the drop of a dime. I relish in the moment we shared and know that I have marked them deeper than the ink that dances up and down my body.

I can look at a being and see their darkest desires. I am drawn to them like a kitten to a crinkling plastic bag. The only difference between me and them is that I can’t stop myself. I can’t turn it on and off as if it never existed. My kinks expose themselves in the simplest of my words. It taunts those who look at me from afar as I twirl my hair. It flashes itself like a streaker on an open field. Even when my thoughts don’t involve sex, it lays there, never dormant. My waters are diseased with kink, and I choose not to become well again. I will continue to self-medicate until my soul calls out its safe word.

My flesh melts while in restraints. It feels as if the rope sinks underneath my skin and binds my bloodstream. I sometimes wish that I could capture what my body goes through in a painting, but a canvas has yet to be made that is big enough to encompass all that I experience. Maybe one day God will let me borrow the sky.

Those who are close to me are surprised that I choose to submit. They, at times, cringe at the scenarios I weave in their virgin ears. But I never speak to those I know truly are offended by my “tastes”. I can tell, you know. I can see through those who send me representations of what they feel a “normal” person looks like. But you can’t truly hide your taste for kink. It is embedded in your flesh like the stench of garbage. But it isn’t pungent; at least not to those of us who share in dark.

I have been called an expert in kink. A beautiful title I would love to have one day. But for now, I consider myself only an expert in knowing what it is that I like. The fascination that I have for BDSM kinks has nothing to do with sex, regardless of how wet it makes me. It is the mental connection and utter trust that I experience when I’m in that “space”. Writing about it makes my nipples stand tall. I could pretend that I don’t like to indulge in edge play and its associates. But if you have ever been a victim of insatiable hunger and desire then you understand why I can no longer hide from that which calls out to me.

I didn’t know what to expect my first time. A part of me thought maybe a little sex with someone who reminded me of Shawn Connery. But my inner being knew the truth. It is what showed me the way to the hotel and got me lost so that I could enrage him and receive punishment unlike that I had ever had the pleasure of partaking in. My soul is that of a submissive, and I never chose for it to be. As I always say, it chose me, and I no longer choose to make excuses for it.

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