03: “Bound by Brains” – Exploring S&M (a work in progress)

“I’m interested in manipulating what’s in the mind. 

The brain is the greatest erogenous zone.”

-Lily Fine, Professional Dominatrix

 .  .  . 

I was a nine-year-old sadomasochist. I swear, it was nothing sexual though – I just liked being the boss. There were numbers painted on the concrete in front of the Anne Frank Little School House where the kindergarteners lined up every morning in anticipation of an escort to class. These numbers served a different purpose when the bell rang for recess, though. One through ten, I’d have all my forth grade friends line up and we would play “boot camp”. Hands planted on my hips, I’d march back and forth in front of the line of elementary soldiers shouting orders.  “Touch your nose! Hold your breath! Stand on one leg for ten seconds!”

There would be serious consequences if a soldier disobeyed or lost their balance. I’d swoop into the ignorant soldier’s view, pressing my forehead against hers, screaming, “What the hell do you think you’re doing!” She’d wobble a bit, attempting to regain one-legged stability before I shouted some more.  “Drop and give me a million!” The soldier would plop onto hands and knees and I’d march away, arms folded, with a grimace slapped across my face.  Then the bell would ring and we’d all laugh, scurrying back to class.  This was how I had fun.

Eleven years later and I find myself strapped into an under-the-bed restraint contraption, my bare ass glowing red.  “Harder!” I cry, and SMACK.  I cringe, my entire body tensing up as Eric’s white handprint radiates before quickly fading back to red. I lie on my stomach, his two hundred eighty pound frame now straddling my thick hips as he grips my hair, yanking my head back towards him.

“Tell me you love that fucking cock. “

I keep my lips sealed, squirming beneath him.  He wraps his arm around my neck, my mouth forced open for air.

“Say it!”

I gasp.  He squeezes my head tighter and I finally shout.

“Fuck you!”

He grips my hair again, burying my face in my pillow.  Long story short, this is how I fuck.

I tried explaining my sex life to a friend once without growing a lady boner. I’d reminisce about the difference between Velcro and metal cuffs, always preferring metal because the Velcro could be wiggled off easily and they didn’t leave marks. I craved the cold, hard surface of metal digging into my wrists like a chisel into stone.  I was once left with the kiss of a handcuff, a greenish bruise on the inside of my wrist, for a week. This is sexier to me than any hickie.  My friend shuddered.

“Jesus Christ dude, doesn’t it hurt?”

“Well yeah, but that’s kind of the point. “

 

There are two key elements to S&M – pain and power.  The latter is kind of easy for me to dissect – I’m a dominating kinda gal, taking leadership roles on film sets, in my job, and even with my indecisive friends who can never decide what our Friday nights should entail.  I’m naturally a powerful person, so I get off when someone else can overpower me.  But the pain aspect has become trivial to me.  It hurts.  Like, really fucking hurts.  But what keeps me begging for more?

Bettie Page is probably the most notorious fetish model.  These days, you can find her voluptuous figure and trademark Bettie bangs plastered on t-shirts and coffee mugs and air fresheners almost anywhere.  But at the time of this photo – around 1955 – any person gaining pleasure from this image would have been deemed mentally ill.  For over a century the American Psychiatric Association considered anyone who got off on bondage, beating, and humiliation to have a mental disorder.  It wasn’t until the 1980s that it was removed from the Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

Honestly, I can see how the APA could screw this up.  Though it’s ridiculous to consider the act of being bound and gagged as a disorder, I wouldn’t be surprised if many people involved with S&M suffer from some sort of psychological illness, but instead of acting out in a destructive manner, they find solace in S&M. Scientists at Northern Illinois University helped solidify this idea after finding that S&M can help fight depression.  The NIU team took couples’ stress levels before and after their “tie-and-tickle sessions” and found that, yes, stress and testosterone levels rose during the act, but they felt happier afterwards. A separate study done by the Novosibirsk Institute of Medicine found that spanking eases depression because it releases endorphins that leave you feeling euphoric.  Yep – that’s right, bitches – we can fight pain with pain! 

The film Secretary, a feature adapted from Mary Gaitskill’s short story of the same title, explores the idea of overcoming self-injury with S&M.  A wimpy girl named Leigh is released from the loony bin and finds a job as a secretary for E. Edward Grey’s paralegal office.  He catches her cutting one day and confronts her about it, but she’s not sure why she does it.

“Is it that sometimes the pain inside has to come to the surface, and when you see evidence of the pain inside, you finally know you’re really here? Then, when you watch the wound heal, it’s comforting, isn’t it?”

He then commands Leigh to stop cutting.  And she does.  She stands at the edge of a bridge with her sewing kit – the purple box that houses her razors and iodine and a fairy figurine with a sharpened edge – and she dumps it into the river, releasing herself of her instinct to self-harm.  But this recovery doesn’t happen so easily – no, because her impulse is replaced with her new relationship with Edward, one that includes spanking and restraints. After finding a new obsession in this film, I began making sense of my own situation.

After four years of being cut-free, I was lured back to the false comfort of the razor blade, along with the 3 million other students, housewives, cashiers, servers, and accountants who succumb to self-injury every year. Summer break forced me away from my second home in Chicago, sending me back to the east coast. I would hibernate in the dull pink bedroom assigned to me in my parents’ new suburban home, locking the door and blaring RuPaul’s Drag Race so my parents knew not to disturb me (because drag queens are as high a priority to me as breathing).  Then, retreating to my bed, I’d bury myself under quilts and pillows, planting headphones in my ears. Kathleen Hanna’s words would seep into my head, her voice watered down from the usual grungy vocals of Bikini Kill to a sweeter hum. I can’t say everything about it in just one single song.  I can’t put how I feel in a package and sell it to everyone. A warmth grows behind my eyes and I cringe.  I hope the food tastes better in heaven.  The warmth leaks and I reach for the box cutter stolen from my dad’s tool kit.  But no one said life was easy.  The blade dances across my belly, careful not to collide with my stomach tattoo.  No, no one told me anything to prepare me for fucking this. 

Roy Baumeister, a social psychologist at Case Western University explains the idea of replacing self-harm with sadomasochism, saying, “The satisfaction gained from S&M is something far more than sex. It can be a total emotional release… Sadomasochism is a way people can forget themselves.”

Two months after I was reunited with the razor blade, I was finally able to stop picking at the scabs.  I was able to let the wounds heal, allowing golden scars to form, hibernating between the stretch marks above the tattoo on my stomach.  I was back to my preferred home in Chicago, and Eric was pulling my hair again.  I haven’t made myself bleed since.

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02: “Counterfeit Cocks” or “That Time I Fucked a Married Dude in the Butt”

There is absolutely nothing wrong with fucking a ton of people just for the hell of it. I’ll be the first bitch to admit that sometimes, I really do just want a motherfucker to shut the fuck up and stick it in already. But besides just going through innumerable amounts of condoms, I’d like to think of my past year and a half of slutting it up as a learning experience. I’ve earned my degree in ass getting through active participation instead of boring classrooms, presenting you now with my Bachelors in Blowjobs, a Masters in Making Out and a Ph-mothafucking-D in How to get Dick. Along with the one-night stands and fuck buddies who have aided me towards my current title of Proud Slut, there have also been instances that one would typically keep hush-hush. But being the honorable practitioner that I am today, I say, “Fuck that!” I find even more pride in my uncomfortable encounters than ones that came easily to me. We gotta take the good with the bad because we learn a lot more from shitty situations than we do from perfect ones. And unfortunately in the business of sex, there sometimes will literally be shit involved.

It all started in the back of a friend’s Chevy Cobalt. We spent the dawn of our evening devoted to a handle of Vladimir Vodka, each esophagus burning shot aiding me towards the tolerance of the next. After a while of pregaming and clumsily dancing around a friend’s bedroom, we tossed what was left of the alcohol into jugs of Wawa lemonade and fruit punch before finally making our way out for the night. Cramming six drunk twenty-somethings into a sedan is a feat amongst itself, let alone passing Vlad-tainted jugs around inconspicuously. But after our cramped twenty-minute drive consumed by obnoxious music and maniacal laughter, we made it to what would typically be a generic Philadelphia nightclub. This night in particular was a Wednesday, which meant club Shampoo had been transformed into Nocturne – one of Philly’s only goth and industrial clubs, catering to those drenched in bondage pants, fishnets and neon colored synthetic dreads. Though I left these interests in middle school, I’d always been curious about the club and deemed it better suited for a fucking freak like me as opposed to the mainstream clubs frequented by most.

So there I am, donning a leopard print dress shoplifted from Wal-Mart, grinding against this lanky married dude I had only just met, who can only bring himself to awkwardly shuffle against the shimmies of my fat ass. Every so often the humidity caused by a room full of sweaty pale kids was intolerable and we’d make our way back to the car to refresh ourselves with more booze.

I sat between Married Dude and my best friend Geri in the back seat as the friend in front, Victoria, ferociously attacked the guy in the passenger seat with her mouth. I watched their lips smack together, tongues sloppily intertwining, spit glistening from their nostrils to their chins. I decided to follow their lead and, after a straight swig of Vlad followed by a more tolerable swig of Vlad-spiked lemonade, shoved my tongue down Married Dude’s throat. There weren’t many places for my hands to rest comfortably, so they inevitably landed in his crotch. His Army pants were no aid in camouflaging his raging fucking hard on, and after the quick discovery it was hard to ignore. We suffocated each other with our tongues and saliva, and in the midst of a quick gasp he whispered, “Let me take out my boner.” Even in the midst of my severe inebriation I didn’t find this the least bit attractive. Laughter burst from my lips like the load I’m sure was brewing in his balls, and I couldn’t contemplate the fact that a grown fucking man still used the word “boner”, in the heat of the moment, nonetheless. I laughed some more before telling him to shut the fuck up, but before I could mute him with my mouth, Geri erupted – “No, take it out, I wanna see you suck his dick.”

What?

I laughed some more because, well, I’m really fucking funny so needless to say, my best friend is really fucking funny too. It had to be a joke when she asked to watch me suck this man’s dick. She was asking me to suck this man’s dick in front of her. She was asking me to suck this man’s dick in front of her in the back seat of an acquaintance’s car in the parking lot of an urban club. In a questionable area. After midnight. Yeah, it totally, absolutely had to be joke.

With my head in his lap I hocked some spit in my hand and gripped his cock to his elation. Not much time passed before I went from huddling over his crotch to flailing to my back. Geri found a satisfactory spectator’s view in the front passenger’s seat once Victoria and her beau-for-the-night found solace sucking face somewhere else.

It wasn’t long before Victoria realized she had left something in the car and as she opened the door she found Married Dude’s face in my crotch. What the fuck! We all laughed as she grabbed whatever the fuck she needed and slammed the door shut. In the midst of cackles I asked if he had any condoms and was genuinely impressed with the speed in which he slipped one on while under such a drunken spell. His pelvis shot into me and I gasped. With each thrust I experienced utter agony. Don’t get me wrong, the dick was good, but the metal pane of the car door was not, and it chiseled into my spine with every. fucking. thrust. I persisted, though, and would later bare a bruise on my back as the night’s souvenir.  Geri watched as if we were merely enacting a shitty sitcom. She popped some chips in her mouth and took a swig of spiked punch before complimenting the sounds that I made.

Needles to say, after a night like that, there are no fucking boundaries.

A few weeks into seeing him, he finally felt comfortable enough to show me his toys. I had already been aware of his curious sexuality – his innate desire to suck a dick and, of course, take it up the ass. But his wife was always repulsed by the thought so he had never taken initiative to explore his desires. She eventually left, though, and as quickly as she was out the door, he was on the internet ordering anal beads and dildos. I was excited when he offered to show them to me. Both dildos were pretty “realistic” looking – as realistic as a rubber dick with a suction cup can get. One was average sized with an ultra defined head and a slight tilt upwards. The other, though, is what I can only describe as “fucking huge.” Like, bigger than a Coke-can huge. Like, so fucking big that even I couldn’t take it and The Duchess* was literally black-and-blue bruised the morning after. We spent a lot of time joking about the fake cocks – sticking them on the walls, batting them at the cats, sword fighting. I knew he wanted me to use them on him, but I didn’t exactly know how the fuck it would work.

* Yes, my pussy has really been dubbed The Duchess.

We spent one romantic evening shoveling carbs in our mouths at some local Jersey Italian joint just down the street from his marital abode. It was the first time he’d treated me to a meal and he would soon eat the leftovers of my shrimp alfredo out of spite for my inability to share the intense feelings he had for me. Until then, though, we would merely smile at each other between chomps of garlic knots and onion rings; share a loving gaze between slurps of Coke and long, slimy linguine. After reaching an extreme level of bloatedness, we left the restaurant with hands intertwined.

Arriving at his home I immediately sought relief in his bed before luring him under the covers next to me. The usual fondling ensued – making out leads to a hand up my shirt before a pinch of my pierced nipples, then the shirts are off. His hard on rubs against my knee before I finally shove my hand down his pants. He then returns the favor before pants are off and he finds a place between my legs. We rub against each other before the teasing of his head against my clit is unbearable and I pull his waist into me. That’s how it usually happened, but this night, this night was different. This night, instead of finding him inside of me, I’d be finding my detachable cock inside of him.

My cotton thong was still in place when he whispered something about his dildos. When I nodded my head in agreement he almost fell off the bed in order to make his way to the closet where his toys found a home. He handed me the one with the slight bend before finding a position on his knees, his face huddled in his arms, eyes closed, a deep breath in anticipation. I watched the lube glisten on the tip of the imitation cock before rubbing it against his ass hole. I pushed slightly inwards but it barely went inside of him. Ass holes were way more resistant than I expected. I kept lightly pushing the head into him and it would forcefully pull itself out. He moaned before telling me to just stick it the fuck in already. For the first time, I was nervous to fuck someone. Are you sure I’m not hurting you? He ignored the question and continued to plead before I finally shoved the thing into him with the power of a punch. He gasped and my arm acted as a jackhammer, pushing it in and out and in and out. It finally slipped and I couldn’t keep a firm grip on it because everything was just fucking covered in lube – the dick, the sheets, my hand, his ass. My frustration grew when I couldn’t consistently grip the thing before I shared my wish to have a strap on. And then it dawned on me. I grabbed a pair of scissors and snipped a small hole on the crotch of my thong before slipping the rubber dick through. I was proud of my contraption regardless of its need to be held in place while in use. We stood at the end of the bed and I threw him over the edge before spreading his legs and placing my counterfeit cock between his cheeks. And then suddenly, this odd sensation reigned over me with my first thrust inside of him.

I had experienced a lot in my sex life up until this point and learned that with each new position or new toy comes a new sensation. The first time I let someone fuck me, someone I loved, my heart grew tender. The first time I held a dick in my hand and my mouth, my pride grew with the satisfaction that I could provide someone else with satisfaction. And bitches and bastards, I have to admit, the first time I fucked a dude in the ass; a married dude in the ass; a married dude in the ass with a homemade cotton strap on – I felt a sense of power. I was fucking him and, regardless that I couldn’t feel a thing physically, it felt fucking amazing to my sense of self.

He finally reached climax and I was able to pull my dick out only to find that the head was lined with shit. I wasn’t sure how to break the news to him so I just laughed and let him see for himself. Are you fucking kidding me! He yanked the dildo off of me and ran to the bathroom in embarrassment. I cackled between attempts to ease his shame. I mean, that’s what typically comes from an ass hole anyway, so I’d much rather pull some shit out of him than see a spout of blood. He locked himself in the bathroom, scrubbing at the dick for a while, ensuring it was completely feces-free. I paced around the apartment for a while, naked, before rewarding my deed with a bag of Cheetos. I didn’t find my reward in the satisfaction of my hunger, though.  No, I found my reward in – I shit you not! – a dick shaped Cheeto.

I’ve only shared a moment involving shit with one other person, someone I thought to be the love of my life. And, no, he didn’t shit on me and I didn’t shit on him. It was one of those things that just kind of happens when you find yourself so genuinely comfortable around someone that it’s no fucking biggie to take a dump while they shower just a foot away from you. Unfortunately, though, this experience did not follow suit. Since my first love I have never felt so secure with a partner that I could share a dump with them, and definitely did not find this comfort with Married Dude. Long story short, he confessed his love for me after an affair of only weeks. My immediate response was to laugh. I laughed in his face and said, “No you don’t,” before desperately seeking a cigarette and speeding away in my piece of shit ’90 Ford Escort, never fucking ever to return.

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01: The Introduction: “Big, Fat Slut”

My name is Sabrina Dropkick and I like to fuck.

My name is Sabrina Dropkick and I’m a fat bitch that likes to fuck.

In a perfect world, my fatness would not affect my pussy beyond the literal sense in that I have a fat vagina (yes, they do exist.) I should be able to place fingers and pocket rockets and rubber dicks and real dicks in her with no regard to the rolls of my belly that stick out farther than my tits. I should be able to shove one’s head between my legs without concern for my thunder thighs or the fact that when I walk, they rub together with such intensity that they’re forever left bruised and scarred. My back fat and flabby arms and double chin shouldn’t cross my mind while making the commitment to either spit or swallow once a cock is between my cheeks. That looming number on the scale (266) should be irrelevant to the number of people I’ve allowed inside of me (16).

But they – my weight and my sex life – have joined forces. And, at once, the two were against me.

I spent a lot of time deciding which melancholy events to share as an explanation for what inspired this project. I contemplated whether to unleash a pity party; to recall the elementary school boys who wouldn’t call me their girlfriend because I was “too fat” or the countless torments that come with puberty and growing up fat. Maybe a mention of the heroin addicted thirty-year-old who became my first love and first fuck at sixteen, or the college dates who were either repulsed by or fetishised the BBW that sat across from them in generic Mexican/Italian/Chinese joints. I could go on and on and motherfucking on about the horror my fat has brought to those around me and therefore myself, but those memories are better left in the angsty Livejournals of my past. Instead, I’ve realized that, yeah, shitty things have happened to me and I wouldn’t be the woman I am today without them – but I definitely wouldn’t be who I am today without my fat. The confidence that beams from my pale, white, cellulite-infested ass didn’t come from dwelling on negativity. My past does not define me, but the love and satisfaction that I’ve learned to give myself does. This newfound happiness is what gives me the confidence to share stories from my bedroom with what could possibly be the entire fucking world.

This project is not about a period of time when my vision was blurred with a shitty perception of my body. This project is not about regrettable instances where I may have handed too much of myself over to some fucking asshole too soon. This project is not about shame in the mirror or in the bedroom.

What this project is about is reclamation. Reclaiming the word fat and reclaiming the word slut – because who says that either of these terms should be appalling? It’s no secret that I’m fat. There is no ridiculous amount of layered clothes, no uncomfortable, elastic pair of control top Spanx, no certain color or certain pattern that will hide the fact that my stomach takes shape in two luscious rolls or that my elbows are shaded by a tiny awning of fat or that my thighs and my ass and – fuck, that my everything jiggles when I walk. I’m fat. It’s reality. It’s my body and it’s taken a long fucking time for me to not only accept it, but to love it. And now that I can finally love myself, I’ve found it easier to love others, both mentally and physically – but mostly physically. Why? Because I like to fuck.  Just as I’ve found no shame in the size and shape of my body, I’ve also found no shame in the ways I like to use my body. And that, my fellow bitches and bastards, is what this project is really about – recognizing the body I’ve been given as a gift and figuring out how to utilize the happiness I’ve found in it with other people. It’s about being a big, fat slut.

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