Girl on the Net

I panic about everything, regardless of whether it’s actually worth panicking about. Good friends, acquaintances and even my own Mum: all these people are in the dark about the terror I have when I hit ‘send’ on an email to them and then immediately imagine everything collapsing around me, when they interpret a casual joke as a genuine insult. Don’t get me started on the times I have to assert myself or the things that actually matter…

Because of my permanent ‘red alert’ anxiety levels, when this week’s guest blogger got in touch with an idea about getting nervous before a BDSM scene, I leapt on it.

January Chopin is here to give you a gorgeously personal, amazingly hot, tinglingly nervewracking account of a BDSM scene. And I think a lot of people will see themselves in it…

Why do I get nervous before a BDSM scene?

By the time I came over to his apartment the heavy bag stand was almost completely assembled. Nearly eight feet of black steel tubing and pulleys towered over me. My palms pricked with sweat and I looked down, noticing the thick metal loops welded into the base.

“Would you hold this, babe?” I moved into the spot the heavy bag would eventually hang so I could hold up the pull-up bar as my boyfriend tightened the bolts. My pulse hammered through my arms down to my feet; my breath was shallow and quick. The muscles on his arms bunched under his skin as he worked the small wrench, tightening each side with a grunt.

“It’s done, you can let go,” my boyfriend reminded me. He saw my face and smiled that half-smile that makes me wet. I swallowed but didn’t say anything, trying not to visibly tremble. “While we’re here…” he moved to my side of the stand and I faced him. He motioned for me to lift up my arms; I hooked my fingers in the loop for the heavy bag and tried to breathe deeply. “Here…” His leg gently shoved my left foot then my right toward the loops on the base of the stand. My pink leather wrist and ankle restraints, tucked away in the toy box for now, would keep me in place. If my legs gave out–from pain or orgasm–I would hang, too high and spread too wide to find relief on my knees. “Oh yeah.” He smiled. “That’ll work.”

One of my favorite things about BDSM is that it makes rethink concepts that are limiting in other contexts–things that could be degrading are now in my control and hot. I play in some tricky areas, though, so I think seriously about power, consent, and desire; there’s no way I can healthily satisfy my need to submit and feel pain without understanding what I want and why I want it. I like it rough (choke-me-with-your-cock/fuck-me-so-hard-I-cry rough), so along with a partner who communicates thoughtfully about our practice and limits, I pay attention to how I’m feeling. Most of the time being slapped in the face and called a slut while I’m riding my lover’s cock makes me come (hard), but some days–like after a drunk guy followed me to my car in a parking garage–it’s not what I want. And while I can figure out most of my emotional sticky wickets (no face-down, balls-deep ass-fucking right before I pick up my kid from a birthday party), I was unsure about the anxiety I feel before a big scene.

I like my boyfriend to plan, set-up, and flog/restrain/tease/fuck (i.e., do all the work) while I sit back (or lie down or hang) and feel things. I never know exactly what he’ll do, but I ok all the possibilities so there are no non-consensual surprises. Scenes always end well. I finish every one satisfied, whether from so. many. orgasms, pain to the point of transcendence, or both. But I’m also always anxious beforehand. Can I take it? Will it be terrible? And what if being nervous means there’s some part of me that’s not ok with this? That’s not the case–I want this, and I’m nervous before getting an award or giving a presentation or seeing someone I haven’t seen in a long time, all good things. Though I can be an anxious person I only worry if something really matters. When I think about the things I’ve learned about myself while I’m beaten to teary orgasm–as the heavy endorphin waves flood every inch of me–I understand why I get nervous. This matters. On days we’re planning a scene I operate in a state of low-level nervous arousal. Anxiety injected with anticipation. I think about what’s coming and all the possible terrible and ecstasy-filled permutations. And I get hot. Maybe being nervous–about a scene, about a project, about life–just means it’s important.

My wrist and ankle restraints did work perfectly with the heavy bag stand though my blindfold kept me from seeing just how my arms were slung up and my legs spread. I know I heard the metallic clicking of chain through the metal loops on the base when I tried to move. I know when he slipped a vibrating bullet into the tiny triangle of fabric on my thong and I collapsed in orgasm as he whipped my back and ass with a flogger that the edges of the leather restraints bit into my wrists where I hung. I know when it was done, when he didn’t want to push my sweating, quivering body any harder, when he unhooked me and carried me to the bed, I was so euphoric that my eyes were heavy-lidded and my voice thick and slurred with pleasure. I know next time I’ll be just as nervous. The worry will be just as delicious. And just as worth it.