Tag Archives: relationships
Chore wars: the washing up is a feminist issue
Are you the sort of person who emails me every now and then saying ‘stick to filth, stop with the feminist rants’? Look away now.
Are you a guy who claims he is a feminist but makes self-deprecatory jokes about how if he did the washing up he’d only do it badly so there’s really no point? Are you the kind of person who says ‘ah, men are just useless at housework though, aren’t they?’ This one’s for you.
Chore wars: housework and feminism
First thing’s first: men are not shit at housework. When my partner forgets to do the washing up, or the washing, or the tidying or the bathroom or any one of the million things that humans need to do in order to keep a household in working order, I do not roll my eyes. I do not tut and say ‘oh, baby, you’re such a man.’ That would be sexist.
When I complain to a friend that I’m sick and fucking tired of picking socks off the floor and changing bedsheets and the fact that I am always – always – the one who spots that the fridge needs cleaning before it grows a new species, I do not expect my friend to roll her eyes either: sexist.
Housework is a feminist issue. As I feel compelled to point out, it’s not the most important one. But it matters. It matters, precisely because it doesn’t always feel like it matters.
‘Oh, it’s only the washing up.’
‘It’s just a bit of vacuuming.’
‘It takes two seconds, so why make such a fuss?’
Thing is, as many people have pointed out: it’s unpaid work, so it’s not ‘just’ anything. Sure, it only takes a few minutes to run round the house picking up clothes and chucking them in the washing machine. Half a minute to put the powder in, choose the right setting, and set it off. Only ten minutes at the end to take the washing out, hang it up, and fold away the stuff I’ve negligently left drying there since halfway through last week. But it’s ten minutes of my time, and my time is precious.
When all the household chores are added together, I spend roughly ten hours a week cooking, cleaning, tidying, sorting, and screaming silent screams into my pillow because holy Christ this is not what I want to do with my life. Then, when I have finished with the screaming and I get onto a bit of a moan, people (mostly men, but often women too) tell me that it isn’t important. That, in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn’t matter that I’ve had to clean the hob again because ha ha jokes when it comes to housework men are just not programmed to notice what needs doing.
A rock, a dishcloth and a hard place
This rant’s been sitting in my drafts for a while, as I pluck up the courage to spew it onto the internet and have people go ‘oh GOTN you’re so clichéd with your old-fashioned caring about domestic labour’, but this week BBC Woman’s Hour launched the ‘chore wars’ calculator, so I thought it was a good opportunity to let rip. Chore Wars is a bit of a cutesy, not massively accurate way to calculate who does the most chores in the household, and whether the split is fair.
This is not a feminist issue just because traditionally housework was seen as a ‘woman’s domain’ – it’s an issue because polling shows that much of the unpaid household work still falls to women, even in households where the amount of paid work is relatively even. It’s also a big issue because of how we still talk, think and write about it. When it comes to household chores, my male partner has two options:
- help out, and receive praise for being an amazing human
- not help out, and get some mild tuts and eye-rolls and a pat on his simple, masculine head
Ah, shit – in these options I have automatically used the phrase ‘help out’, as if he is stepping down from on high to swoop in and help this damsel in marigolds rather than performing a task that, ethically, is his to own. God, I hate me. And I also hate the fact that even on International Women’s Day this year, in relation to a press release about the uneven split of unpaid domestic work, Reuters’ headline smugly pronounced that Norwegian men are ‘most helpful’ with housework. Helpful. Not ‘contributing a fairer share’, but ‘helpful’. Thanks.
Talking of thanks, where’s my fucking pat on the head? Whenever my partner manages to do one load of washing or tidy the lounge, I have been conditioned to actually tell him ‘thank you’, like he is a particularly well-trained puppy doing clever tricks for biscuits. I myself am perpetuating the myth that household tasks are mine to own and his to deign to help with, by rewarding him just for getting off his arse. He hasn’t been conditioned to praise me for scrubbing a frying pan because I’m a woman, so apparently it’s just my goddamn job.
When it comes to the housework I have two options as well, but mine aren’t quite as tempting: I get to choose between being a servant or a nag.
Housework and sex
This is a sex blog primarily, and that’s because the vast majority of things in my life are actually linked to sex in some way. I am a horny, angry, feisty slag, and even something as simple as housework is linked to sex in my mind. I don’t find it enjoyably filthy to sashay around the house, naked but for a small cotton apron, and bend over to scrub the floors while boys wank in a corner (although that might be hot in the right context), but I do draw a strong mental link between sex and housework.
Housework is not sexy. Standing up to my elbows in a sinkful of grease is not sexy. Selecting the right washing cycle to remove jizz from the bedsheets is not sexy. It’s not even sexy when I strip to my knickers and scrub round the edge of the bath.
And so, when I do all the housework, I have less sex. I’m not on ‘sex strike’ until a guy swoops in to do it – why would I deliberately forego something I love just because I’m angry? It’s not a conscious and deliberate choice, it’s a byproduct of emotional and physical exhaustion.
If I’ve spent all day doing housework I’ve had no time to think about what I might like to do to him. No time to walk, or cycle, or do sit ups, or any of the things I do that make me feel sexy in a sweaty/musky/messy way. No time to remember the filthy fuck we had last week that I haven’t got round to blogging yet. The mental narrative running through my head on a good day involves any number of ‘mmm’s, ‘unnngh’s and ‘oh God I want him to bend me over the coffee table’s. Post-housework, my brain says ‘fuck this shit forever’ and hides in a hermit cave of boiling, passive-aggressive rage.
Bottom line: if I’ve spent ages hoovering the living room, I’m unlikely to want to fuck on the carpet.
Is this blog post sexist?
This isn’t a blog post in which I berate the male half of the species for not picking up a fucking duster. There are millions of men who are not only capable of doing this stuff, but who just get the hell on with it each and every day. Men who – day in, day out – consider the housework to be part and parcel of their role as a significant half of an equal partnership. Or – if they are poly or living in a flatshare – a significant contributing member of a group. Or even just on their own.
These are the men who don’t refer to spending time with their children as ‘babysitting’, or who declare with puffed-up pride that they’re ‘treating’ their girlfriend by cooking dinner, thus taking away perhaps 10% of the unpaid work that she does without thanks every day.
On the other side, there are women who do nothing around the house and drive their partners up the wall. These people are – unless there are genuinely good reasons such as issues with illness or a drastically different split in out-of-home paid work – equally selfish of course. But when their partners complain they’re unlikely to be met by well-meaning friends who roll their eyes and tut ‘women, eh? What can you do?’
Feminist men do the cooking
I’m not writing this just because I hate housework – most of us hate housework: it’s a thankless, miserable task. This isn’t about individual items to tick off a household ‘to do’ list: it’s about hypocrisy.
Because I’ve met men who go on marches and pickets. Who sign petitions and have angry rants and show solidarity to women on all manner of feminist issues, then go home and expect to be worshipped as a God because they spent two hours cooking dinner on Sunday.
If this isn’t you: well done. If this is you, have a little think about why you’re willing to write off unpaid labour as ‘not really my problem/not my area of expertise/something that magically happens when I’m not looking.’
Then put down your ‘awesome feminist’ badge, and pick up a fucking dishcloth.
Questions and comments
I love a good ruck as much as the next opinionated blogger. But here are some questions/comments that I anticipate I might receive as a result of this post, and what my response will be if you give them to me.
I’m a man, and I do exactly half of the housework. I am OUTRAGED by your rant.
Well done. If you do exactly half of the housework and you never moan about it or expect unnecessary thanks, then you are good. But not ‘good’ in the sense that ‘you get to sit on a moral high horse and shout at women who are frustrated by the traditionally unequal split of household chores’, just ‘good’ in the sense that ‘you meet the minimum standards of human decency.’
I am a man, and I do more housework than my female partner. I am OUTRAGED by your rant.
When you complain about her general slovenliness, are you greeted by people saying ‘well, you have to expect it really – women are so shit at this’? I suspect not. But well done for doing loads of housework, and if you’re frustrated I suggest you send your partner a link to this blog.
In my relationship, we have come to the arrangement that one of us earns the money and the other keeps house.
Congratulations. If you have both agreed to this and find it fair, then good luck to you both.
There are certain household tasks that I cannot do because I have a medical condition/have to work much longer hours than my partner.
There are many reasons why household tasks might not be evenly split. That’s obviously not what I’m talking about here though.
Have you tried training/teaching your partner to do better?
He is not a fucking dog. He is an adult who knows how to do this shit. Besides, this rant does not just come because he – a flawed individual like the rest of us – pisses me off sometimes by failing to do his fair share. This rant has come because he is not the only one by a long shot, and because I hate other people’s ‘men are useless’ excuses for this crap even more than I hate scrubbing pans and folding laundry. For the record, though, my partner is much better than many other dudes I’ve known, and he does what decent humans do, which is recognise where he falls down and try to get better at doing stuff. Sadly he doesn’t have a blog in which he can rant about my failings, so you’ll just have to take my word for it that I fail too, in equally important ways.
Isn’t it just that women have higher standards than men and men are more happy to live in filth?
This question is a BONUS one added after a Twitter comment. This one’s thrown at me a lot, so worth tackling. Different individuals have different tolerances for mess: this is normal because we are human. But, unless you are asserting that ‘men’ as a homogenous mass, are all happy to eat off food-soiled plates, wear clothes that have never been washed, allow their bathrooms to smell of piss and mould, and never eat food that has had more than a five-minute blast in the microwave, then this is a massive red herring. As a lazy, slobby, twat who is generally happy to have dirty clothes carpeting my bedroom, I can assure you it’s not about differing standards: it’s about the time spent on work, and who holds responsibility.
This isn’t like you, GOTN, to rant about what ‘all men’ are like.
I’m not. Not ‘all men’ are like this. There are men who do their fair share, who thank their partners for doing theirs, and who never refer to caring for their children as ‘babysitting’. I’m not saying ‘all men are shit at housework’, I am saying that if you are a man and you are shit at housework then that’s a fucking problem. Moreover if you let a female partner do most of the household chores, you sure as shit don’t get to call yourself a feminist.
Time travel sex – what would you do?
I’m more than willing to suspend my disbelief to enjoy a good TV show. I’ll ignore loud explosions in deep space, grin and bear anachronisms in historical dramas, and even nod through a paradox or two. But one thing I refuse to believe is that at no point in his long long life has Doctor Who gone back in time to fuck himself.
I mean COME ON. He used to look like DAVID TENNANT, for crying out loud! And Matt Smith: all gangly limbs and twinking nerdery. You would, wouldn’t you?
One of the things I enjoyed most about the book The Time Traveler’s Wife (if you haven’t read it then it’s about a dude who accidentally time travels) is that in it, when his teenage self meets another teenage self, they wank each other off. It’s not described in detail, but it’s straightforward enough that it made me go ‘omg realistic portrayals of identical-selves masturbating is exactly what has been missing from all time travel.’
So, in that spirit, here are a few of the sexual encounters that would happen if I had a time machine.
Time-travel threesomes
I don’t really want to have sex with myself, if only because I don’t tend to fancy women that often, and I suspect I am exactly the kind of person who would annoy myself by being obnoxiously loud and eating all the nice crisps at parties. So I don’t think me and me would make a good couple. However what we WOULD make is an excellent threesome double-team.
In the past I’ve turned down amazing sexual opportunities because I’m too jealous of the other girl involved, or because I’m scared that the guy I’m with will enjoy the other person more and be permanently disappointed with my own mediocre vagina. However, with a time-travel threesome, I wouldn’t need to worry about that, because I am basically the same person.
I’d pick and choose some of the less exciting fucks I’ve had in the past, and spice them up by introducing my future-self halfway through and watching the guy’s eyes widen with delight as he realised all the tingling possibilities. I’d join an ex or two in some double-penetration, strapping one on so I could fuck me while I was being fucked. I’d head to the first time I used a strap-on at all, and sit heavily on that guy’s dick at just the moment his prostate pushed hard squirts of spunk out of him. I could pop back to last night, when I ground heavily onto my partner’s dick while he wanked me off with a Doxy. Past-me could still do that: I wouldn’t want to ruin her fun. But while she was doing it I could be biting his nipples or letting him suck mine.
Being the first
Is this creepy? I think perhaps this is creepy. In my head it’s super-romantic, but I don’t think we need to worry about creepiness given that time travel is impossible, so if you’re thinking of writing angry letters, please save them for the day when we manage to break all the laws of physics and invent an actual Tardis.
It’s 2002, or thereabouts. A guy who – in 2002 – I’ve never met, is masturbating furiously and desperately wishing he could hurl away his virginity. Late one evening on his way home from a friend’s party, he runs into a woman. Old enough that he wouldn’t usually look twice, but young enough that he definitely would. She invites him into her Tardis, and because he is probably only 18 at this point, I will spare you the pervy details.
What’s important though is not necessarily what happens then, but what happens years later, when he runs into me for what he thinks is the first time.
“Wow. You… you look really familiar.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You look like this person I knew once, ages ago.”
“Oh really? What was she like?”
“It’s kind of a funny story actually. It’s how I lost my virginity…”
Fixing mistakes
Picture the scene: it’s three AM outside a shitty nightclub – in one of those vaguely Mediterranean ‘party towns’ that are magnets for young people who want to get drunk and sweat on each other. Two girls who are far too young to be there are sitting on the laps of two guys who can’t believe their luck. The guys are young too – not yet mature enough to realise that if you really want to get laid you need to avoid drinking twelve shots of AfterShock. They’re all snogging, and having a whale of a time.
One of these girls enjoys it so much that she tries to take the guy somewhere quieter to fuck.
“Give me a sec,” she whispers erotically, then runs to the bins and sprays rainbow-coloured vomit in a decorative arc over the pavement. She wipes her mouth.
“I’m done. Let’s go.” The guy nods, looking a little queasy himself, but clearly game. The girl leads him to what she thinks is a secluded spot. They snog again, briefly, before he backs away. It might be the taste of her sick-washed mouth, but our heroine decides it’s probably just because he’d rather do other things. She pushes his head down between her legs, pulls her knickers to one side, and he licks at her with eager enthusiasm – this is clearly a dude who’d rather taste cunt than cocktails.
In the faint distance she can see the nightclub lights illuminating her best friend and the other guy, snogging on a chair. Her cunt twitches with pleasure but she’s far too pissed to notice.
At this moment the sky splits, and a time machine appears. An older version of the girl leans her head out of the time machine and – in the manner of a Mum yelling at her kids to get inside for dinner – she shouts:
“You fucking idiot! Everyone can see what you’re doing! You’re not in a secluded spot at all, you’re in a field right next to a busy road! Go home and sober up or in ten years’ time you’ll have to write a blog post about how much you regret this whole sordid incident!”
Time travel sex – watching and wanking
Of course it wouldn’t just be about joining in or changing the path of history – that’d kind of imply that my sex Tardis would mostly be about regrets. I’d probably spend most of my time popping back to my favourite moments. That first ever threesome with two guys, which fulfilled a list of long-held sexual desires so spectacularly that I still remember it in a sleepy, dreamlike way. I’d watch as they kissed each other, and look out for the expression of shining delight on my face. I’d take mental photographs of every beautiful moment: as they fucked me, as they fucked each other, as we all tangled together in a huge pile of happy fucklust.
I’d visit a few fetish clubs to watch myself get beaten.
Head to old bedrooms in which I frotted tirelessly against exhausted ex-boyfriends.
Watch a few of the hottest boy snogs I’ve ever seen.
It would be like having a live-action replay of some of the best fucks, and the most beautiful people I’ve ever known. Hot and horny but also tinged with wistful nostalgia.
Maybe one of the best things I could do if I had a sex Tardis would be to leave little notes for myself on the morning of each hot encounter, saying:
“This one, tonight: this one’s special. Drink it in. It’ll never happen the same way again.”
An important relationship principle, learnt via cock rings
“You’ve put it on the wrong way.”
“I… no I haven’t.”
“You have it’s… look, the vibrating bit goes next to the balls.”
“No it fucking doesn’t.”
I own a few different cock rings, most of them fairly simple rings with one bullet vibe attached. I mainly own these ones because, until the encounter mentioned above, I always thought that the WHOLE POINT of a cock ring was that I could grind my clit happily into the buzzy bit, then have an orgasm intense enough that my cuntspasms would induce orgasm in the gentleman I was grinding against.
When I discovered that is not necessarily the case, my tiny mind was blown.
It turns out that he’d used cock rings before during masturbation, and had particularly enjoyed the tingling sensation that comes from putting a cock ring on upside-down, and feeling it tickle his balls. This put me in something of a quandary, because I’d always thought that cock rings were meant for me. To discover that these joyful parcels of sexy sensation might, in fact, be something that I had to share gave me a twitch of selfish rage akin to a child being told she has to let other kids play with her Lego.
Four ways to use cock rings that won’t end in a fight
I have come up with four solutions to this problem.
1. Keep the cock ring on my way, grind against him and get him to play with my tits until the resultant orgasmic wave washed over me. After which point I’d take a short break to remove the ring and put it on his way (i.e. the WRONG way), then continue humping until he spaffed. This worked pretty well, but had the drawback that we had to stop shagging just after I’d come, when my knees were weak and wobbly and I was therefore quite likely to fall off the bed, thus shattering my illusion of erotic expertise.
2. Use two cock rings at the same time. I haven’t actually tried this one, but I imagine having two means not only that you can have one the right way up and one the wrong way, you also get an extra boost of a cock ring’s best superpower: the ability to get and keep a guy harder than he’d usually be, for as long as it takes for you to ride him like a horny pony. On the downside, as one commenter pointed out, it’s probably not particularly comfortable.
3. Turn around. I’m on top, so I can technically dictate exactly where my clit goes, and therefore by simply turning around I can make sure that it buzzes against me, and against his balls, thus keeping us both happy. Thing is, while plenty of guys I know are generous enough to appreciate the sight of my arse – even if they have their glasses on and are stone-cold sober – I quite like having my tits played with. In fact, my favourite thing about being on top is that I can grab his hands and place them firmly on my tits, feeling him squeeze and support them like an enthusiastic bra-butler.
4. Get one that has two vibrating bits.
The moral of the story
Relationships are usually about give and take – going out of your way to ensure your partner’s pleasure, and putting their needs first. But occasionally – very occasionally – they are about spending twenty quid on a dual-vibrating cock ring to ensure you have no further arguments on the subject.
If you’re going to get a dual-vibrating cock ring, here are a couple of suggestions: this one’s a budget version if you’re tight on cash, and this one’s a slightly more expensive version but I reckon has a few more possibilities depending on which way round you put it on. This one is out of stock at the moment, but I’d quite like to have a go because it has a sort of cage thingy instead of just a ring, and therefore I suspect is REALLY GOOD at the diamond hardness thing. Use the code GOTN10 at the checkout if you want to get 10% off.
How to beg forgiveness (or not)
When I fuck up, I apologise. The apologies are always heartfelt, but rarely ever sufficient. I’m sorry anyway.
I’m sorry that I am a desperate, horny, sexually incontinent bastard. And I’m sorry that I am apparently incapable of saying ‘no’ when my blood’s up and I’m pissed. That the voice in my head which tells me ‘this is wrong’ whispers so quietly next to the roar of the voice that says ‘touch me touch me touch me oh please touch me.’
There’s no excuse, because there’s never an excuse. There’s something horrible and bad inside me that encourages me to do awful things that will hurt guys I love, and I’ve come to the rather worrying conclusion that the bad thing is just ‘my personality’. I am just the sort of person who does bad things: a bad person, if you will.
I did some bad things. I didn’t fuck anyone, blow a guy in a doorway, or get into the exact kind of trouble I’ve been in before, but I did things bad enough that they required confession and flagellation.
I confessed because – like all naughty schoolgirls – I know that if you lie about something it makes it worse. Because I’d promised never to lie about this… this ridiculous inability to say ‘no’ when a certain type of guy asks if I want to sneak off to a quiet place with him. Because there was a boy I liked and, Christ, he was hot and hard and needy and strong and had big hands and wet eyes and all the things I can’t resist.
And we did stuff. Like teenagers covering up for the fact that, underneath the playful euphemism, there was a very real and potent lust, I’m going to use the phrase ‘did stuff’. Clumsy, awkward, unspecific, slickly wet and angry. Stuff.
When to beg forgiveness
There’s a certain level of idiocy that I don’t have to confess. For instance – I got pissed and told a guy I wanted to suck him dry: textbook, easy, and powered by the clumsy and inappropriate section of my brain. Fell down a staircase. Wanked on a train. Said someone’s dick was pretty. Held a friend too long in a hug because he smelt so fucking good and I just didn’t want to let go. Ate the last Creme Egg. Wanked in the shower. Put this guy’s boxers on my face and breathed in until I felt lightheaded and wet.
These things don’t require confession because the confession would be met with an eye roll. A “fucking obviously” that recognises just how much of a cunt-dribbling sexual glutton I always am. But other things do require it, because they involve much more than me. They involve me, and someone else, or two other someones, or three, doing stuff. That exclusive, behind-closed-doors sweaty betrayal of things that are far more important than my brief pulsing lust.
I know what I have to confess: it’s the things I know I don’t really want to tell him.
Why am I such an incorrigible twat?
I’m not addicted to sex, I’m not smashing relationships like someone else would smash windows and nick box-sets to sell for crack. I just… choose sex. I do it because it’s more fun than not doing it. I’m not making a selection between two different kinds of soup – I’m choosing whether to eat or not, at just the moment my stomach starts growling. Because some fucking random guy says ‘can I slap you?’ and my immediate answer is ‘oh God yes please’.
These are the things that require confession: the things I do that no amount of joking or playing will render unsexual. The things that he wouldn’t want me to do on the grounds that I so desperately want to do them. The things that require actual willpower to stop.
So I confess. And I tell him. And in telling him I break his heart a bit, and hate the heartbreaking more than I hate the deception that would have come otherwise. And he says thanks, and that it hurt him, and that I’m not a bad person. He strokes my hair and sits next to me, and chokes down the pain so he can make jokes and pretend it’s OK.
Worst of all, worst of fucking everything – when I confess to him that “I did bad things” he responds with a calm and measured:
“I thought you might have.”
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck me for being such a pathetic horny slag. And fuck me twice for being so depressingly predictable.
He’s not angry: just disappointed. But I’m angry. And although sackcloth and self-flagellation might feel punishingly good against my skin right now, it won’t stop me from doing it again. Because, as noted, I am predictable. And angry. And horny. And… fuck.
I’ll get letters about this, so just FYI – when I write stuff that’s super-personal like this I usually leave a big gap between when it happened and when I publish. The guy involved has given his consent for me to write it.
Please Sir/Daddy/Mister – what should I call my Dom?
“I’m going to give you six whacks with this,” he says, and then he does. As he does, I have to count them. I know not why – tradition dictates it. As if dominant men are notoriously bad at simple arithmetic and if I don’t count them he’ll beat me forever. Maybe I’ll forget to count them.
Thwack. Hot stings and tingling, delicious arousal. I’m already part way to moaning out loud and begging him to fuck me. The counting is a bit of a distraction, if I’m honest, but needs must.
“One.”
I settle back in, focusing on the warmth of the first stinging smack against my naked arse. Ready for a second, a third. Wanting him to give up control and just beat me like he doesn’t care how many.
“What do you say?”
“I… umm… I said it – ‘one.'” I resolve to speak up a bit next time, to avoid having this awkward break in the proceedings.
“But what do you say?”
Oh Christ, he wants me to thank him. Try not to sound too stroppy…
“Thank you.”
Phew. Back to the beating. Any minute now the next stroke will come down and it’ll knock this irritation away, putting me back into the place where I can just whimper and gasp and love it.
“Thank you what?”
Oh for the love of Christ.
Sir
“Thank you Sir” works in very specific scenarios for me – ones in which we’re role-playing that he’s my boss, or my teacher, or anyone in a position of authority (if you’re reading this, guys who might be likely to beat me at some point in the future, I have never yet had angry military commander berating me – a junior member of his troop – while spanking me over the desk with a riding crop. Just FYI). In an authority scenario, ‘Sir’ sounds reasonably natural, and I could – at a push – see me using ‘sir’ with a regular dominant who’d decided he wanted me to address him as such.
But in my lounge? When I’ve got my jeans around my ankles and you’re still half in your work clothes? It doesn’t feel right. I’ll call you ‘Sir’ if you want me to, and beg “please, Sir, can I have some more?” as you’re flogging the backs of my thighs and working me into an stinging ball of lust, but it only serves to highlight that what we’re doing is play. If I use a formal term, I’m highlighting the fact that we’re not really taking this seriously.
Daddy
I’ve never gone with ‘Daddy’, although I’ll admit to a slight kick of envy for those couples who use this word during play. Something about purring ‘Daddy’ at my partner during a particularly intense session makes me melt with desire. I strongly suspect this is something that’s been conditioned via porn (both visual and written) in which the word is often used as a neat, sharp shortcut to establish in the mind of the reader that this is a dominant relationship. He orders: she obeys.
But saying it out loud? To my partner? My partner who brings me Marks and Spencer sweets after work and calls me a twat when I tell him the worst of my jokes? No matter how horny he is, I think he’d struggle to suspend disbelief for long enough to be convinced I really meant it.
Mister/Mr Surname
In my opinion, this is an underused term of BDSM endearment. I used to do a lot of school role play (what can I say? I just love knee socks and the smell of chalk) and I could not get enough of the delight of using the formal names of some of my best friends. In the evening, when we were sipping wine and chatting, a guy might be ‘Mark’, but in the schoolroom when he stood in front of me and asked me what on earth I thought I was doing, he was Mr Smith. I’d talk about them to other ‘girls’ just for the pleasure of rolling their new names around my tongue. Mr Smith told me this. Mr Smith gave us homework. Mr. Mister. Amazing.
Again, though, the whole thing collapses in on itself when it’s my regular partner, because he’ll never be a Mister to me. A ‘Mr Smith’ would sound like a sarcastic hint that we should get married someday, or a means of expressing my displeasure – it would never naturally indicate submission.
Name
That’s the one. The name. When asking ‘what should I call my Dom?’ the question itself feels nonsensical. Because I’ve never had a Dom, much as the sex-focused part of my brain would have liked one. Thing is, the sex part of my brain doesn’t always have the control – it’d be knackered and withered within a week if I let it run as rampant as it wants to go.
I’ve known deliciously dominant guys, and guys for whom holding a whip is a fun Friday-night activity but not something they’re deeply drawn towards. I’ve played with men who speak to me in German, and beat me with rigid and unrelenting authority. Men who have laughed when I’ve asked to be restrained and railed sarcastically at me as they hitch my skirt up and bend me over their knee. I’ve known guys whose feet I’ve wanted to fall at, naked and sobbing and begging them to hurt me in ways I’ve not imagined yet.
I really want to call them ‘Daddy’, or ‘Sir’. I am envious of the people in relationships where they can subdivide their play and make it – to my mind – more intense and all-encompassing. Where play is a deeper experience than the kind of casual tennis-match style of my own BDSM.
But ultimately, I’ve never ended up in the kind of relationship where it’d feel natural to call someone ‘Sir’ or ‘Daddy’ – even when he’s got his cock in the back of my throat and is taking swipes at my arse with a riding crop. When we’re in the pub, he’s [Name], and when we’re sitting on the sofa playing Fable 3 and arguing about whether we should have sex with the hairdresser, he’s [Name]. Beating me feels like an extension of the other stuff we do: different category, same tone.
What’s in a name? Everything.