Shame: my story (fiction based on the film)

It took some time to formulate my thoughts after I walked out of the screening of ‘Shame’. The setting was familiar; the story resonated with past experiences. Yet what was most on my mind is the behaviour of the women in the film. They seemed always willing, looking for sexual adventures despite their ‘taken’ status, forthcoming and even aggressive, just like the men, or even worse. As a result, I started thinking about the portrayal of a similar scenario from a woman’s perspective. I am that woman.

I am attractive, charismatic, intelligent, professionally successful yet I have spent several years of my life in a similar loop of addiction, sleeping with many men and getting into more and more extreme situation to satisfy the emotional emptiness within. There is no logical explanation in my background for this behaviour – the parents’ divorce wasn’t pleasant, but it’s a common occurrence, and a broken heart at university was not an immediate cause, since I had no trouble pursuing a normal relationship afterwards, and there was a gap of several years before the addiction truly kicked in. It must be caused by something deeper within, and the clash of that unknown with societal norms and expectations. Living in New York contributed to the inner emptiness that I struggled so hard to fulfill.

Whoever said it was the greatest city in the world, lied. For beneath the modern and shiny reflective surface of New York lies such loneliness, emptiness and cynicism, there is no connection. There are so many attractive and interesting people that it’s very difficult for people to be satisfied with what they have. Exchanged glances with a charismatic stranger on the subway, an exhilarating conversation with someone from a different path of life in a downtown bar, a mutual appreciation of an art piece at an exhibition leads to coffee, drink, bed. Another day, another sexual adventure. Then of course there is the all-encompassing web of the Internet; when I took the plunge into online adult personals, I felt like I had tapped a vein. So many responses from so many men! So many good looking and interesting men, all wanting to meet me, to sleep with me! Hopping from taxi to bar to bed to another taxi, getting back home in the middle of the night or early morning, constantly checking my phone for the texts from unsaved numbers suggesting to meet up, reading my personal email surreptitiously at work and going for a run around the Central park reservoir every morning, running to attain a high that proved more and more elusive, running forward, running away, coming full circle again and again.

In the midst of all this I met a guy I really liked. I met him through the same channels, and went to bed with him after two drinks. The sex was amazing, the connection was there, I was exhilarated after the meeting, practically running home, clenching my fist tight to retain the feel of the touch, the smell, with a huge smile on my face. I met someone I really liked!  He contacted me straight away the next day, and most days thereafter, always asking about me, chatting away, but always shying away from meeting up again. He was further up the road than me, more cynical, much more experienced, more shut off. Yet he liked me, too.

After a month of playing the game, I asked him straight out why he doesn’t want to meet up. His response is one I have heard from others before – he said that he likes me, but I seem like a nice girl who needs a nice boyfriend, and he is not looking for a relationship. Unwilling to let him go so easily, I have asked what it is he is looking for. This is when he told me straight out that he is into group sex, swingers’ parties, orgies, and sleeping with multiple women. Try me, I said. He offered to take me to a party the next day.

In love and in addiction, we’re always trying to replicate our first successful experience. Since that day, sex parties became a major part of my life; I have frequently avoided evenings with friends and made up excuses in order to escape to a sex club, or yet another private party. Yet there are many times where I turned down the invitation from the man, because part of me was still hoping to find romantic love. Or was it the possibility another sexual adventure that titillated me more at the time? I turned him down, then I went to parties on my own, partially hoping that he would be there, but he wasn’t, he was probably in bed with someone else so I would hop in with another stranger. Gather my clothes when it’s getting light outside, have the doorman hail me a cab home.

I stopped talking to this man, almost fell in love again, still unfulfilled, struggled through a couple of attempts at normal relationships before deciding to make the move to London. It was the right time to leave. I sent him a quick note suggesting to meet for a drink before I leave, since he was the one man in the back of my mind, the one I most regretted leaving in New York. The world suddenly turned; he came after me with such fervour and passion that I was a bit freaked out, and continuously told him no. While previously he was always busy with other women and made it seem like he didn’t have room for me in his life, suddenly I was the only one that mattered – he could see me tomorrow, he could see me the day after, he could see me on the weekend, he could see me anytime I wished. It took a month of pursuit for me to finally meet him, and my last two weeks in New York were spent as much as possible with him.

I moved to London and I thought that we were over; the misconception lasted two days – he started talking to me again almost every day. I didn’t have many friends initially so I liked having someone to talk to; he also promised to visit. He came eventually, but then he left, which brought me down and almost pushed me into the cycle again. I somehow managed to escape for the time being, and ended up dating someone for six months. Yet I still longed for the one in New York, I loved him with all my heart, so the relationship here failed while alienating the New York man in the process. The quiet before the storm lasted a couple of months; the self-destructive behaviour returned with a vengeance.

A different man every night, most days of the week. A few of them regulars on rotation, supplemented by the always available roster of single men in the city’s dingier bars or clubs. Only one at a time, and each one was made to feel special – in case there was a night when I needed someone short notice, several options were always open.  Constantly changing sheets, throwing away the trash with the used condoms, changing stockings. I even had honed a foolproof strategy to get through the working day with a hangover and lack of sleep, so that by the end of the workday I was ready to go to the next pub, to the next club, looking and feeling great. It wasn’t a successful night out unless it ended in sex. There were always willing partners in crime, and girlfriends who were amused enough by my antics to keep me company and play sidekick. I always got my man, almost without trying. It was too easy, and gradually the game got to the point where it no longer satisfied.

Along the way I discovered a harder version of sex. The man was unassuming looking, cute but boyish, not very tall, charming but not particularly charismatic or fascinating. Three years later, the number of conversations we had during that time could be counted on the fingers of one hand. We always best expressed ourselves in bed together; come rain or shine, we would end up together, and no matter what men I filled my time with during the week, come Friday night we would go separate ways but find each other at the end. He was the personification of my addiction, he was my obsession, and he felt the same way about me. To say that we fell madly in love would bring an unnecessary romantic element to the story, but it’s fair to say that our connection was so strong that while we were constantly drawn to each other, we just as strongly pushed each other away, we hurt and we were hurting, we were too scared to think what all of this may mean, but when after all the fighting, the pain, the tears, the drinking and the recklessness we ended up in each other’s arms, it all seemed great again. I had found my match, and we got ourselves into a perpetual cycle that drove each of us further and further down into our deep, dark world.

Around this time I ditched the regular bars and clubs as pick-up joints, and progressed onto more dedicated establishments to get my fill. Walking into a sex club on y own at 1am on a Friday night, for the first time after a few years of absence, felt like finding my home again; I returned the next night and the following weekend. I met more people, who told me about more places, other parties, and my world had opened up again. During those nights it wouldn’t satisfy me to sleep with just one guy; it was a game, so it had to be two or sometimes three, maybe with another girl involved, for good measure. It never worked out the way they show it in porn. Since these activities were restricted to the weekends, I spent the time during the week watching porn and enjoying various combinations of several vibrating toys, which provided a short-term fix. Then on the weekends I would try to re-enact that which I fantasised about during the week.

The parties got more intense, usually followed by private after parties at amazing flats in central London. The after parties expanded to regular nights out, so it was common for a typical after work drinks to culminate in several exchanges of texts, and the crowd would gather at the same spot for the same series of acts; even the shade of the meaning got completely lost.  I had the dream life, amazing friends, access to the coolest clubs and the most exclusive sex parties in London. It all came crashing down soon enough, another party, four men, five am, out on the street, short skirt, no underwear, no taxis in sight when I made the call to the nearest person I knew.

I stopped. I re-assessed my priorities. I spent a lot of time thinking about what I’m looking for. I stopped the drinking and started yoga. I even got a better job, and I deleted all the phone numbers of my meaningless hookups. I reconnected with true friends, I was open with them and they helped guide me. I have spent so many years being lost, but now I have finally found myself. I broke off all my toxic relationships, and drew a line under the situation with the New York man. I am ready for something more; more passion, more intimacy, a partner, and a relationship. I am a woman, and I have survived my shame.

The psychology of kink

People who engage in BDSM take it very seriously, and they have done a great deal of psychological work to get there. I certainly have, spending a lot of time reconciling my desires in the bedroom with the way I view myself, the way I project myself onto the world and where I want to go in the future.

At first it took me by surprise. The fantasies and desires were in my head for longer than I can remember, always playing on repeat like an old film reel, frequently in black and white. My fantasies used to be my escape world, somewhere I could go to create a life I imagined for myself. I visualised it so vividly, down to every detail – the man, the lines of my body under his touch, the scenarios of the games we play as well as the sensations and the feelings. Some days my imagination was so powerful it could bring me to orgasm.

And then it happened. It wasn’t at all the way I imagined it. He didn’t look like the man in my fantasies, but he was the one I consciously submitted to. His touch, his voice, the feeling of his presence were sufficient to drive me to a place where I could switch off my mind and let him guide me through my fantasies. We took each other on a journey of exploration where every dark corner of our minds could be opened and our imagination ran free. We developed our sexuality around each other, almost subconsciously. We got addicted to each other; we could fight and not see each other for weeks, yet when we were together the whole world could collapse around us and we wouldn’t notice. We fell madly in love. It almost destroyed us in the end.

I couldn’t face the world of kink and BDSM without him. He was my partner, my Dom, and I wanted him to be there when I went to the fetish fairs, the clubs, the parties, and the shows. That’s something we have always done together or fantasised about doing together. And now he wasn’t there, and I couldn’t handle it. I was still drawn to it but after an afternoon spent in the company of people comfortable with themselves, their desires and their sexual preferences looking at all the toys and tools of the trade, I ran out of that dark basement into the afternoon sun with tears streaming down my face. Something was wrong.

And then I thought it through. I spent a lot of time reading and researching, pondering my desires for submission, humiliation and kinky sex and reconciling them to my daily existence as a beautiful, intelligent and confident woman with a strong sense of self worth. I realised that my desires for a bit of humiliation play did not come from a place of low self esteem, in fact it’s the opposite. I understood that my preferences for kinky sex did not stem from any psychological issues but were as innate and basic and my likes and dislikes of various food and drink. I also grasped the fact that my submission was a gift, to be treasured and cherished, and it was a form of emotional and mental release for my sexuality which in no way implied that I would accept poor treatment from partners in my daily life. I was still a lady, to be treated respectfully like any other human being.

Slowly I came out onto the scene again. I went to some drinks where I was nervous at first, after all the people there would ask me the most intimate questions. They wanted to know whether I’m submissive or dominant, and how I got into kink but that was just normal conversation for them, the ones comfortable in their own skin. I asked them questions and realised that they have similar stories, fantasies that were always there and one partner who brought it all out into the open. I also met people of all kinds, submissive men and dominant women, the reversal of traditional gender roles, as well as switches, fetishists, and a variety of other kinky individuals. Through all this, I was able to define and verbalise my desires and better understand what I want from a relationship, a partner. I was able to articulate my needs and understand that I am not in any way abnormal, and I am not alone.

I get it now. I’ve thought it through. I have submissive tendencies, even though I consider myself a switch. I am a highly sexual human being. Sex is important to me, but so is a connection and chemistry. I like BDSM because it is a mind fuck, literally – you need to have some mental capacity in the first place in order to open it to exploration. I want to apply all to sex, my body, my emotions, and my intelligence. I don’t want to play dating games that vanilla people seem so focused on; I think the only games worth playing are in the bedroom. I want to give up control, but that has to be earned. I want the dynamics of a full on D/s relationship; there is no indecisive stage when that’s involved. I want a lover and a partner, all in one person, and it’s not too much to ask for. I have been on a journey and it’s still ongoing, but so far along the way I also understand that my desires, my dreams, my fantasies and my emotions make me who I am, I’m simply human.

Adventures in the dark

Last night at a fetish party, a friend of mine asked me to accompany him, a girl he’s seeing, and her boyfriend to the couples’ room. She wanted a threesome, but they could only grant access to people in pairs.

‘Come in with us, just for five minutes!’

‘Sure, why not.’

There was a bit of a queue but it was still early, so we only waited a few minutes before we were ushered in front of a security guard. He seemed a bit confused by our little ménage.

‘Which is which couple?’

‘We’re a couple, and they’re a couple.’

‘Ok,’ he said, then pointed at my friend and I and said, ‘You two kiss’.

Fine, what’s a kiss between friends? It was passionate and realistic; after a few minutes of tongue dancing we took a breather and asked if he’s seen enough. He was still tricked by the situation, so asked the other two to kiss. They did. We were ushered in.

The couples’ room… the mystery, the passion, the crazy sex and massive orgy that must be happening there is such a prevailing myth within a certain scene that people are willing to queue up for an hour at times just to see what’s going on. Unsurprisingly, these scene tourists usually walk out even more confused, failing to understand what it’s all about.

The first time I ended up in one of those was at my first visit to a fetish party in London. I have been to fetish and swingers parties before, but I have never seen a queue. I may have even had some grand expectations as well, titillated by the thought that this may be it, the holy grail of the seedy and sexual underbelly of this town. After a wait of forty-five minutes, my date and I finally reached the hallowed entrance. The curtain was pulled aside…

… to reveal a room the size of a large walk-in closet, with a bench running along the perimeter and some sort of a table in the middle. We were allocated a space on the bench the width of a typical bus seat, for the two of us. Fair to the name, the rest of the people there were only couples, with just as little space in which to perform a bit of a hand job, a touch of a blowjob followed by a spot of intercourse in the woman on top sitting position. Some tried to be more creative in their positions, but invariably their attempts were crushed by the presence of others all around them and the hard wooden back of the peripheral bench. Some people tried to use the table, but it wasn’t the optimal height for any action. To say that I disappointed in the whole set-up would be the understatement of the year, feeling just like those scene tourists that I railed against earlier in this post.

Jane’s fantasy (part I)

‘Sex is violence’

I stand in the crowd and watch you up on the stage. You look so dark and mysterious, so sexy with your moody guitar riffs and occasional vocals. I’m here for the concert, for you, along with a few thousand other fans. There are plenty of other women, but I know you will be mine tonight.

I watch you play, I know some of the songs. I sing along to them with your lead singer, with you, with the rest of the crowd. Other songs are new, some I like more than others, but nonetheless I can feel the electricity in the air as your music drifts around me and through me, surrounding me. I find myself drifting away into fantasy as I watch you up on that stage.

In my fantasy, you are rough. You barely let me speak, but I’m not there for conversation. I don’t care if you even know my name. I am only here to have you, and I want you to take me with all the power and force that you project when you’re up on that stage. You grab me by the hair, kiss me roughly, lift me up onto a counter where you slide your hands up my legs, underneath my skirt, grabbing me hard enough to leave marks, surrounded by half empty liquor bottles, cigarette packets, guitar picks and random pages of text, your songs, your music. The rough and quick tumble with a rock star fantasy.

In reality, you are gentle. You take my hand and lead me away into your private world. It’s surprisingly clean, no half empty bottles or full ashtrays. The lighting is soft and mysterious. You offer me a drink, champagne. We sit down on the sofa and you talk to me, very soft spoken and erudite. You ask about my life, my passions, my dreams. I find myself opening up to you a bit more than I would have expected, expressing my dreams, desires, and frustrations. You listen. Is it the false sense of familiarity, because you’re a rock star I have fantasised about for such a long time? After years and years of listening to your music and feeling that it speaks to me on a deeper level, there you are, actually speaking, and listening. I sense a connection.

We kiss. Your lips touch mine softly, your manicured stubble a gentle caress on my face. My lips part in response and our tongues touch, taste, intertwine around each other as I feel the electricity surge through my body, from our lips all the way down, my nipples harden, I can feel myself getting wet wanting you but you’re in no rush. Your tongue explores my mouth, your hands caress my arms, my back, my legs. Finally, you slide them under my skirt and to the tops of the special sexy stockings I wore for this occasion.

My mind drifts. At my insistent touch you slip your t-shirt over your head and stand up. I feel a surge of heat and a shortness of breath; in person, you’re even more beautiful than in the photos from the album booklets that I used to flip through obsessively, or on that poster I had in my room as a teenager. You stand in front of me, I reach over to your belt but struggle with the fancy rocker buckle; you laugh and help me undo it. I want you in my mouth; I slip off your sexy black jeans and pull you towards me so I can taste you. You’re incredibly well endowed and a very nice shape, which is a very pleasant surprise. Of course I wouldn’t know it from the posters and the album photos.

You look down on me as I slide my lips up and down your cock, which is fully hard now. I look up at you to see if you are enjoying it. You smile, take my head in your hands, and lift me up to you. You kiss me, my lips, then my neck, then work your way down. You remove my top and my bra in one swift motion, and take a step back to look at me. I feel exposed under your gaze, but it’s only a moment before your hands and your mouth are all over me, caressing my torso and licking my nipples, one, then the other, then back again. Your hands reach down and slip off my skirt, it’s only the stockings left. You take a step back to look at me again, taking in my body with your penetrating gaze then look into my eyes, smile again and push me back onto the sofa. You kneel down and spread my legs.

Your magic hands! You spread my labia with one hand and place your tongue on my clit, which sends shivers all through my body. I involuntarily arch my back, pushing myself onto your mouth and throw my head back for only a moment before looking back down again. I need to see you, I need to imprint this image on my mind, my rock star fantasy right there, on your knees between my legs. You use your other hand to slide first one, then two fingers inside me, continuing to circle your tongue over my clit. I’m not sure I can control myself much longer but you insist, your hand inside of me seems to find all the right spots while your amazing tongue is bringing me closer and closer to orgasm. I let myself go, I can feel my mind drift away and it’s only one sensation left, I tense up and then fall into the rhythm of the sweet release of orgasm. You go with it for what seems like an eternity before I come back down to earth and look down again, to see you smiling at me, your fingers still inside of me…