know thyself


You know, I started reading about BDSM just a little under a year ago. I was fascinated, scared, and hesitant.While it didn’t take long for the appeal to kick in, one area of BDSM they cover in the books and articles I’ve read didn’t make a lot of sense to me. I call it the “personal growth” factor. The PG factor means that some (? maybe all, I don’t know) find that in this lifestyle they explore and even sometimes heal old issues from their past. They also learn more about themselves – and not just sexually, but in all levels of their lives – through the art and practice of BDSM.
Ever the neophyte, I scoffed a bit at this. It’s just sex, I thought to myself. Seen it, done it, been there, got the t-shirt. Sure, this sex had more props and more mindfuck than the traditional vanilla sex I’d had most of my life, but it’s still just sex.Hmm. Off we go into a new topic; don’t worry, it all ties together in the end. Stick with me on this.
If you asked me what was the scariest moment of my life, I wouldn’t even have to think twice about it. I used to have nightmares for years about it.I was never physically punished as a child. Not spanked, not ever. Never hit. My mom was a good one for raised voices and sarcasm, but that was about it. Grounding. You know the drill. And Mom was definitely the jailer in our little home. Dad never doled out punishment, rarely ever seemed to even get angry, and when he did it was always very quiet. Mom slammed cupboards. Dad would just sit and talk in a scary low kind of voice or go off and be by himself for while.
When I was eighteen, things were Not Good on the home front. It was pretty rare that my parents and I managed to get along for a single day. Lots of extenuating circumstances there; I won’t bore you with the details. But I was saving up to move out; they knew it. I would be out in a matter of weeks. The three of us were in the kitchen one Saturday morning. As usual, it was a nightmare and I wasn’t exactly holding back; my smart mouth always did get me into a lot of trouble. Mom and I were winding each other up and up and up while Dad sat at the kitchen table, silent as usual. Mom was nearly hysterical at me; and I stubbornly wouldn’t give an inch. When she bit, I bit right back. Finally, I said something-or-other that pushed her over the edge and she really let loose with the raised voices (ok, let’s call a spade a spade, it was screaming).
Dad lost it. He yelled out, “That’s it.” He stood up from his chair hard enough to shove it back into the wall, marking it permanently. And he started to come after me, his arm raised. He was going to hit me. I realized this in the slo-mo way that really tense times in your life seem to take on, and screamed and started crying and running. He was yelling as he ran, but I couldn’t tell you what he was saying. Too scared. Thank God for young legs and terror; they carried me down to the downstairs bathroom in just enough time to lock the door before he reached it. I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Bawling my eyes out. You gotta remember he’s a big man – much bigger than little 5’3″ me – and he’d never, I mean never come at me in anger before. Luckily by this time, he’d realized how freaked he made me, and after the ten or so minutes it took both of them to open up the door, he was looking very repentant. He never did hit me, and apologised for scaring me so badly, but also gave me major shit for winding up my Mom as I did.
Okay. So. Fast-forward a decade or thereabouts. I’m sitting at my desk a month or so ago, working on another story for the site. Another BDSM-exploration piece of fiction, in fact, when suddenly my brain goes off on its own internal wanderings. I’m picturing the male (Dom) character sitting in a chair, and I’m standing in front of him being my typical smart-ass self. I crank it up a little. Stick out my tongue. Bad little sub. He loses it and starts chasing me through room after room, ending up catching me on the bed, pulling up my short little skirt and yanking my panties down around my knees while I struggle and yell, and starts spanking me.
I get these little scenes popping up in my mind from time to time. 🙂
So I’m sitting at the computer, my fingers kind of hovering over the keys as my mind plays through this scene, when I realize it has uncanny similarities to the most terrifying moment of my life. Wow, I think. What kind of sicko am I? Turned on by the thought of playing out my biggest, scariest thoughts?
Which is, of course, when I remember the PG thing I’ve read about. And I realize while such a scene would excite me terribly (maybe), it might also help to heal the dark gunky shit I’ve carried around ever since that morning with my Dad. In fact, even thinking about this scene, and being aroused by it, has helped to create a sort of grey filter over that terrible nightmarish memory.
If in no other way, thinking about and reading about BDSM has helped – dampening one of my own demons. So I’m a sicko. Who cares. Wanna bet I’ll never have that nightmare again? This is a Good Thing.
I have other stuff to share, other little “wow” moments that have happened in the last little while… I’ll save those for another day.

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Vikki McKay
By Vikki McKay

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