Submission. Domination. Discipline. They’re having a moment. A certain best-selling novel has set off a firestorm of interest in the practices known as BDSM (bondage, discipline, sado-masochism). On Sept. 4, British author Sophie Morgan (a pseudonym) issues a memoir about her life in kinky relationships, “Diary of a Submissive: A Modern True Tale of Sexual Awakening.” The following is an exclusive excerpt.
Looking back on it now, my submissive tendencies started young, although I wouldn’t have called them that then because at that point I barely knew what sex was. I was drawn to the myths of Robin Hood, and particularly the stories of Maid Marion. She was boring most of the time, tending the campfire and looking pensively into the middle distance, but I was fascinated by her in peril, as a prisoner, captured, tied up or in chains.
I didn’t know why, but somehow that struck a chord with me, made my heart race. It’s hard to explain my interest in BDSM any more intellectually than that — I know that I find erotic many things that other people would balk at, but there’s no reason I can come up with for why I find them hot, in the same way I can’t tell you why I like geeky looking types in glasses. It’s just part of my makeup.
My first submissive experience was at the hands of an American man on an exchange at my university. Ryan was a little bit older than I, a grad student majoring in politics. He was kind and funny and good company, and took his studies — indeed, most things — seriously.
We started flirting by arguing, of all things, about pornography. I was and am pretty liberal about it — as long as everyone is there by choice and paid well, as far as I’m concerned it’s each to their own. He, on the other hand, and in hindsight somewhat ironically, found it demeaning to women and sexist, somewhat overlooking my point that women like sex too, and as such might conceivably enjoy reading or watching such things themselves.
The second or third time we slept together, he borrowed my hair brush and, as I turned to mock him about something he’d said, he swatted me playfully with it. Suddenly the tension in the room changed and it was like something slotted into place for both of us.
I’d read enough about BDSM by that point that I knew it was something I found hot, but I didn’t imagine it as for real life. It sounded like it was something indulged in by very serious people who spent most of their time wearing latex and didn’t worry about whether they’d set the DVR to record “The Big Bang Theory.” I definitely didn’t consider it for the likes of me.
But over a period of time, first with Ryan, and then with several partners, including my current boyfriend, James, I began to realize that it most definitely was. I thrive on the challenge of submitting to someone else. It might seem strange, but I enjoy the catharsis of the pain — which, trust me, feels very different in an erotic situation. Otherwise, I can’t cope with a leg wax because it hurts too much.
The idea of being challenged and humiliated is hot to me. In day-to-day life, I handle whatever the universe throws at me, so being on the back foot and reacting is often an adrenaline high in its own right. Like sky diving but with more nakedness and no plummeting to the ground.
Sometimes, the trials and tribulations of daily life are so overarching that sex is the last thing on my mind. But as every submissive knows, often it’s not down to you to decide.
One particularly stressed-out night, I’m chatting with James and I see something in his eyes change. Lust flares, and a little bit of menace. He tells me to get on my knees. When he senses that I am hesitatant, he corrects me and metes out punishment: I’m to pinch my breasts as hard as I can. I start to pull and squeeze, but I close my eyes at the embarassment.
“Your pinching is pathetic. This is what I mean,” he tells me. He twists viciously. This is followed by a spanking so painful that as the blows rain down, everything else clears out of my head. I’m no longer thinking about my crappy week. All I want to do right now is please him. A weight has been lifted.
I think it’s important to point out I’m not a pervert — well, no more than anyone else. You wouldn’t know my sexual proclivities if you met me. I work as a journalist on a regional newspaper. I love my job, and — not that it should really need to be said — being submissive doesn’t impact on my work.
I grew up in a nice middle-class home. There’s no deep-seated trauma in my past or anything missing in my formative years that has exacerbated my love of being degraded now. Being submissive is only one facet of the person I am. I’m a girlfriend, daughter, sister, friend, journalist, Scrabble fiend, caffeine addict and dozens of other things besides. I’m also, and this might be a tougher sell in some quarters, a feminist.
One of my big frustrations with the success of “Fifty Shades of Grey” is that there is so much of the main relationship that plays into the misconception that a sexual relationship based around BDSM is, at its core, an abusive one. As such, feminists, quite rightly, have a massive problem with it.
But while I’d agree with their summation of that (admittedly fictional) relationship, it’s as different as my relationship with James as night to day. We live together happily, are partners in every aspect of life, bicker about doing the washing, look after each other when we’re ill, work hard and sometimes get too exhausted for any sex at all.
But when the mood strikes us, for a little while, he takes total control. It’s exhilarating, fun, and admittedly often intense, but has brought about a level of communication that I think is one of the core strengths of our relationship. After all, if you can talk to someone about all the taboo things that excite you, then nothing else is off limits.
Adapted from “Diary of a Submissive.” Published by arrangement with Gotham Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.