Your back is on the bed while your partner holds your arms and pins your legs down as if to say “I’m running shit here, and you can scream all you want, but no one is gonna hear you come!” And then it leads to that aggressive sex – the type where you look at each other the next morning like “what in the name of Jebediah’s balls possessed you last night?!?!”
If you haven’t, give it a shot. The transference of power from one partner to another in the bedroom – at least on occasion – is a boatload of fun. I personally love it when a woman exerts total dominance and assumes complete control of the goings-on in the sack.
My sex column-travels in Chicago have led me to personal acquaintances with many representatives of the city’s sexual “subculture” that often delve into BDSM (bondage and sadomasochism). I’ve found that it’s the everyday folks – the ones we pass on the street, squeeze fruit in the grocery store next to and cram in with on the train – that are completely into being physically restricted and restrained in the name of getting off.
Through them, I’ve also come to learn that my personal line is drawn when it comes to actual, hardcore bondage: the idea that I can’t physically remove myself from a sexual situation if I truly need to is enough to make Captain Winky take a powder.
I like my sex nice and airy – the opportunity to utilize my natural double-jointedness is essential to fluid bedroom fun. And what about all the little things that being restrained during sex will prevent? What if I accidentally cut one during the act (it’s happened) and I can’t pick my partner up and fling her to the other side of the bed/floor/table/couch to hide the smell? And do I have to suffer the indignity of explaining to my partner that she needs to do something to rectify an itch on my scrotum because I’m tied up?
Sure, I’ve watched plenty of bondage activity through porn and various trips to the “Late Night” category on Comcast On Demand, but it took seeing it live and in living color to realize that it wasn’t my cup of tea.
Early last spring, Julia and I attended an invite-only, private BDSM dungeon party in the West Loop. These parties, held once a month at various locations, are revealed through text message the day of and are completely no-holds-barred.
I remember not thinking too much of the couple that came in right behind us (other than the fact that the guy looked like Keith Richards) until I saw the woman chained to a ceiling apparatus wearing nothing but a corset. Random clips and clothing pins were attached to her nipples and clit throughout the evening, and her man spent hours spanking her all over her body with various devices.
It was interesting to see that she was moist and her nipples were hard from an activity that I got extra-creative to avoid as a young ‘un.
There was also this cat that looked like one of the Indian dudes from The 40-Year-Old Virgin. He was strapped to a vertical platform (as you can see, my BDSM argot isn’t exactly polished) and getting whipped so bad that his asscheeks were bleeding.
Now, I’m all about sexual felicity any way you can get it, but how the hell did he explain to his boss in whatever IT department he works in that he had to do Monday’s decryption exercises standing up?
Some might assume that my aversion to being tied up and whipped comes from the latent slavery issues that come from being a black man. A dubious theory at best; I simply view most things BDSM differently than those who appreciate it. They see a full pleather suit as a skin-tingling, erotic experience; I see it as a profound downside to my thimble-sized bladder. They see rope for genitalia as a way to stimulate orgasms; I see red, swollen balls the size of kiwifruit. They see handcuffs and get wet; I see them as objects that I’ve been fortunate enough to stay out of, in any context, for 27 years.
Picture me in a black leather Speedo with a zippered face mask and arms tied behind my back. My nuts are turning lavender because my partner won’t actually put hand, tongue or anything near them that actually feels good. And for some reason, she suffers a stroke and dies. No safe word will help me, and I’m left there to starve, pass away and rot because I can’t reach my iPhone. This is why I’ll never be the one.
That said, there is something inherently sexy about watching women in leather and bondage. I don’t even know if I’d feel good about being a dom myself…something about having a leash connected to my woman toys with my preference for relationship equality.
But I’ll always appreciate watching. Well, not lashed Indian man-ass, but you know…