betty friedan and my ball gag

Saturday afternoon, I was righteously, properly fucked. I went to brunch with a happy little remote vibratory egg tucked inside my pussy, and as my playmate and I talked about the pleasures of baseball, the evils of football and the exigencies of capitalist culture, he intermittently flicked on and off the remote as he saw fit.

It made conversing a bit of a challenge. But not that big a challenge, really. My mind is much more powerful than my pussy, a point I shall return to later in this piece.

We ate our high-cholesterol food, drank our afternoon adult beverages, paid the check, walked around the streetfair that lined Eighth Avenue like a bright, fluttering, stalled parade, and then we returned to my apartment. During all of which, my partner turned off and on the remote as he wanted, once leaving it on long enough that I asked him to please please turn it off.

He said he’d left it on to see how long I could take it. And then he switched it off.

In an odd kind of woodcut way, the absence of the vibe made an impression almost more important than its presence. The vibe is cool, sure, but I wasn’t going to get off on it alone, and while it made me wet, I’m not sure my excitement sprang from the secret pleasure of our public naughtiness more than the toy buzzing inside my vagina.

So, yes, we returned to my apartment, my partner/playmate and I, and he kissed my body with an extravagant attentiveness he has rarely shown before. He played with my breasts, swatting them with metaphorical cat’s paws; he searched out tender spots on my ribcage, my instep, my pubic mound and nuzzled them until I laughed from the tickling; he inserted a butt plug in my ass and he licked my pussy as I writhed on my bed; he teased me until I begged to suck his lovely cock.

He fucked me with fervor and beauty.

And I was close, so close, thisclose, to coming.

And then the door squeaked. And then my roommate was home.

My bedroom door was closed, so she did not bear witness to the frisky. But there I was, on my knees, my playpartner behind me, my Anglo-Saxon cunt slick with my universal desires, and I could not let loose as I wanted because my roommate—who is a lovely, charming, unbelievably cute twenty-two year-old Chinese confection—had returned.

So I retrieved my ball gag, presented it to my playpal for him to fit me and found, as I bit down on it, the instant release I have written about previously.

I found subspace.

My playmaster leaned down to put his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “Now I’m going to fuck you the way I want to, and there is nothing you can say about it.” Which, literally, was true. There was nothing I could say about it with this overlarge, red and ridiculous leather-covered springy ball wedged in my open mouth.

Moreover, there was nothing I wanted to say about it. For even though my masterplayer was fucking me the way he wanted—which was harder and faster and nastier than I usually would have found pleasure in—I found it divine. And I came, hard and attenuated, singing a silent, wordless song into that ridiculous leather ball.

And here’s my point about my mind and my pussy: Submissive acts grant me an inherent license to experience pleasure in acts that my mind would usually fear. Usually, that is when I am not bound, not gagged, not restrained by word or deed, when a man is fucking me forcefully, usually, my mind remains active. Those busy, busy whirring hamster wheels of my head keep me feeling afraid, and they keep me from experiencing fully every tidbit of pleasure I could get from the experience.

Those hamster wheels get in the way, what with their furry and fearful ceaseless whirring.

When I am restrained, somehow, some way, through some kind of mental and physical alchemical transference, that dross of fear transforms to the golden glow of ecstasy.

And here’s something else, while I can—and do—get great pleasure out of “vanilla sex”—these sweet submissive breaks in consciousness paradoxically contain a flavor of profundity I did not know I was capable. These breaks surprise me in part because I am such a thinky wench, above and beyond being a kinky wench, and in part because I am an ardent and unapologetic feminist.

I have been reading around in the debate concerning submission and feminism and my hypothesis is this: before feminism there was no true submission. Paradoxical as it might seem, feminism gives me the choice to knowingly, consensually, and respectfully give myself in submission. Before feminism, submission was status quo. After feminism, it became a legitimate, if vexed, choice.

Feminism is a squishy word, so let me define my use of it. Feminism to me is a series of political, personal and intellectual practices that critique, analyze and question gender and gendered power structures. Feminism at its core understands gender to be a cultural construct, rather than a biological given, and therefore as a practice it looks at how genders have come to be constructed, what gender means, why we think of them as we do, and how this series of understandings can be a platform for change.

Submission, too, can be a bit squidgy. But to me it means the consensual, explicit, and ruled sexual roleplay between myself and a partner. Definitions aren’t very hott. But the ramifications are.

I grew up a girl who felt the burden of sexual double standards even before I reached  puberty. I never followed the girl rules well. While I am undoubtedly a good person, I have never been a good girl. I was the girl who sucked the boys’ cocks, who fucked them in her Mustang’s bucket seats, who kissed and never told.

I was the girl who made her own rules and I was hated mightily. And after time, that hating had emotional weight. It’s hard to be a maverick in a culture of sheep. Their bleating, bleating, bleating wore me down. And on some level I began to feel shame about the numbers of men I’d done. The furtive gropings, the hot and quick couplings, the meaningless sex I’d had because I’d wanted to have meaningfree sex.

And, too, I had experienced meaning-laden sex, tender Sarah McLaughlin sex, and I saw the difference and I saw what the hubbub was bubbling about. And that intensified my shame.

But then I got over it. I grew up. At least I thought I did. And here’s what I’ve found. That as a feminist, and as a slut, the giving up is not the giving in. The giving up is an act of submission, and when I choose to surrender, and it’s not all the time, it gives me a blank cheque to live for a moment beyond the cultural noise that lives, ceaselessly, inside my head. I am not giving in to a culturally mandated sexual paradigm; I’m enjoying it on my own terms.

I can’t help it; I am a product of my people. And though it may be vexed, though my submissive joy comes in part from my own complicity with the shame my culture has bestowed upon me for being a sexual woman, it is pleasurable nonetheless.

When the man of my choice takes that ridiculous red ball from my hand and thrusts it in my mouth, it is my choice. When he kneels behind me and thrusts his cock into me with a sweet painful violence, it is my choice. When he whispers guttural in my ear that he will take me as he wants, that is my choice. When my finger rubs my clit as I tilt my ass up toward him, opening my pussy to his cock, that is my choice.

When my keening come cries are muffled in my submission, that is my choice.

When I feel my mind kiss me a sweet farewell, when I feel my body lift impossibly off the bed below, when I enter this utopia that is subspace, it is my choice.

And no one can tell me that my choice is not real, is not valid, is not legitimate.

I am woman. Hear me roar. Into my ball gag.

Because that—along with every other gift that feminism has given me—is  my choice.

Comments

[S.C.]

I'm a little stunned at how insightful this post is. Not stunned that you produced an insightful post, mind you, but of how it grew up out of Saturday's play...(congrats, BTW, on getting back in the saddle again...metaphorically, of course)

Of course, the image of Gloria Steinham wearing a ball gag that just popped into my head is going to haunt me forever...

[Danielle]

You go girl.

[Used Hack]

One of my friends is a submissive and I've never been able to fully understand why she enjoys it. This helps. Thanks. :)

[Cat Daddy]

hah. that didn't take long. good girl.

[ravenna]

True, and beautifully said. When I gave myself to my first master (actually I sold myself to him, but that's another story!) he and I both recognized explicitly that you can't give (or sell) what you don't already own. (Later he sold me; his right, he owned me then.) If we were stilll living in a prefeminist era in which a woman automatically became a man's chattel without her consent, that transfer of ownership from me to my first owner would have meant infinitely less, at least to us. Because I truly knew I owned myself, giving myself meant the world to me, to him. I'll never be free again (I hope), and I don't usually refer to myself as a feminist (sounds odd coming from a sex slave), but it's because of feminism that I was able to surrender myself unconditionally to my enslavement. (Such a paradox! Well, consensual slaves live with with all sorts of paradoxes...) Thanks for writing this, and I love your journal, blog on!

[Goose]

Well, damn! Good post and wildly arousing making me wish I had Gander here. What with all the submissive posts here and on metawhores and on figleaf I'm insane with lust. I want it all baby and I want it now. And I kind of want you.
Goose.

[John]

I never quite looked at feminism like that, I had always known that it was about choice for women, if they wanted to work on an oil derrick in Alaska they had the right. Of course that was what I thought the suffragettes and the 60's were about, now though I thought that NOW was nothing but a bunch of fat bull dykes that thought they could make a family without a man, I'm glad there are still some mainstream feminists out there like you.

However there is no such thing as carefree sex, every action, even the non-sexual, has a reaction, be it a STD or a child, luckily there are methods to stop these "reactions".

Please continue to blog, you have a wonderful way of writing, keep it up.

[Edgy Mama]

Oh baby. I'm soooo with you. Roar on. And a bit more info. about that little vibratory remote toy??

[Curious]

I've been blog-hopping and I noticed today that your "nemesis" Pink has been discovered as a writer. I wonder how that makes you feel? Happy for her? Jealous? Like taking your ball-gag out long enough to admit that she's talented? Or like shoving your ball-gag into her mouth until she chokes on it? Or do you not share your ball-gag?

[chelsea girl]

Um...gosh...so many reactions, so few of my braincells.

Forgive me, I'm a bit overtired at the moment, really...

I thank those of you who have given me support, wished me well and praised my pretty dumb things.

And specifically to Curious, what do I think of Pink Heart's success? Cool for her. I've always averred that she has talent. It's inspiring to see someone be rewarded for her writing.

(Go to pinkcandyhearts.blogs.com, if you all want to see for yourselves.)

Finally, Curious, you ask do I share my ballgag? Not without proper disinfection and proper motivation. Care to come closer, little girl?

[becky sue]

I didn't realize that Pink was your nemesis. I've read her only when someone else linked to her blog and thought her writing was laughably immature and superficial. Nemesis to you? Hardly.

[airtonix]

not with you on your bit about gender being a culture thing, i thought the brain was hard wired in the first six week of a babies existance.

Thats why you occasionaly get people with wierd genitalia, which is usually the result of some kidney failure to create a specific hormone at that point in the six week window, rah ,rah ,rah.

Ever read the book "brave new world"? I just remebered the way people were born in that society, fermented in jars that travelled a conveyor belt through a cource of many miles. Some characters joke about the main characters weird behaviour as being a result of salt or alchohol being put into his jar at 1300 meters.

In my opinion, when we learn to submit to each other and leave the power games at the door to allow ourselves to explore each other and become the better people we know we can be, it is then which eqaulity of spirit not body becomes true.

Dont try to make the flesh eqaul, for it is an excercise in self defeat. Our bodies have adapted to the situation for a reason, and it is not physical experimentation that is needed but spiritual(not religous) experimentation.

Our spirits are not mature enough to cope with the capabilites of our physical bodies.

nuff said im sounding wierd..

[chelsea girl]

Airtonix,

Gender, that is where one slips in on the sliding scale between masculinity and femininity, is a social construct; sex, that is whether one is male or female or hermaphrodite, is biological.

As for submission games, darling, the biggest and best organ we have is between our ears; I'll use mine as I want. You'll use yours as you want. He, she, it & they will use his, hers, its & theirs as is his, hers, its & their wont.

That's what I mean by equality: the right to choose, the right to respect and be respected, the right to be treated with parity. We all have the right to give up power--or to receive it--in bed equally, and I, for one, enjoy games wherein I give up my right to parity for some limited and ruled play. I want that; it is my choice.

And often I find that what I want is *exactly* transcendant and spiritual in nature.

You do what you want; I will do what I want.

Thanks for thinking.
CG

[sublove]

I'm a bit late on this one, but I've only just begun reading your blog. This is fabulous. It is only because we have power that we can surrender power, and because it is consensual and the consent can be withdrawn, surrendering the power only transforms it instead of removing it.

Regarding the permission, the freedom, endowed by submission, yes. It is sweet and uniquely freeing of the mental from the physical, of the cultural from the sensual. And just as you averred, it is feminism that gives the consensual submission of women possibility and meaning.