EXPLORATIONS, but also about the--let's call them--"actualities" behind those "realities." There are questions that press themselves upon me every time I sit down to write, and every time I give in to temptation, in the face of a picture, or a story, and let my fingers find their way down past the waistband of my panties to the place that always seems to be waiting for them.
Why am I--the actual I--aroused by nothing as much as I'm aroused by the drama of Dominance and submission? Why do I want to be spanked, caned, whipped, anally-ravished?
Or, if the "Why?" has no answer other than "because I was born this way," then the "How?" of "How can I best live a good life given that I'm born this way?"
Given that I'm born this way.
Add to that given some other givens, and things begin to take their complicated shape:
Given that sex feels good.
Given that real life isn't like Story of O. Or a porn video.
Given that hurting other people, in real life, is bad.
Given that getting off while thinking about someone being hurt, including yourself, seems to contradict the principle that hurting people is bad, since (doesn't it seem?) what is a fantasy except a wish for something to happen in the real world?
It's likely that there's another, actual, "I" behind this italicized "real" I. It's likely that that I is much less free than "I" am to express herself erotically. If so, the question presses itself upon that "Emily" even more urgently than it does upon me; after all, I have Charles to play with--this other, hypothetically-actual "Emily" has only her fingers and whatever toys and erotic materials she can hide from her vanilla spouse to supplement her imagination and her keyboard. . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.