Unbreakable

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On Saturday night that TV show I did last year was repeated. And even though I did know it was happening I didn’t expected anything because that had already happened with the whole me being mortified about what my voice sounds like and ten bazillion people googling Bitchy Jones and then either being thrilled at my awesome or sorely disappointed at the lack of bend over big boy action on this blog.

I didn’t even put up a reasonably welcoming post. A slow loader full of pictures. I suck at being an internet celebrity.

(Except actually I don’t because I just discovered – live, as I was writing – that I have made this list. I am amazed and delighted and just emailed everyone I know.)

One day in my recent past, I was in a sex shop with Jack. The kind of place where you have to buzz the door to get in. Probably this is because they sell hardcore porn. But I have no interest in hardcore porn’s blizzard of buggery and lipgloss so I didn’t go in there. Okay, I did look very briefly at ‘Spanked Twinks‘ but so very briefly I didn’t even work out what the title actually meant until I had walked away.

We looked at some vibrating clamps and a bit gag shaped like a dog bone. I was only looking. I showed Jack some of those door bondage things that you put over the top of the door and then close it to make attachment points for a restraining a standing person. I tell him I know people who have them and that they are good. ‘They don’t shift.’

Jack asks me if I wouldn’t be worried he would pull the door off its hinges.

That’s the trouble. I live in a small, papery ordinary house. I have radiators, I have chairs and tables, but these things are all built practicality not practical evil. I do not have access to one of those fortresses built out of rusty steel columns where they make the kinky porno. I do not have a room with red walls. The only thing I can really tie Jack to and not have him killcrushdestroy (killcrushdestroy my soft nest of an IKEA catalogue interior that is) is other parts of himself.

‘Cause the trouble is, with him, resistance is fertile.

For all I try and say that submission and masculinity work with each other not against each other: that the whole world has got it wrong with it’s stupid prevailing ideology about which way round bondage goes. But, no one listens to Cassandra Jones, the world of people-tied-up is built for tying up women. Every guide book, every instructional video is about tying up women, pretty much. Bondage for sex means bondage for being penetrated. So what of me? I like it tough and scary. I like the great big man brought down, down, down. Works brilliantly in my head. In real life: hard work.

Because I like to feel a huge rush of power over a conquered kingdom of a man. But because I reach so high it’s so much harder to bring the thing down low.

Sometimes he feels unscaleable and more often *unbreakable*. And broken is a wonderful state. But so much harder to achieve when starting with an unbreakable thing.

There is that little moment when I hurt him. Right at the start. He makes it very obvious: He assesses what I’m doing and works out if he can deal with it. And he always can – always finds a place to put it – but right before that you see the tiny panic before he *knows* that he can. I’m happiest right there. The moment before either of us remember that he is unbreakable.

Not that I am not in love with that brave thing. That self sacrifice. Once I said to him, ‘I want to him you on the backs of your thighs with a metal ruler.’

And he said, ‘Fine.’ He said ‘fine’ like I’d said ‘I want to go make a cup of tea.’

So I said – more fierce, but more fierce for me just means my jaw sets a little hard – ‘And I want you to hate it.’

He’s rolled over ready for me by now, so he’s looking back over his shoulder. ‘Well I don’t expect I’m going to like it very much.’

And I swoon, there, at the stoic and the brave and the acceptance of me and the things that I need. But I still pine for something more fragile. For more doubt and fear.

I make him fake it. Make him ask for it to stop. Make him ask me not to hurt him. But that’s a level up on the unreality game. And I know that if I wanted it the other way he’d ask me *to* do it too. He doesn’t like pain. He likes being brave. I honestly don’t know where his desire to feel brave would end. Where rationality would take over. I’d like to find out – let the bravery drive us, let it set the pace, decide when we stop – but it’s a frightening place I might end up.

On Sunday morning there were bruises on his back like purple lightening. Made by the tip of his belt – the fastest moving part. Out at the edge of the arc. Those marks seem to me to be terrible things. Like they mark me more than they mark him. But they are only small, just tips and scrapes at his Eastern edge. They dip over his back’s horizon like the endless waterfall. His desire for bravery – if I let that be in charge – how many marks would that desire require? And what kind of selfish mess would that make of the outside of him and the inside of me?

But don’t think from that my relationship is not goodhappy. For all my morose here dwelling on parts of me that are not my favourite ones. After we left the sex shop we went to the supermarket. Earlier that day Jack had been craving eggs. And I had said I might not let him have any.

Really, I only said this as a joke. I never really actually don’t let him have things in day to day life – it would be bizarre. Okay, except orgasms sometimes – but orgasms are not day-to-day life to me. Even if they occur daily. But I told him I might get into egg denial and thought that I was funny.

But, truly, that conversation had given me a little buzz. And we had talked a bit about how much I like the idea of not letting him have things he wants.

In the supermarket he went to get them and as he picked up the box of eggs, I said, ‘I still might not let you have them you know.’

And he said, ‘If you want me to put them back, I’ll put them back.‘

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