Note: This one’s sexually explicit and about me. Beware!
Auralism: the fetishization of sound
I’m an aural person. I enjoy hearing words, sounds, and songs. In sexual contexts, I’d much rather hear than see. There’s something about the unspooling of the voice as arousal builds that just gets me. My sub is quite vocal, and he’s gotten louder with training. I delight in the unconscious sounds that he makes, from little gasps to broad, ecstatic moans. And I admire them. It takes guts to be so noisy.
Sometimes, I have him send audio recordings. He always records himself when I allow him to orgasm. Several days ago, I gave him permission to play with himself, with one caveat: he would have to ‘talk’ the whole time. Now, to be clear, this was not a phone conversation. This was sexting; he would be talking to himself. I imagine that’s difficult, but he did it.
Somehow, just knowing that he was obediently narrating his desires to an empty room aroused me almost as much as hearing him in person. While he edged, I settled in and started to explore my own body–I ended up doing a little edging of my own. The thought of him panting as he forced himself to make words was almost enough to tip me over the edge, but I wanted to wait. I told him that I expected him to speak right up to the moment of orgasm.
I can’t capture sound in writing, but the result was delicious, right down to the fuzzy microphone feedback. He told me how much he loved being fucked by me, described what he wanted me to do to him, and begged to cum. His orgasm came like a record scratch, mid-sentence. Mine followed by mere seconds, nearly silent. And then he thanked me.
Silence is dignified, but sound is brave. Through hearing, I share in my sub’s bravery. Next time, maybe I’ll do the talking.
Welcome to Fetish Foibles, the series where I recount my mistakes as a Dominant for our mutual edification. In the wise words of Queen Clarisse of Genovia, “Don’t make the same mistakes I did; make your own mistakes!”
This one’s a twofer. Both of these situations relate to the tricky issues that can come up with ‘public’ acts of submission (in kink-oriented settings). The first one is someone else’s foible, but it made me remember one of mine.
Tl;dr – When experimenting with D/s in a social setting, clarify expectations with your partner and the people with whom you’re socializing.
I had a strange and mildly unpleasant social experience at the local fetish club recently, which I’ll pick apart now. A Dom and sub asked to sit next to me on the sofa, which was fine. Then, the Dom sat on the sofa, and the sub knelt on a cushion in front of him and began to massage his feet. Neither party spoke to me after settling in. Now, normally, that sort of thing is my jam. Power exchange with service and protocol is often more interesting to me than play without power exchange. And not talking to people? Great! But in this situation, I felt like I had been roped into a scene as an unwilling spectator.
We were sitting close enough together that I could have made eye contact with the sub while looking straight ahead. I felt like I was sitting too close to something so intimate. I’ll freely admit that I’ve gotten a bit desensitized to sex. I can watch a sex scene and think “Huh. That’s nice; they’re using protection. Good technique…” without getting hot under the collar. D/s protocol scenes are a different matter. It’s the vulnerability! *bangs fist on table* And the intimacy! Ahem. Anyway. This couple could have chosen any other location in the dungeon, including various chairs. I got the sense that they wanted others to be close and to watch. That’s not a bad thing in itself, but I had two issues, which I didn’t fully understand in the moment:
They didn’t tell me they wanted to do this dynamic interaction when they asked to sit down, so I didn’t get to consent to being so close to the scene (generally speaking, it is etiquette here to stay at least a few feet away from a scene in progress).
They didn’t talk to me or even introduce themselves before starting their scene. I then didn’t feel like I could talk to them or ask for clarification, as they were cultivating an interaction with each other. I just happened to be mere inches away.
Combined, these issues made me feel like a prop. A very awkward prop.
Here’s what would have helped:
They could have scened elsewhere in the dungeon. Granted, this couple may not have thought of what they were doing as a scene, but the sofas are generally social spaces, and these two were cultivating something very specific and personal. It felt different from the kind of socializing that D/s couples sometimes do, where the s-type sits on the floor in front of the D-type while they watch others play.
They could have introduced themselves and clarified what they wanted to do. The Dom could have said “Hi, I’m So-and-so, and this is Such-and-such. I’m speaking for her right now because she’s under protocol this evening and is only talking to me. We’d like to do a little foot massage scene here because it’s right in the middle of the dungeon, but we don’t want to invade your space…” And then, I probably would’ve thought “Cool!,” introduced myself, asked a couple of clarifying questions (like whether the Dom was open to socializing or wanted to focus on his sub), and had a lovely time watching.
If they’d taken one of those steps, I would not have felt used (fortunately, I was able to make a fairly quick exit, as my sub prepared a space elsewhere to give me a massage).
Now, that situation reminded me of a mistake I made many months ago, when my sub and I were experimenting with ways to show our D/s dynamic in kink spaces. The first time I brought him to the dungeon, I had him sit on a cushion on the floor in front of me. What we didn’t realize was that when people see that configuration, they sometimes assume that the floor-sitter is under some sort of speaking restriction protocol. My poor sub, social butterfly that he is, found himself largely left out of conversations because people did not know how to interact with him.
On top of being in a new space and trying to meet new people, he was trying to be a good sub in a public setting for the first time, and my expectations of him weren’t clear. I simply hadn’t considered the practical, social implications of our physical positioning. It left him feeling unstable–and even unwanted. As the D-type in that situation, I should have clarified my expectations for his behavior and checked in with him about how the new protocol felt throughout the evening. If I had realized that people thought they weren’t supposed to talk to him, I would have clarified with them too, or I would have had him sit beside me so that he could converse more easily with others.
Moral of the story: when using a public protocol, don’t assume that everyone’s on the same page. Clarify expectations with your partners and others in the immediate area. And if you’re the D-type in a situation that renders your s-type more vulnerable than usual, remember that your duty of protection extends into the social arena.
Classes (and new jobs) have started in earnest this week, and they’re going pretty well overall. That said, I’m a recovering perfectionist–my perfectionism is manageable, like a low staticy hum in my life most of the time, about a three out of ten. Today, it was dialed up to about a seven, sometimes blaring over the information I wanted to take in. I think that’s mainly because I’m trying so many new things this week. I know I won’t be immediately good at all of them, and they all require shifts between different modes of thinking throughout the day (from a more intellectual ‘class space,’ for example, to the practical and pastoral headspaces of my new jobs).
Some of it’s the intimidation of the mundane. For example, I’ve never made coffee in my life (it’s just never been necessary to). I’m sure I’ll learn, but I have a feeling that I’ll do it wrong at least once–I already cringe thinking that I’ll forget to fit the lid properly. And I am writing this post in part because I don’t like the number of days that have gone by without writing anything non-academic. I don’t want to lose my commitment to this blog. Are queer, sexy, kinky things happening in my life? Yes. Do I have the energy to write about them right now? No. That will return when my schedule lulls. In the meantime, I’m going to attempt to adjust the dial by chatting with people about impractical things, sharing my anxiety here, and singing along with Steven Universe songs. Those are ways that I treat myself like a beloved friend. I don’t have any major nuggets of wisdom to offer, but I hope that anyone who feels perfectionism creeping up, like I do right now, can treat themselves with kindness (and when that’s hard, reach out to kind people). Be of good courage!
I had my first “Bodies and Theology” class today. It was great. Apropos of my last post, we started class with theatre-influenced movement exercises. At one point, the professor (who is wonderful) asked us to walk like dogs. While my classmates remained upright, I dropped to the floor and scurried around like a puppy. I got to be silly–and there is exhilarating bravery in silliness. We also created some body sculptures, an exercise borrowed from the Theatre of the Oppressed. Posing together without any foreplanning, we attempted to convey the concepts of “knowledge,” “theology,” and “God” through our bodies.
“God” was the most challenging; our professor invited those who weren’t part of the sculpture to modify it. They joined our hands together until we formed a circle. As a result, the body sculpture that started as a vision of disconnected hierarchy (one person standing, others kneeling and cowering), became an image of connection and interdependence. A very different understanding of God. Rich discussion arose from the choices that we made to represent each idea, the beliefs and biases that they revealed.
In this class, we are invited to discover God as people with physical bodies. Christianity isn’t traditionally good at that, so I’m excited about this opportunity. It also feels good to have a break from the intensely cerebral space of other classes. When we shared our reasons for taking the Bodies class, I said that I wanted to work on being ‘present’ as a body and to experience things without immediately intellectualizing them. For those who follow my kink journey, that’s also a goal I have for my current exploration of submission. My Dominant said early on that she wanted to see me “feeling without thinking.” What a terrifying thought!
Thinking and feeling are my bread and butter. My strong feelings are normally mediated through intellectual, critical thought, which is useful most of the time. It can, however, lead to a sense of distance from my body when I most want to be present, as if I’m more of a brain floating along than a full being. It sometimes means that sexual experiences feel ‘hotter in hindsight,’ more intensely erotic after I’m removed from the situation than in the moment. I hope that the movement and physicality that this class requires, my continued kink exploration, and the interplay between those two different realms will encourage me to enjoy my body and connect with the Divine in a new way–as an embodied person.
This thought was already rattling around in my brain before I saw that this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is “Authentic,” but reading that word clarified why the thought needles me. I will illustrate through anecdotes (note: some overthinking and self-deprecation here).
I have an unusual skill, which is that I’m very good at “Simon Says” (that childhood game where you have to follow “Simon’s” orders, but only if they specify “Simon says”–I could see this going in a smutty direction some time, but not today). I once won a Simon Says competition, beating over a hundred people (I knew not to stop spinning when the next command was given).
My skills had been honed by theatre camp. My first director was a champion Simon; she would call out commands at lightning speed, sometimes tacking “Simon says” onto the end to catch us off-guard or making the wrong motion. The only way one “Simon” was able to best me was by tricking me (“Simon says do this,” he said, while my eyes were closed; I opened my eyes, of course). I wasn’t just good at Simon Says; I also fared well as a statue when we played “Museum guard.” The object of that game was to be the last statue standing while the guards walked through, trying to get you to unfreeze (usually by making you laugh).
As I look back on that time, I find it interesting that while I struggled with improv games, I was unusually good at games that required me to be focused, still, silent, and obedient, a blank slate. I didn’t even particularly like them, but I liked the simplicity they fostered and the success of winning.
Very occasionally, I wonder, “Is that my authentic self?” It unsettles me. I don’t want to feel trapped in one mode, which those games required. I don’t want to be shamed by an inability to act decisively when I need to. I’m not clay waiting to be molded; I have my own base characteristics and agency (right?). I want to be authentic, but when I overthink, I worry that my authentic self isn’t someone that I want to be.
What I believe to be true most of the time is that I actually have many authentic selves, and I don’t have to stick with just one. I can enjoy entering that flow state of obedience without worry, as long as I feel ethical (as when I devote hours playing techie, helping a friend to edit a musical piece to her exact specifications). I can greatly enjoy being a focused, vigilant presence–I carry basic first aid supplies around for a reason. Today, I gave two classmates Neosporin. One compared me to Mary Poppins. #Goals. I also like to be mischievous and silly. I drew enormous eyeballs on the common room white board this afternoon (and got others to join in drawing!) just for the amusing thought that someone will discover them later. I sing to myself when I can. Last night, it was some mixture of “Heaven on Their Minds” and “Elendil’s Oath.”
For me, the key to true authenticity is a system of ethics that I choose to live by–love, justice, compassion, and curiosity, to name a few. I am allowed to express those values in obedient, fierce, dramatic, quiet, aggressive, wise, and silly ways, without jeopardizing the core of who I want to be. I am many things, but as long as I strive to live out my values, I am authentic. For the moment, that means I get to draw all the eyeballs, sing all the songs, and follow to my heart’s content, but I will not be roped into another game of Simon Says any time soon.
You know, I can see a variety of reasons to cultivate a ‘lucid dreaming practice’. Not automatically dropping out of the air mid-flight when I realize I’m dreaming is one of them. Another reason? I would love to have a good sex dream. My sex dreams, like most dreams, usually end up mixed-up and stressful. Oftentimes, there’s some obstacle to sex, overwhelming desire thwarted by lack of privacy or another problem. I’ll keep looking for places to have sex, only to find that my partner isn’t who I thought they were (or, alternatively, scorpions come out of nowhere).
Last night’s sex dream had all kinds of obstacles. In the dream, I had some serious sexually submissive feelings toward a cis man (I almost never have such feelings toward men in real life). And this was the worst possible man–he was ‘the Reverend’ from Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt (honestly, couldn’t it have at least been Gretchen?). Having somehow decided that kidnapping and fundamentalist cult leadership weren’t deal-breakers, I threw myself at him. He responded favorably. And then he uncapped his dick, which was like a set of Russian nesting dolls. I didn’t like the new shape he revealed. I then realized we didn’t have any condoms or dams and backed away from the encounter. Well, at least dream-Perpetua had some sense. I wish I could lucid dream my way into a positive, safe experience or let go of reality entirely. Yes, maybe I will cultivate that lucid dreaming practice. It’s on my to-do list.
So, I’ve been unpacking and organizing my new digs. Clothes, for example, are roughly organized by type in the dresser. Two of the drawers screech horribly, so I’m avoiding them at the moment. Wintery odds and ends are shoved in the corners of the closet. *Shrug* But the toys, some of which I haven’t seen in three months? I’m treating them like lost children. “My babies!,” I think as I stroke through the floggers, hoping their tails will straighten out when I hang them up. I make a mental note to soak the end of the rattan cane. Everything gets wiped down as I unpack it into the closet. I debate whether to organize items by type (i.e. vibrators together) or activity (anal accoutrements together), or perhaps by frequency of use (dilators in front, ivory soap in back, etc.). The riding crop, which I’ve never been able to use well, is duly laid out. I add a small wooden cutting board. I thought maybe I’d contribute it to the kitchen, but now I think I’ll see how it does as a paddle. The leather care items I can put out on the shelf, at least. A short bamboo rod will arrive in the mail soon.
Most items? They get thrown together. Toys? They get special care. Maybe that’s because I intentionally bought or received most of them as gifts. But some of them, like the cutting board, are just ‘pervertibles’. I value them because their meaning is the meaning that I give, the life I breathe into them as a player. They’re not just objects, but histories told and adventures waiting to happen. I’m eager to learn what new adventures the next three months will bring–maybe even the mysterious crop will reveal its insight.
Psst–If you’re looking for a great toy-focused blog, check out JoEllen Notte, a.k.a. The Redhead Bedhead.
Catch up on the entire series here. I’m exploring some concepts that I started to work through in my essay “BDSM is Not Repentance” using this experimental semi-fantasy flash erotica series. It is not intended to model realistic and healthy approaches to penance, sex work, or even BDSM, but to inspire thought about how we use BDSM and what role, if any, it can play in true repentance. This installment (a bit long for flash) is a response to the Masturbation Monday blog meme.
After a few days’ thought, he washes the handkerchief and hangs it to dry on a tiny shoestring clothesline rigged across the Monstera plant. It seems like the right thing to do. He’s filled the first notebook with writing about anything and everything he can think of. His secretary looked at him like he had grown an extra head when he asked for paper (what she doesn’t know is that he first tried to filch it from the printer, accidentally breaking it in the process, and had to hire a repair worker from his own pocket as a result).
He knows the Dominant will visit this evening. The Agency sent a confirmation message yesterday. He felt relieved–he’d half-expected that they would drop him altogether after last session’s disaster–but somehow more nervous than he was before the first session. He is, as his mother would say, ‘a wreck,’ pacing the condo, fluffing pillows and such. He’s even set out a carafe of water and two glasses. He has a feeling that last week’s behavior won’t go unaddressed.
The Dominant appears in his doorway empty-handed. No implements, but the electric blue streak in their hair today makes the back of his neck prickle. Danger? Arousal? Who knows. He lets them in without fanfare. He wills his hand not to shake as he pours the water. The Dominant makes themself at home, once again going through their papers. He sits stiffly and waits. Finally, they fold the papers and take off their glasses.
“There’s something different about you today,” they say. “You’re all pulled in. Like your wings are folded to your sides.”
He looks down at his lap. He’s never thought of himself as a bird before.
“Tell me what you’re holding in.”
He looks up at the command in their tone. He senses that he has to answer. “I was disrespectful last week,” he says after a moment, in a small, brittle voice. He can’t say anymore, can’t bear to look at that furrow in their brow, so he focuses on the handkerchief, still hanging.
“Yes, you were,” the Dominant says after a beat. “I see that it’s affecting you.”
To his horror, tears spring to his eyes. Before anger can claw its way up through his shame, the Dominant speaks very quietly. “Good.” Good? Unable to trust his voice, he fights to sit up straighter, wills the tears to dry under the breeze of the air conditioner as he stares a hole through the cloth.
“I see that this is hard for you.” He can’t speak. “Here’s what I want to happen,” they say. “Look at me for a second.” He does. They point at the floor between their legs. “I want you to take this cushion and sit here, facing away from me.”
He doesn’t think to disobey. The floor creaks as he fits himself into the small space between sofa and coffee table, drawing his knees up. He feels the warmth of the Dominant’s legs on either side of him, the hard boots bracketing him. They’re a bit scuffed-looking up close.
A soft voice floats down from above. “Lean back a little.” As he does, he feels their hands strong on his shoulders, holding him in place. He swallows, again finding the handkerchief in his vision.
“You cleaned that for me, didn’t you,” the Dominant says, pressing on his shoulders gently. “Thank you. That pleases me.”
He nods. He feels surrounded, enfolded, so close to the ground. He tilts his head back, feels their shirt brush against his hair.
“I want to stroke your hair.”
“Mmyes,” he replies, feeling mellower in spite of the tears starting to track down his face. They cup the back of his head and massage, occasionally catching enough hair to tug on his scalp, just a little. One finger finds its way to his cheekbone, collecting a tear on its way.
“Good,” he hears again as his eyes fall closed. He stays there, resting in that pocket of warmth, for the remainder of the session.
Content warning: discussion and description of consent violation
Greetings, Beloved. I’ll be posting more sporadically than usual over the next couple of days because I’m getting ready to travel and start a new divinity school semester, but I just want to say this: men’s consent matters just as much as anyone else’s. Asking for consent is not optional, no matter how strong, tough, or manly you perceive someone to be. That goes for sexual encounters and other kinds of touch and intense interaction. Men’s consent gets violated in multiple ways each day, and people have a tendency to make light of it.
This is what made me think of this topic: a viral video has been circulating around my Facebook feed recently, a (straight) wedding reception video that looks like it belongs in a BDSM dungeon. In the video, the groom, blindfolded, kneels in front of someone that he thinks is the bride to pull the garter off with his teeth (viewers realize that it’s actually another man, a co-conspirator with the bride). The groom, still blindfolded, proceeds to grind sensually against the other man. When he pulls the blindfold off, he realizes the deception.
Now, in fantasy, that’s kinda hot. In reality, I’m troubled. Here’s what I see happening: the bride engineered a situation in which the groom had sensual and sexual contact with another man without his knowledge…which was then played for laughs; I don’t even know how the other guy felt. There’s a homophobic element to that–I’ve noticed that conservative Christians sometimes like to go “Teehee It’s two men! That makes this funny!” Even if the three participants were somehow all in on the game (if it’s some fantasy they’ve had for a while, perhaps), the viewers don’t know that. As far as we know, it’s a real deception. We see a consent violation played for laughs and circulated as a hot prank. Blah. You can’t give consent if you don’t have basic background knowledge. Like who your partner is. Anyway, in conclusion, men get to have boundaries, their consent is important, and viewer consent is important in play. Thanks for reading my rant!
*Some time ago, in the olden days, two new friends sit by the fire, furtively passing notes to each other on a single piece of parchment…*
Cloris (she/her/hers): “It was lovely to make your acquaintance yesterday.” *Attempts to sketch a marigold*
Beau (he/him/his): “Likewise.” *Squints at page* *Sketches an apple tree*
Cloris: “There’s a nice tree on the edge of the property. Perhaps we could take a turn about it?”
Beau: “I’ve got two nice apples.”
Cloris: “Oh, wonderful!’ *Sketches a rose*
Beau: *Sketches what he believes to be an anatomically correct image of his own member*
Cloris: *Crumples up the paper* *Throws paper on the fire* *Storms off to complain to Agatha*
-To be continued-
Oof. Poor dears. They weren’t exactly ‘on the same page’ (hehe).
Thus begins a series on sexting etiquette! Sexting is “sending, receiving, or forwarding sexually explicit messages, photographs, or images, primarily between mobile phones, of oneself to others. It may also include the use of a computer or any digital device” (thanks, Wikipedia).
Like any other form of communication, sexting is a social behavior. In social settings, we use ‘etiquette,’ a system of often unspoken rules, to guide our behavior and expectations, ideally to show consideration for others and make communication smoother. Etiquette varies from place to place and should change with people’s needs. It doesn’t cover every issue, and it’s not inherently ‘good’ on its own.
For example, I like to open doors for people, a common part of social etiquette whose meaning changes with circumstance. To me, it says “I care.” To others, however, it might say “I don’t think you can handle this yourself” or even “I want to hold power over you.” Thus, my door-holding behavior isn’t always appropriate. I have a habit of almost always holding the door for specific friends. They know what I mean by it because…we’ve talked about it. The same caveat applies to sexting etiquette; there’s no universal language, and it will have to change over time.
That said, we often don’t apply basic rules of consideration to sexting situations in the first place, which is partly why I think that intentionally using the lens of etiquette can help. Sometimes, we’re so embarrassed by the prospect of sexting that we don’t know how to think of it as a social situation with another human–we spend so much time seeing sex as this scandalous, unspeakable thing that when we actually get to be sexy, we don’t know how. We may not know how to initiate, how to say what we want (or what to say at all!), and how to stand up for ourselves and set boundaries if sexting feels uncomfortable. So, let’s start with some basic rules and guidelines for ‘initiating’.
First, decide whether it’s ethical and appropriate for you to sext. If there’s a major power difference or professional boundary between you and the other person/people (Ex: you’re their employer, they’re your pastor, etc.), it’s not advisable. As a rule of thumb, if one of you might be afraid to say no to the other, don’t do it. A general note on power: All kinds of power differences affect our interactions with others–wealth, age, gender, race, and citizenship status, to name a few. As a man, Beau has social (and even legal) power that Cloris may not have as a woman, but if Cloris is much wealthier, she may leverage that wealth against him. There are few easy answers when it comes to power difference, but it’s important to recognize where they exist.
If the playing field is relatively even, you may ask for consent to start sexting. We’re not always good at asking for consent before diving into something sexually explicit–it’s easy to forget that there’s a real person behind the screen, not a fantasy-fulfiller.
Even if think you’re ‘flirting,’ don’t introduce an explicit sexual element without checking in. Make sure that the other person wants to participate. This is especially important with new partners. In that vein, sending a picture of your anatomy without asking, like Beau did, is not a good way to obtain consent. It’s the texting equivalent of flashing someone in the street.
I wonder how differently Beau and Cloris’ conversation might have gone if Beau had taken more time to understand what Cloris’ messages meant, gotten to know her better, and then asked what she wanted.
He might have said “I am sexually interested in you” and waited for an encouraging reply from Cloris that wasn’t just a flower. Then, he could say “I would like to write about my desire with you and hear your desire” and later, perhaps, “May I offer you a portrait of my member?” Then, Cloris could be like “I’d like to see the real thing. There’s an apple tree at the edge of the property…” (Of course, she might just be like “What’s a member?”)
Note: In this situation, you might be thinking, “Well, Cloris might feel like she shouldn’t say yes because she’s a proper lady.” Very true! Her refusal is valid regardless.
If you’re not sure what something means, ask! (For Cloris, marigolds symbolize happiness. She was schooled in the language of flowers. Beau is not.) If you think something would be really sexy to talk about, ask if you can talk about it. We can’t take our own standards for granted when interacting with new people.
A partner might be comfortable with text but not pictures. Maybe they’re at work and don’t want to risk others seeing. Maybe they only feel comfortable talking about sex with you in a theoretical way. (This is a common issue for people who work in the sexuality field; people assume that because they talk about sex professionally, it’s okay to sext the professional without asking.)
Say what you want and ask them what they want. Does that sound awkward and vulnerable? It is, especially if you’re new at it. That’s okay! It’ll get smoother, and if you keep talking to the same person, you may gain enough familiarity after a while to sext them without negotiating each time beforehand. Ask, and (maybe) you shall receive.
In short, treat your potential sexting partner as a human being who is creating an experience with you. No need to be as formal as Beau and Cloris.
Here are a few ways to gauge comfort levels and ask for consent in different contexts (your mileage may vary):
“I’m pretty sure we’re flirting. Are we? *wink face*”
“I love your FetLife photos! Can I send one of mine (it’s a nude)?”
“I’m feeling really turned on right now. Can I tell you about it?”
*sends devil emoji* (Their response will give me an idea of how to proceed.)
“OMG I just had a hot sex dream. *blush face* Want to hear about it?”
“How do you feel about anal?”
“My hand is on your thigh. Tell me where you want it to go.”
“(Are you okay with using pet names when we sext?)”
As you get more familiar with your sexting partner, you may be able to use the shorthand of the dynamic you’ve fostered to gauge some things without asking. You might give blanket consent for sexting after a while, with the understanding that it can be withdrawn. For example, I am currently comfortable with my sub sending explicit messages to my phone most of the time, though there are specific times during the day when I don’t want to be messaged (namely, when I’m asleep). If I don’t want to receive sexts at any point or don’t like something, I just tell him. Those boundaries don’t work for everyone, but they work well for our dynamic right now. Pro-tip: If you have a smartphone, modify your settings so that message contents don’t show up on your lock screen.
This epistle has focused mainly on what happens before or when you’re just starting to sext. In future installments, I’ll talk more about ongoing negotiation when the sexting gets hot and heavy, how to state boundaries and protect privacy, sexting in kink-specific contexts (like power exchange dynamics), and using sex-positive sites like FetLife.
We’ll also find out whether Cloris and Beau kiss and make up. #Boris?What’s your “sexting etiquette”? Let me know in the comments!