A Note From the Front – Non-Affirming Church Family

I had a couple of epistles in progress that I hoped to have posted by now, but it’s not happening. Tonight, I’m just sad. My home church met this evening to discuss a congregational survey that we took a few weeks ago to assess our strengths and growth areas for the future. Overall, that process was uplifting and helpful. Unfortunately, the last page of our results (the extra feedback about how we can make our church distinctive) contained a nasty surprise. 

Someone in our very small church wrote something like, “We shouldn’t be so political. We need to stop talking so much about LGBTQ issues as if they’re the only thing that matters. We need to love everyone, but the Bible is clear.” It hurt to read. I know not everyone in my church is affirming, but the fact that someone whom I surely love decided to sound off like that was…painful. 

The answer didn’t even make sense. The question was about our distinctiveness as a church; not talking about LGBTQ issues isn’t an unusual trait in my corner of the rural South. I spent the remainder of the discussion time wondering who wrote it–was it someone who raised me, or was it someone I grew up with? And what a pity that is, because so much good came from the discussion overall. 

I had already been feeling vulnerable because I do talk about LGBTQ issues a lot in church; I believe it’s important to help my church family understand why I advocate. And then this person said I shouldn’t, I guess because it makes them uncomfortable to have their bigotry challenged. They prefer to think of my rights as ‘political’ and thus not worth discussing. I know I wasn’t the only one in the room who was hurt by the statement–while I was the only out queer person present, several of the older adults have grown LGBTQ children whom they affirm. But I felt that if I said anything negative during the discussion process, I would be seen as derailing it with my hysterical hurt feelings. I held them in for quite a while, even when one of my grandfriends pointed at the page and frowned in commiseration. 

My mom came in to check on me tonight. I promptly burst into tears. She held me and let me talk. I also talked to some friends who reminded me that I’m loved and that my work matters. Additionally, one of my cats came in and purred on my chest for a while. He seems to have a knack for knowing when someone needs comfort. 

Will I stop loving the person who wrote this ignorant statement? No. It is their loss if they can’t open their mind, and I can’t save them. I need to take care of myself. I’m fortunate to have a strong sense of self and confidence in my identity as a queer Christian. But it still hurts when people don’t want to understand, so tonight, I’m just letting myself hurt and be comforted by people I trust. 

More on my church family and my spiritual journey here
Therapeutic music: “Change Your Mind” from Steven Universe

“Stay Like This”

[Image description: Photo is an abstract close-up of a black leather boot on pink satin.]

This post was written for the Wicked Wednesday erotica blogging meme, heavily based on a real play experience I had with my sub. This one’s explicit, folks! Content: D/s, hand spanking, sexual play, ‘public’ nudity, and consensual boundary-pushing

We’re slightly mellow already when we arrive at the dungeon–at home, I worked him up to two prostate orgasms as he lay on his back, panting. 

The red light casts a velvety glow over everyone in the play space. Tonight’s guests seek a more sensual energy than usual–our low-key sensual spanking scene will fit right in. We forego the shiny padded spanking benches for a utilitarian play mat against the wall. 

I order him to strip. He’s still a bit sheepish about public nudity, so I remove my shirt and bra in solidarity. I think it will feel awkward, but it doesn’t; it just feels like a fact of life. My sub sets himself up on all fours, presenting himself for my touch, my ‘handling’. 

It always takes me a couple of minutes to settle into a scene, especially in a communal space; I smile and shrug at my friend across the room as I sit down on the mat, as if to say “Yep, here it is…spanking. *Jazz hands.*” 

My sub waits. I let my hands wander over his back, tracing delicately over his ass, which he has shaved for me (when in doubt, I get handsy). And then, I swing back and hit. And hit again, cupping my palm. I wait. He hums. This is one of his favorite activities. I feel him warming as I rub his cheeks rosy. Another smack, harder. I need more sound, leaning over his body to get closer to his face. I want to hear his moans mingle with the hypnotic dungeon music. 

I wrap an arm around him as I reel back for another slap, leveraging his body to crash back into my spanking hand. We find a rhythm. He looks up sometimes, making eye contact with the person getting fucked on the swinging bed several feet away. 

Sometimes, I catch his balls, sending him lurching forward. He always puts himself back in my palm, whimpering when I pause my onslaught to play with his hard cock. When I think he’s had enough, I stop. He eases himself up in a daze of pleasure, sitting for a moment with his legs splayed out. He reaches for his clothes. “No,” I say, pinning him to my side as I put one hand on his thigh. “Stay like this a little longer.” Suddenly embarrassed again, he obeys, hands at his sides on the mat and legs open to reveal his still half-hard cock to any onlookers. 

There’s a reason this feels so vulnerable for my sub; it’s rare for a cis man to get fully nude in this space. I could reach over, stroke him hard, wipe out his excruciating awareness with the sweet oblivion of touch. But I don’t. Instead, we sit like that for a few minutes while I tell him how proud I am of his bravery, my protective arm around his shoulder. We make a pocket of stillness amid a riot of play. 

Back at my place later that night, he will practically leap onto my bed, moaning when I start hitting him with my belt, rutting back against my hips as I press him forward. He’ll look back in wordless arousal and spread himself for me. I’ll slam him into the mattress with enough force to make the bed squeak, the simulation of fucking just as arousing as the real thing. I will claim him with murmurs and growls of ownership. But nothing proves my ownership more, and nothing makes my pride in him burn as brightly as those naked minutes we spend just sitting there on the dungeon floor. 


Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

“Just as I Am” – Confessions of a Kinky Churchgoer

[Image description: Photo is of a cautious but curious calico cat that has just stepped through a doorway.]

Church felt weirdly relevant today. Not that church is ever irrelevant, but I kept making connections between this morning’s worship service and my personal life in ways I don’t always. You see, I’m currently negotiating a new power exchange (which I will hereafter refer to as #Subpocalypse2019), and it’s brought up a lot of difficult feelings. I’ve felt more overwhelmed, afraid, even desolate in the past couple of days than I have in months. Maybe that’s tuned me in more than usual. 

My sense that the service was speaking directly to my inner turmoil started with the Prayer of Confession: “We fear failures, and we cling to unquestioned habits […] Show us your way. Open our eyes to new ventures,” we prayed. I do fear failure in this new venture, one that’s appeared seemingly out of the blue. It will involve questioning my habits in unusual (and embarrassing) ways, as I make my life available for another to view. I felt like that prayer was for me. 

Other messages jumped out at me as the service continued, especially in the hymns. When I saw “Just as I am” in the service order, I looked up from my bulletin suspiciously. “Just as I am though tossed about with many a conflict, many a doubt…” the song goes. I could give or take some of the theology in that hymn, but the thought of just…being…and showing up as myself with all my fears feels especially poignant right now.

Fortunately, I have a supportive pod of people who are proud of me for showing up and have given me space to feel scared without judgment. My sub is excited to see me experience life on the other side of the D/s slash; he’s been giving me pep talks over the past few days and encouraging me when I’ve been tearful. I don’t know how much involvement God has in shaping personal relationships, but I think God understands my feelings and is proud of me too. 

The final hymn was “Here I Am, Lord.” That one’s just always a tear-jerker. It was a very special song to one of our members who died a couple of years ago. It illustrates his way of being so clearly. It’s a song about committing to mission even when you feel unprepared and vulnerable–it also imagines God as immensely loving and thus, vulnerable to hurt. 

Today’s service was about being courageous, vulnerable, and flexible in ministry to the world, but I hear it another way too: I hear a call to minister to myself. I hear a call to grow more loving to myself through the discomfort that submission brings. With the guidance and care of others, I am called to minister to myself “just as I am,” fearful and brave and loving. 

*Prayer is from Feasting on the Word Worship Companion, John Knox Press, 2013.