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The Safeword Dilemma

This piece is a part of the Safe/Ward conversation started over on Purrversatility, and given quite a lot of bang over on Salon. The focus of the conversation and the resulting campaign is the proliferation of assault in the allegedly safe spaces in the BDSM scene: the pushing of boundaries, the ignoring of safewords, the sex that’s easier to agree to than to explain why you don’t want it. It’s a conversation worth having, and I suspect that many of my readers will have missed it going on around them. Follow the links, it’ll make you think.

I’m not talking about people who claim to practice BDSM with no safewords. Because no matter how deep you travel into dark scary places, there is always a safeword: “I withdraw my consent, everything you do from now on is assault.” Or, say, “Stop, or I’m calling the police.” No safewords, my arse. Anyway, I’m not talking about that.

Nor is this about safewords being ignored, as I have no first-hand experience with this. (My boyfriend does; he may talk about it when he’s ready.)

The part of the conversation I’ve found myself nodding most vigourously to was the atmosphere being created in which people feel unable to safeword, because it’s impolite, or it’s unwelcome, or it will break the atmosphere, or result in excessive sulking, or will make the fragile edifice of the top’s ego crumble into tiny pieces.

Three points of information:

1. I find safewording really easy. It has no emotional weight for me. I don’t feel inferior for not being able to take as much pain as the top wants to dish out. Nor do I enter deep headspace in which I might find communication physically problematic. When I’ve had enough, I say so. I can’t count how many times I have successfully and peacefully stopped scenes that had ceased to be enjoyable.

2. Keeping the habit of safewording is extremely important to me, because I enjoy consensual non-consent scenes, in which I like to be taken to dark places. I want to be known, on precedent, as the sort of person who will definitely stop play if I’m uncomfortable. I want tops to be able to rely on this, because it’s something I need when I top.

3. Even considering the above, I’ve had a number of spankings I continued to take because to try and stop would have resulted in aggravation and emotional fallout I wasn’t ready to face. I feel bad about this; it felt like a cowardly choice afterwards. Perhaps it’s what allowed me to eventually develop the aforementioned safeword hair trigger.

I couldn’t help but notice that where the ease of safewording is concerned, I am, let’s just say, unusual in my local community. This makes me quite cross. You may have heard me rant about this in person, as it’s a pet topic of mine. I’ve also written about it in a less blunt way over on The Spanking Writers. I’ve found my dedication to safewords quite difficult to keep or defend on a few occasions.

I’m going to give you some direct quotes I’ve heard in the scene just in the last 3 years.*

Said by tops:

“If you’re just going to safeword, we may as well not start.”
“She’s a serious player, she doesn’t safeword.”
“It’s not a punishment if you safeword, is it?”
“But I was so looking forward to this!” (Unsaid: “Until you safeworded and ruined everything.”)
“You’re being difficult.”
Me: “Safeword.” Him: *Flounce*
Me: “Safeword.” Her: *Tears*

Said by bottoms:

“I know I have a safeword, but I wouldn’t use it.”
“I don’t like safewords.” (Times many.)
“Safewording just doesn’t feel very submissive.”
“He doesn’t deal well with safewords.”
“I didn’t safeword. It wasn’t an option.”

Let me tell you, then, how easy it’s been to remain the sort of safe, responsible bottom who can be relied upon to safeword when she needs to. Let me tell you about the sulking divas with canes I’ve had to deal with, until in the last couple of years I drastically limited the circle of people I will bottom to. Let me tell you about comforting friends who aren’t quite as bloody-minded or determinedly blunt as me.**

Do you know what’s interesting? None of the scary shit ever happened to me in my professional spanking work. It has to people close to me, but never to me. Go figure.

*Attributions are missing because I have no permission to attach names to quotes; with some of them, I don’t care to ask, or ever speak to the person again.

**This is where I’d also like to acknowledge the lovely, careful, responsible tops I’ve enjoyed playing with ever since I emerged onto the scene 12 years ago, but this is not the place.

A spanking blogger once more, or what I did during my sabbatical

I’m not sure where the hell to start this post, so I’ll start with the conclusion: I got the cane the other day, as a punishment for a flaw I had requested help with eliminating. The caning hurt, but no more than my pride did for having earned it in the first place. Then I felt better. Then I decided to write a blog post about it.

The paragraph above reads like something I’ve written many times before, but both the event and the decision to blog about it were a novelty to me. Because I hadn’t wanted to be punished for real-life things for a long time, and now I do again. Because my ally in this exercise is Jimmy, for whom a discipline dynamic is a curious new beast he’s exploring at my instigation, rather than a deep-seated kink. Because I haven’t done a stitch of blogging since September, after having blogged at least every other day for over five years. Because my life is so different now than it was less than half a year ago, that I wonder how I can recognise these fingers that are falling on the keys in front of me.

Far from the thought that everybody in the world follows my every move with bated breath, I’m going to give you a short digest of recent events, which can both get you up to speed with where I am, and set the backdrop for the punishment caning that is, after all, the point of this post.

September: Ask husband for a break. Move out with one suitcase, one cat and £600 to my name. Agree to promise not to say a word about it on the Internet; regret the promise instantly because suddenly I’m unable to blog or tweet truthfully about what I’m doing without raising questions. Arrange a room-in-exchange-for-work agreement with a friend’s business, where my boyfriend Jimmy is also living. Lose room and work because of the business going down; receive an offer of floor space from a friend’s friend, move again, this time to the outskirts of London.
October: Sleep on a single mattress in a tiny room with the cat’s litter tray at my feet. Frantically apply for office jobs while trying to stay on top of freelance obligations. Die of sexual frustration due to lack of a bed or any privacy. Turn 32. Go dancing all night for the first time ever. Have mind-blowing sex with Jimmy’s other girlfriend Shona (she has a bed). Come down with a chest infection. Recover in time to win a month-long freelance contract with obligatory office hours. Help Jimmy move house (he now also has a bed). Help Shona temporarily move into Jimmy’s place (down to one bed between three again). Feel isolated. Feel lonely. Feel furious at being unable to express myself through blogging. Prefer this anyway.
November: Commute for 3 hours a day to freelance job; work on existing freelance commitments in the evenings. Help Shona move house (yay, two beds again). Shona asks me to be her girlfriend. Jimmy stretches his dominant muscles. I can’t remember when I’ve last had more than one waking hour off. Bite the bullet and tell Abel I’m not coming back; wait for him to be comfortable to make the break-up public knowledge. Could now, in theory, blog again, but can barely see straight for fatigue. Get contract extended.
December: Work days, work evenings. Look for a place to live. Transfer my entire pay to an estate agent and acquire a flat with two bedrooms: one for Jimmy, one for me. Move house; help Jimmy move house. Enjoy having a door and a bed. Pick up my stuff from Abel’s house in a manoeuvre that requires shoving my entire life into a van in two hours. Lose most of the memory of that evening; go to work the next day. Finish contract. Stop functioning for a week. Jimmy has surgery. Reluctantly return Shona to her family for a few days; survive Christmas. Jimmy turns 28. See in 2012; dance all night, have lots of sex, play guitar. Start thinking about blogging.

And so we return to the issue of the punishment caning.

One day I let Jimmy and Shona know that I was going to spend a few hours working on my blog.  They made all the right encouraging noises, and I settled at a desk to write.

Here are some of the things I did instead: read Twitter, read FandomWank, read LiveJournal, read some more Twitter while clicking every single link and checking out all the retweeted profiles, watch some Dreams of Spanking movies and read comments on all the scenes. You will notice that none of these activities have in any way involved any writing. When Jimmy finally asked me how the blogging was going, all I could say was, “Errr… FandomWank is great.”

“Would you like some help with that?” he asked. In our relationship this question has developed a new meaning: would you like to give me the authority to make you do this, under the threat of punishment?

Yes, I did.

Subsequently, Shona named the series of exchanges that followed “The Jimmy and Adele Show”. It had dialogues like:

Jimmy: “Put down the summary of all the paragraphs you’re going to write.”
Adele: “Can I finish reading this LiveJournal thread?”
Jimmy: “You can, after you’re done.”

and

Jimmy, from *another room*: “Your word processor looks very similar to your FireFox skin.”
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