I wrote the following as part of a series chronicling my sexual awakening from an early age. This post was originally shared in February 2015. I’ve lightly edited it and am sharing it now to show how an introduction to kink can be done well.
It was my first attempt at college in San Diego. I’d found my online family of kinksters on IRC by then, and was jumping headfirst into it – so excited to discover the feelings I’d been having were common enough to have a name and community behind them.
Someone from the channel, let’s call him “Kevin” (for all I know, that actually was his name – it’s been well over 20 years) lived up north in the Bay Area. He seemed very involved in his community – it was the first time I’d heard of The Power Exchange, and honestly didn’t really understand what he was talking about when he mentioned it.
He offered to fly down to San Diego and give me a taste of this kinky feast I’d been admiring from behind the safety of a dial-up modem. I agreed to meet him for a meal near his hotel room.
I promise this does not turn into a horror story. Again I wonder how the hell I got out of my teenage years relatively unscathed.
Kevin had taken a two-bedroom ground floor suite in the Old Town section of the city. We met at a restaurant nearby. Now, friends, this was back in 1996. Digital cameras were not in every telephone. Many of my peers didn’t even have cell phones yet. So, it was not uncommon for me to meet someone from the internet whose picture I’d not ever seen.
When I arrived, I was a little surprised to find a short, older (he was probably in his mid to late 30s), slightly heavyset man with bright pink hair. Like – hot pink. It looked a little strange for the time. I instantly knew I was not physically attracted to him, but he seemed like a nice person and I’d trusted him enough to come this far.
We had a nice meal. He was charming, intelligent, confident – you know…awesome. I still wasn’t attracted to him physically, but I really, really liked a lot of what he had to say and I wanted to absorb all the information I could from him about the wonderful world of BDSM.
After lunch, we walked over to his hotel room. I won’t pretend I wasn’t nervous at all, but considering the circumstances, I was a lot less nervous than I should have been. We went inside and Kevin brought out a large suitcase and placed it on the coffee table in the sitting room. He asked me to sit down on the chair beside it.
We had a talk about safety, safe words, and he explained what he was going to do next. At this point, he opened up the suitcase which was filled with ..STUFF. Implements, restraints, lots of leather, chains, and some things I couldn’t identify in the slightest.
He began pulling things out from the suitcase, one at a time, showing them to me – explaining to me what they were, how they were used, and then he’d use it gently on my outstretched arm. After each item he would ask me how I felt about it, have me rate my level of interest in using it, and set it aside.
A few times during this process, I would space out. People who have had the opportunity to play with me or watch me play know how very quickly this happens to me. Well, Kevin saw it as well. Every time I would space out, he’d take the implement away, close the lid to the suitcase, and talk to me until I was fully coherent again.
He explained that it didn’t count as consent if I was in subspace when I consented. It was the first time for me that this headspace had been given a name.
It probably took more than an hour to go through the entire suitcase, which included all kinds of things, including paddles, bondage cuffs, crops, a snakebite kit, blindfolds, nipple clamps, collars, leashes, and more stuff I’m sure I’m not remembering. I learned what things I definitely didn’t like canes and other implements that sting. I learned that I really, really loved sensation play (one of my forays into subspace was when he lightly caressed my face with a mitt made out of soft rabbit fur).
Once we’d sorted through the stuff and I had my yes, no, maybe pile – we had another discussion. There sure is a lot of talking in BDSM, right? This time it was about limits. What was I comfortable allowing him to do to me, and what was I not comfortable with.
He explained he was married but in an open relationship, that his wife knew where he was and who he was with and that he had her full consent to explore whatever he wanted with me. He explained that it was OK if I didn’t want to have sex with him.
Hold. The. Phone.
I could do stuff with someone in BDSM and NOT have sex with them if I didn’t want to?
Seriously, the thought had not even crossed my mind. It felt like Kevin had given me permission to not be attracted to him and still want to experience something with him. I didn’t have to hurt his feelings. I could simply say “I’m not comfortable with having sex, but you can touch me anywhere you want.”
The scene began when he put a collar and leash on me.
My memory of the scene itself is fuzzy now. It was a long time ago, after all – but I do have a sense that I enjoyed it very much and felt safe the entire time.
He was in control the entire time, but so was I. I knew he wouldn’t cross the line. I knew he wouldn’t use any of the things I’d vetoed. I knew he wouldn’t even pull his dick out.
Afterwards, he introduced me to the concept of aftercare – where he held me and gave me lots of kind attention and praise. He made sure I got back to my dorm in one piece and he checked on me the following day as well.
Kevin kept in touch after that, but I never saw him again. On my 19th birthday he sent me a beautiful pendant that I still have, and a bottle of high-end perfume. On my 21st birthday he sent me a bottle of wine, a bottle of vodka, and a really great bottle of whiskey that I enjoyed for many years.
I wish I could find him now to thank him for that amazing experience, and honestly for what amounts to years of aftercare. I was just some girl from the internet that he met one time, and wouldn’t even let him fuck her – but he clearly continued to care about me and check in with me for years after that.
polyammering 