I have no idea why I’m suddenly getting ambushed by Mort Fertel — otherwise known as ‘the marriage fitness expert’. There must be a cookie that’s lodged itself in my browser somewhere …. Anyhow, the fact is, I am. EVERYWHERE. And in these adverts on every other page, (or the mailing list I, yes, signed up for — which is probably why, and I’m seriously going to get on them if that’s the case) he gives advice regarding how to save your marriage, or the keys to success, or what makes a good one, etc.

Guy seemed interesting, so I checked him out. Turns out some of his advice is pretty strong, while most of it’s common sense.

But he did say one thing in particular which struck me.

Say you’ve decided that your marriage is a no-go. (I’d have to question why you ever married to begin with, but that’s me.) From that day, count another 364 before you decide to involve the law and begin proceedings. Yep. One year. Take that year, he says, to work on fixing your marriage — putting in the last-last ditch effort. Even if it still isn’t there by Day 365, a rather curious anniversary, it’s an investment you’ll have made in your next relationship, or future marriage.

Really, the marketing is sound. Suck in someone desperate to fix their failing marriage by convincing them that this is the tried-and-true method and it’ll only cost you X $. (That part’s also rather sleazy, but I digress.) You’ve created a demand – a need – for this service. And you’ve given an urgent enough reason as to why you can’t throw in the towel now; you must wait a year – and enter the programme.

And I’ve read and heard it’s a pretty good programme, so who knows? Seems mostly common sense, again, and I’m not sure how ol’ Morty would take our crowd.

But the truth is most of us crave Mr or Ms Kinkster but need Mr or Ms Socially Acceptable Spouse Material. Rarely are the two natures found in the same person. Rarely, I said; not inconceivably.

I can’t tell you how many calls I get or clients I’ve had who’ve been in dead-end marriages with a spouse whose sexuality differs so greatly from theirs that – forget Mars or Venus; they’re from Neptune. And I’ve wondered: how the hell do these people do this? How does loneliness drive them to become so securely bonded with a mate that doesn’t even share their core values of sexual expression?

I’ve heard straight from the horses’ mouths that they flat gave up. Rather than become so disgruntled (and insane) like, say, the cult of True Forced Loneliness, (Google these guys; seriously; talk about people from another planet. The ‘leader’ of this ‘movement’ recently found the Brandi Belle and Mike video from the ‘femdom counseling’ porn series — still astounds Mr P and myself how many people think that’s real counseling, incidentally) anyhow, they find partners that are socially acceptable and they’d be proud to bring home to Mom.

It’s not surprising then that, some time later, the need’s not gone, and they now have a partner who has no idea of their ‘former’ sex life. Sad. These men tell me they’re in a marriage; I tell them they’re in a denial. You can’t keep your spouse in the dark about your sexual desires and be married to them. That’s not marriage. I’m not sure exactly what it is — but it ain’t marriage.

And, of course, marriage ebbs and flows like anything. We go through periods of intense sexual bonding and cycles of separation. That’s natural. Nobody’s fault, and no one’s to blame. Nobody feels 100% attached at the hip all of the time. We’re individuals in a relationship; otherwise, we’re relating in a dysfunctional manner, seeking to fill a void in either one or both. That can work in one or two areas of the relationship – but not at its core. If you need whacking, and they to whack — then you’re filling a need. But if they just need SOMEONE — ANYONE! — and you’re there — and you’re both okay with this — that’s when you’ve got a problem, and you tend to end up on mine — or someone’s — couch.

And the moment you think it’s over, and you’re ready to get out — take a year. That’s good advice. Too many damned people getting divorced because they don’t take marriage seriously. And I know some of you are going to be pointing fingers and saying, ‘Oh, look who’s talking; the woman who’s de facto poly!’ And to you, I must say: fuck off. I take my marriage very seriously, otherwise, I wouldn’t be married. I wasn’t one of those gals in school to get her MRS. I was dedicated to my career (and still am) who accepted that getting married and having (some type of) a family might be part of the picture. I’m very glad that it is.

So, do yourselves a favour. Throw down the gauntlet (as in, take the gloves off and just put those bitches away; don’t offer a challenge, as in the traditional meaning) and take a deep breath. You married each other for a reason — right? If it was the wrong one — well, you’ll know by year’s-end.

In the meanwhile, do what you can to learn from the potential mistake you’re in so that you both end up happier the next time around. Who knows? Maybe even with each other.

Be well, my freaky fiends.

Your most mental mistress, Roulette.

(Yeah, you try rhyming something with ‘marriage’ that isn’t ‘carriage’ or ‘disparage’ that sounds halfway decent; wearage? Dare-age? You see my point. You’re stuck with something that sounds like the backwater cousin of the language abominations which brought us ‘suckage’ and other-such greats.)

I digress. But I do that.

Greetings and salutations, my … erm, kinky monsters? Evidently, that’s the latest from the japevine. I think it’s cute, and while I don’t believe that men will steal my creativity via my vag, ( … seriously, that Gaga’s got quite an interesting take on life) I appreciate the compliment, and it’s somewhat valid. I do have a degree in forensic-psych and a background in crim, am still – for all intense per poses – still a profiler. (Lotsa monsters in this noggin. And, no, the bloody lambs haven’t stopped screaming yet. But I’m workin’ on it. I’ll get there.) So, the monsters thing is rather apt in my case. And you are kinky li’l basterds, ain’t ‘cha? Well, as you know, I wouldn’t have you any other way. Of course, to be part of -my- monsters’ ball, you’ve got to distinguish yourself. So, we’ll work on that.

Lessee … where on earth to begin? Well, Dodgson was a fan of the beginning, so, in Carrollian homage, let’s follow suit.

(And the white rabbit. As, ladies and gentry, we are about to take yet another trip down the rabbit-hole — further than you’ve been before. It’s like spelunking. Except you don’t die. Hopefully.)

So, the topic today is marriage and nonmonogamy. Quite the topic, that. Riddled with complications and raised-eyebrows and whispered hushes of, ‘They’re -what-?’ from the peanut gallery. (Of course, never forget it’s the peanut gallery that’s most suited to feed the ‘invisible’ pachyderm procession collecting in the middle of your living room. After all, they’ve got the goods. You don’t. Ergo? Beware the peanut gallery.)

-headdesk-

Yeah. I don’t even need to say it, do I?

I’ve been getting to spend a lot more, much-needed, long-overdue time with my co-star — be it legitimately, or in our own unusual psychodrama, in which we all play a role. He does this to me. Like ECT — minus the succinylcholine. And, well, the electroshock. (Though, it can be rather paralysing, when he does this thing … with that damnably unique voice of his …. Goddamned ex psy — o-o-o-okay then! Public blog, Rou, public blog. Look likely now! … Yeesh. Brain’s extra fritzy today.)

So … yes! It is still quite the jolt to the mind and senses. A much-needed reconnecting of certain synapses that’ve begun to atrophy due to lack of usage. The only sort of thing one can get via someone who’s ever-so-slightly mad — in the most delicious sort of way.

My husband keeps me sane. My co-star keeps me from being too much so. Somewhere, in the middle, it works to produce just the right balance of madness and stability. And therein lies my genius.

… Hey, my freaky fiends. Anyone see my point? It was here before my mind wandered onto the next tangent. No? Damn. Hate it when that happens. Be on the look-out for the obligatory ‘living with fibro’ post. It’ll be upcoming — unless I forget about it.

Bud-um-ching!

… No, seriously. I could. (But probably not.) Though, I might. It’s happened before. (Not that badly.) … There’s always the chance for –

‘Kay, I’ll stop now. You get the joke. And if you don’t, you are deprived! You must get thee to the works of Izzard; now, I say. Now!

Now, then. Nonmonogamy. Does it work? Specifically, could it work for you?

Raise of hands for the marrieds in the house. Guy in the … back. Wait. That’s your wife? … Shit, man. I’m sorry. I guess I see why you’re here.

Ohhh!

Somebody stop me!

(… Mental note. Second cup of coffee’s enough. Third unnecessary. Right, then.)

Seriously, though. A lot of us have rings on the third-finger-from the-index-on-our-left-hands. Y’know. ‘The Ring One’. ( … or the One Ring? … I must ponder this. … Later. Before I look even more like an ADHD-coke fiend with a nicotine buzz. Second ‘fiend’ in the blog? … What’re the chances of -that- echo? This is a most fiendish blog, indeed.)

The ring, as we know, symbolised that you’ve become someone’s property. (And when I say ‘you’, I mean the one with the vagina. Yeah, you. You’re now his. He gets to treat you like he does his whores. Or his cattle. Or his Rolodex. Because you’re just an object from which he derives pleasure, gets his shirts ironed, and bitches about how much you suck in the sack while fantasising about sugar-tits down the street who ‘would so blow him’ if ‘you’d just let him’ …. Shit-God-damn, your husband’s an asshole. But I digress.)

But you get the gist. Since time immemorial (and in memorium, depending upon which way you swing on the space-time continuum; hyperdimensionalists in da house!) — we’ve been the lesser, though, fairer sex. That ring on our finger meant that our pleasure came from one place — and one place alone — and at his discretion, while he could fuck the meter- or milkmaid whenever he got the yen for it. And, m’dear, that ring was also a clear sign to everyone else that you were off-limits, and he was entitled to this bullshit.

Ohh, how times have changed — and are a-changin’ still.

Hang on. … A tightness in my chest? A shortness of my breath? … What’s this — what’s this? Is your faithful pathfinder along the road of all things mad actually suffering the first stirrings of … panic? It’s true, the path is not an easy one, for those who choose to take it. This is a river that cannot be forged alone, nor can the map be constructed solo.

It takes serious teamwork. But if that’s the sort of duo you are, then you’re a dynamic one, indeed, and I applaud you.

So, another show of hands. Who here is married and nonmonogamous?

… Yeah. Smaller crowd, isn’t it? That’s how it goes, sadly. We’re a sliver of the population who doesn’t get much respect, understanding, or even acceptance from society at large. We’re freaks. Sluts and whores. Home-wreckers and adulterers. We’re vile. We’re wrong. We’re … evil.

‘Do you think I’m evil?’

I guess it’s the likely path for a transgressive writer such as myself, married to a professional poker player and pornographer. The truth is, we’re livin’ the dream — and together, and doing what we want to be doing, without hurting anyone in the process, and loving each other completely throughout it.

Shit, if that makes me evil, then where’s my robotic arm and cat?

(Do-do-do-do-do, inspector — keep restin’ peacefully, Don Adams. The one, the only Maxwell J Smart. …. 99 was such a sexbomb before they got hitched, too. Then she was all super-whiny and hormonal, and — ohhh, the ’60s. Would’ve been nice to’ve been alive then — but I’m cool with having missed it, too.)

Anyway. In other news — ever throw someone under the bus? Don’t do that. It’s not nice. It’s today’s ‘secret phrase’, I guess. So far, it’s been used … thrice. By me. So, I’m not sure if that counts. Brains like certain words and phrases and tend to overuse them at times. Today, it’s bus-throwing — erm, under-throwing. Throwing under the bus. I’ve been thrown — twice. By men I worked for. … Let me tell ya about that sometime. It’s quite the story. One of them I married. And found out only years later that he actually hadn’t. The other one … well … let’s say he’s not gonna be on my friends-list anytime soon.)

It’s amazing, the power of sex. It makes us do crazy an inane things. But — what if — there’s something else going down? Being a rather recently renewed firm believer in karma, soul-centred shit and all that jazz (yeah, yeah, I’m back to my roots; perhaps, it’s because of my mother’s favouring the ganja before I came along — but I don’t think so; this had been going down before she went green with a metaphysical mindset) — I get it. Sometimes, dare I quote the Nolfi re-imagining of Dick’s ‘Adjustment Team’ (called ‘The Adjustment Bureau’ — overall, good film) there are ‘remnants from a previous plan’. … Y-e-e-eah ….

Oh, and incidentally, if your hubs or beau starts saying that he’s got a ‘lot of karma’ with this one chick he’s bouncing to bang — see it for what it is (‘boobs’), set him straight, and call it a day. But … in that off-chance that there is a rare configuration of the planets coming into effect …. we-e-ell, that’s a bit more complicated, mes amies.

Distress, disagreement, and disconnect fundamentally do not a happy marriage make. Period. And, yes — sex is the barometre of a relationship. If you’re having it — then life is going to be brighter-and-lighter feeling, and your sero-surging brains are going to be digging the intermittent oxy-rush ( -tocin, that is) that comes from looking long into your lover’s eyes, and breathing in the totality of their being.

First and foremost, you need to having a strong sexual relationship with your spouse. You married them for the reasons that country songs, easy listening stations, romantic comedies, and Nicholas fucking Sparks ( — love him, hate him — that’s just how it is) exist. They rock your world — and it would be vacant, empty, and you lost wandering aimlessly within it — without them.

And if that’s not the case — take a look at that shiny band o’ gold you’re sporting. Contemplate very seriously as to why you’ve got it at all. Because you’re not married. You’re just hitched; legally-bound to another for some purpose other than love. Or … maybe you had love. (And it was a gas.) But something happened on the way to heaven, and — well, fuck.

What the hell do you do now?

For better / for worse is looking a lot like ‘whatever for?’ and you have no idea how you got into this contractual obligation with that person who was supposed to swallow your load — while also somehow managing to kiss your kids with that mouth. ( … Like, really? How did we get to be this fucked-up of a society? … Anyway. Begone, Miss Manners! Your services are not welcome here! But only in the voice of Patrick Stewart. It’s just funnier when Picard says it. And — somehow! Much! More! SERIOUS!)

Alas, this is usually when the trip down the aisle ends with a stop in divorce court — on the way to The Next Big Thing. And that’s what always got me — and why I told myself, ‘Self, if you ever get married, it’s going to be for keeps, and come whatever else — you and that man are going to turn old and grey together, regaling each other from the comfort of your rocking chairs about ‘your good ol’ days’. In my case, it looks like part of those tales are going to be, ‘Remember when I used to fuck you with that huge strap-on? Ahh, those’re the days.’ Of course, ideally, I’ll be referring to last Thursday. But my point remains valid.

When we do have sex, it’s a gift from the fucking sex gods. Honestly. And, no, I’m not all that wild about the idea of sharing my perverse Olympian with other members of the sisterhood. It’s gotta be about more than sex to me right now, and I seem to be the person he was meant to do this crazy dance with — even though, it turns out that he needs to share the stage with another actor in my case. So long as we don’t crush each other’s toes, the composer doesn’t go flat — the band can keep playing on, and we can put on a hell of a show. Even if, first and foremost, it’s for each other.

We’re on a hell of a coaster, strapped in, clinging to each other and screaming, ‘OH, MY GOD, HOLY SHIT — ARE WE ALL GOING TO D-I-I-I-I-IE!’ and yet, laughing all the way. It just so happens that it’s a third-seater, and I have even more protection from the edge of this madness, another hand to hold, another voice with which to scream in unison, and — oddly enough — further protection from somehow slipping and falling to my death.

Even stranger than that, once we do get off, ( … okay, okay, yeah, yeah, get your giggles out now; jeeez — buncha grade-school kids …. ) there’s this wonderful exhilaration of, ‘Damn, that was awesome!’ and the desire to throw my arms around them both and thank them for not only giving me the ride of my life, but doing so safely, to where we don’t get hurt. Now it’s to the point where they can give each other brotherly slaps on the back in those ‘man hugs’ ( — must be said in that ‘manly tone’, y’know; ‘MAN HUG. Hua!’ and we can comfortably walk arm-in-arm without anyone feeling neglected or growing resentful. Even if there’s a subtle refrain of: ‘I love you … you love me … how’d we get to be po-ly … ?’ in the back of my brain. Because, honestly, for such straight-and-narrows like ourselves, (minus my husband, the-pre-established-freak) — it’s rather mind-blowing.

So. What’s love got to do with it? Everything.

Some women, like myself it turns out, as the evolution of interpersonal psychology is teaching us, are rather dual. (Men, too — you’d better believe it.) For whatever reason, we’re wired to need this and that — simply because it’s so damned hard – impossible, one might say – to find this and that in the same person. This is especially evident – and likely – if you’re also nonmono and there’s quite the discrepancy between your partners. Each satisfies a major facet — and I’ve got two that’re central.

When I’m balanced – I’m dynamic, productive, euphoric, and capable.

When I’m not –

Yeah, that was old-time B-monster movie castle-thunder crackling. It’s not just your imagination.

Shit. Gets. Bad.

As my initial theories will support, I believe the healthiest way to go through life is balanced — and in our collar of the forest, that’s being something of a switch. We’ve all got the anima and animus. Some of us have just forgotten one and come to favour, feeling more at home with the needs and methodology of the other. I’m a domme because, yes, I’m dominant. Why? Was I made this way? Not entirely. I feel I’m always going to be dominant. It’s next-to-impossible to get me to submit to you. The more likely response is a raised eyebrow and a scoff. The more extreme of that is breaking something. Of yours. Besides your ego. (Or your mind. Depends on how I’m feeling that day).

It’s quite the luscious mix of words and tricks — to downright gank from the Shins. (Great group. Wonderful lyrics.) I’m not exactly sure what set that off in me, but it does it once in a blue moon. Actually, less than that. Pick a geological event that occurs every thousand years — and you’re closer to the truth. Just like the fact that I knew rather inexplicably that Mister P was the man not-yet-my-husband. I raged and railed against it. I thought, back when I had a dream a month into our relationship where we were writing a wedding guest list, ‘What the fuck, subconscious?’ But there was something about him, his life, who we are, what we’re about, that was cluing me into a deeper truth.

This is the man I need to marry. The man I love above all others. The one who completes me.

… Imagine my shock and confusion when I realised that, in order to truly be the woman deserving of him, that I needed to build a relationship with an entirely different man who would quirkily fit into our life in the most unusual, yet crucial way, bolstering us both — and allowing me to feel truly complete.

These things are a work-in-progress. They’re fluid, and they change. Love is the constant, communication is the key, and happiness unlike you’ve ever really known — can be the reward. You just have to play your cards right, know when you’re in check, and never fold unless you’re in zugzwang.

Got it?

Excellent. You might have a chance in hell at understanding what all of this is about. And, if that’s so, I invite you to tread carefully, with your eyes wide open, ready for anything. Because it very well could be the ride of your life — and the one thing that saves you and yours from becoming another statistic.

How decidedly contrary, you say? That’s how it works. Just as Carroll said –

– we’re all mad.

Welcome to the party. Pull up a chair and don’t mind that someone’s been there before you. Jealousy is the manufactured emotion, stemming from some ev-psy programming, and largely rooted in insecurity. If you know your place is at the table, then maintain eye-contact with the one that brought you. If it just so happens that you both leave with someone else who arrived separately — it could be so much the better. Who knows? Only you.

I wish you the best of luck in your own adventures beyond the looking-glass. Just remember — it can be sharp. So don’t break it. The shards are a motherfucker with which you do not want to deal. So, hang on, and don’t get splinched (Props to my girl JK).

Who knows what magnificent undiscovered worlds await you?

Tesser well, my fiends.

You and your significant other have just finished off a particularly heavy round for whatever it is in your chosen lifestyle, you’re both enjoying a bit of the usual aftercare afterglow, transitioning out of your respective head-spaces …

… and silently thinking: ‘Oh, fuck.’

Ah, now you get me. At first, you’re reflecting, ‘That’s a pretty typical scene, yeah,’ until it hits you. Oh. We’re talking about that kind of scene. The one where it got a little too intense, and you stumbled upon a little much truth, and now you’re quietly hoping your partner’s forgotten all about it — even though you haven’t.

Maybe, you said something that wasn’t true, and you’re regretting it. Or, perhaps, you said something that was true, and you really wish you hadn’t. Either way, the bag is definitely void of cats, and you’re driving yourself mad over whether or not you’re the only one aware of this fact.

First of all — relax. We’ve all reached a particular point, or been provoked to a certain level, where we went for defensive shock value, or, perhaps a bit worse, the equally unnerving truth. Since D/s is all about pushing envelopes, some are bound to be shoved around sometime. (Otherwise, you may not be doing it right.) Just be mindful that you and your lover are both in an extremely vulnerable spot during a particularly heavy scene — regardless of who’s topping and who’s bottoming. Some subs can be surprisingly provocative, leading their dom/me to play the truth game a little too seriously. In short, when — and if — the inevitable something slips, there’s a plan of action that should be undertaken to ensure that things don’t turn messy quickly.

1) Keep Lines of Communication WIDE Open.

This one should be obvious, given BDSM can be dicey by nature. If you — or your partner — reveal something especially disconcerting, identify exactly what was unsettling about it, probe your partner, or introspect yourself (namely, if you were the one dropping any bombs) to better understand why it was said, and what it means to you both.

2) Identify –Then Clarify.

Just what is the nature of this bomb, and why was it dropped? Sometimes, provocation can push people to a limit where they grasp for straws in defence. But, occasionally, they don’t need to, because something’s already burning their brain. Those slips of the tongue need to be paid the most careful attention, since they’re moments of truth under duress. (The most honest, but easily regrettable kind).

So, naturally, it’s important to be gentle with your partner (and yourself!) if this is the nature of the big reveal. Quite a bit of embarrassment, and a touch of denial is likely to follow. Take care to not let them — or yourself — retreat into a protective shell, for fear of upsetting the apple cart. There’s a reason these things pop up, and it’s best to deal with them calmly and rationally outside of and after the scene is concluded.

For example: BDSM and fetish is known for its employment of various scare tactics in conjunction with arousal. Sometimes, it’s sexy, and the confiding of such fantasies can bring a couple greater intimacy. But beware that once the arousal’s over, that the fantasy doesn’t get misconstrued as a reality.

Obvious example: castration. Some dudes really dig the whole ‘getting their nuts chopped off’ thing when they’re jacking off. But once they’re finished, so is the fantasy. Bad idea? Waking your lover with nothing but a smile — and a machete. Just because he confessed his deeply-withheld castration fantasy, doesn’t mean that striking up this visualisation is your new toy — outside of the bedroom. Good idea? Keep fantasies where they belong — and know the difference. Outside of just flat being annoying, some fantasies have the potential to cause serious harm to the stability of the relationship — especially if they happen to involve other people. Just because he let it slip that he sometimes fantasizes about sucking cock doesn’t mean it’s time to shove him in front of a glory-hole. Same goes for if she’s admitted that having a threesome might be fun sometime, and visions of double-timing on your cock starts dancing through your head. Before you hit Craigslist, get clarification. One wrong move, and the fun’s over for everyone.

Assuming that everyone’s being truthful, there are two most likely outcomes here; the first being that you liked your partner’s unintended surprise fantasy, the second being you didn’t. Paradoxically, both are equally problematic, since a particularly provocative revelation is likely to result in the one responsible for revealing it to clam up faster than you can say, ‘red’. Why? Such is the nature of human beings. Providing this is a relationship with a loved one of which we’re speaking here, to admit to fantasies that are in some way painful for, abusive to, or in some way threatening the relationship is tough. Sometimes, it’s equally difficult for people to admit to desires of a masochistic nature — especially if they’re typically not. Anything that disrupts the status quo, or might cause us to be viewed in a different light is suspect, and we’d just rather not, thank you very much.

And so, we begin the beguine — more specifically the little bits of self-hatred, the slapping our foreheads and inwardly shouting: ‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’ and all manner of beating ourselves up. But before we get this pity party started, let’s check in with our partner, shall we? How is he or she taking the news? Did it even register? For a lot of experienced kinksters, it’s a lot like a trip to Vegas: what happens in the scene, stays in the scene.

That’s why some of us react recklessly to the perceived lack of response, or positive reception of something especially tricky or novel. If we’re feeling guilty, well, we’re obviously wishing the whole thing never happened. But … if we’re secretly fishing for approval, then this may be the smidgen of acknowledgment or understanding we’ve been craving! Eureka!

That brings us to 3, which may even be the most important of all.

3) Reality Check!

Yup. Hate to be the bearer of bad news here, but how many of you have blinked at the number of insane things going through your head when you’re deep in your respective head-space? I know I have, and so has Mister P. (He’s rather famous for his noticeable expression when he’s ‘back to reality’). I think we’ve all wondered just how much we can trust that crazy voice in our heads during that time — how honest it truly is, and how much of it’s just hormonal noise. Since it sucks us into all sorts of bizarre behaviours, we can all vouch it has a considerable amount of power, and can prove to be rather formidable. Likewise, the stuff is concocts should always be taken with a grain of salt. (Or a whole ocean, depending.)

That’s why 3) is the most necessary, and the hardest. Once you’ve checked in with yourself, now it’s time to check in with your partner. Ohh, shit. Yep. This is where you’ve got to come clean about the nonsense you were both spouting, to specify and clarify whether or not there was actual truth to it. Then, if it should lead you down some rather interesting avenues, you’re doing so in a fully informed, non-sex-hazy, relatively hormonal free manner. The fantasies that stick with you during the day-to-day reality are the ones you can consider exploring. To know the difference is what will make you — or break you.

So, don’t fuck that up.

Sharing fantasies — even the more controversial ones — can create a wonderfully intense level of intimacy for a couple. To love each other warts, perceived villainy and all. Just remember to keep it real — since that is the stuff that happens between scenes, and the bulk of everything you experience with your partner in your relationship. The trick is the make the fantasy enhance the reality, building the sort of relationship which others envy. It’s far from easy — but when you actually manage to do it right, absolutely worth any of the hell endured along the way.

Good luck.

The other, a modest gentleman, mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, average height, to just a bit short, decent shape, but far from muscle-bound. He wears a simple suit, appearing like just another cog in the American corporate machine. His voice is steady, but not particularly noteworthy. He stands before you, asking you a simple question, or making an equally simple statement.

Now.

Of the two of them, who has the power? You may say this is an unfair comparison, and most unscientific — one is a man, the other a woman. Apples and oranges. Still, the whip-wielding dominatrix is more quickly linked to ‘power’ in most people’s minds than the older, average-appearing gentleman.

Is that what you think, too? If so, you’d be wrong.

Oh, you can scoff, but seeing as I pulled from life here, I’ll go ahead and tell you that the young dominatrix is just one more faceless actress playing a role on a website, or in a video clip, or entered into a professional contract with a paying client. If she isn’t just pretending, she’s even weaker than the one that is. And the gentleman, ladies and gents, would be Robert K Ressler. You might know him as the guy who coined the term ‘serial killer’ and has caught more than any other profiler in the history of the FBI’s Behavioural Analysis Unit.

What a pro-domme does in comparison is fucking child’s play. Yes, yes, that’s a bit harsh — but you try being across the table from a violent criminal. Go on. Let me know how successful you are.

I, on the other hand, have a unique perspective, being both a domme and having spent years of my life training as what is commonly known as a ‘profiler’. (Although the term ranges from ‘behavioural evidence analyst’ to ‘criminologist’. I was technically accepted into the FBI as a crime analyst for the National Centre for the Analysis of Violent Crime prior to my life entirely switching directions and my relocating to Los Angeles. So suck on that, bitches.) As for being across the table from violent offenders — that’s when I was an interviewer for the Department of Justice. I’d say the rough distance between the guy and me was a good 2.5 feet. There was always a guard outside, and depending upon their threat assessment, they were restrained in some fashion — typically, cuffed.

Training was provided by a DOJ liaison, since we were collegians, and only two of us were on the Bureau track. (I was alone, however, in having my sights on the BAU). The Psychology chair was conducting a specific experiment for which he needed a lot of data gathered, and struck a deal with the DOJ for it. They just needed the manpower. Again, training was pretty fascinating. We learned, very quickly, how to ask the appropriate questions (or, in our case, line items of the several hundred-question survey) and to deflect those that would provide the subject with too much inf0rmation. And I don’t think I have to remind you of how many films and television series featuring ‘interviewing the serial killer’ scenarios there are, where the general idea is, ‘this guy is bored in prison, and gets a rare opportunity to fuck with a total stranger.’ They don’t pull that from their asses, people. I can’t vouch personally, but I can say that from being on the side that conducts the interview, they are desperately eager to see just how far they can get before they fucking break you.

I know. That whole ‘ooh, break me, break me,’ is so fucking hot to you. Bully for you. Maybe you’d have a different perspective if you were one of those they did break, who ended up leaving the programme and taking time off from school. (Ever hear of a psych leave?) Luckily, we had a lot of dunderheads, but being that it was a large enough population (around 200) and there were 6 of us (you do the math), at least one of those assholes is going to want to go Hannibal Lecter on your ass.

And as fate, or what seems to be a bizarre pattern given my own history dealing with psychopaths or the mentally ill, mine was the ass that one such chose. Let me paint the portrait for you.

I’m in a small separate building comprised of maybe three rooms; a seldom used testing facility, just off-campus. There have been liability forms signed, and yadda-yadda, but for the most part, it’s just me in a folding chair across a card table from a man who raped and murdered his wife. Since he had committed much ‘partner-assaultive behaviour’ (to go spouting official jargon at you) he fit enough into the experimental population that our professor wanted. As such, the questions I was to ask this fellow ranged from the typical to gain neutral responses for control purposes: ‘what is your favourite colour?’ to those that would be emotionally-charged — for both the subject and, at times, the interviewer.

For me, that was, ‘Did you ever forcefully engage your partner in sexual intercourse during the course of your relations?’ He looked to the side for a moment, almost as if he was about to laugh. (Some would just go into great detail regarding the horrendous ways in which they transgressed against the women that had been in their lives. Gleefully, I’ll add.)

But this guy was different. And very, very bored. So, he asked: ‘You mean like rough sex?’ Hardly being foreign to the subject of kink, I followed the rules of the interview, knowing that I may respond, but to use discretion. I said, ‘That would only refer to consensual relations.’ I then repeated my prior question. (There were only 4 fucking bubbles — A, B, C, and D, for the love-a Pete.)

At this point, he thought it amusing to inform me via a brief (enough) tirade of all the ways and means with which he would ‘forcefully engage’ me. (Yeah. Never saw that one coming.)

Okay, so on the inside, I was screaming. After all, he was not gingerly, but with a jack-hammer at maximum force, ramming all of my buttons, and flipping the switches to my own individual triggers so much, that the handles were flying off. Now. This is about the point where an interviewer would decline to complete the interview, run from the building, and leave the programme. I may have followed suit — were it not for some very unofficial training I had in college with a homicidal psychopath I had the strange misfortune of knowing.

I was used to having my buttons obliterated. To feeling terrified out of my fucking skull, and able to repeat to myself what quickly became a mantra: ‘Don’t let him know you’re afraid. Then you’ve lost everything.’ It seemed very important to me at the time — when I was 16. Now that I was 22, it seemed strangely more-so.

So, I picked up my little clipboard, noticeably (and murmuring under my breath) darkened the ‘Subject declined answer’ bubble’. Option D. I also looked right at him, as if I were telling the subject I was photographing to move a little more to the left. Not immediately, but soon after, I pushed to the back of my mind the images that had come immediately to the forefront of being molested by my older cousin, repeatedly, as a child. I went onto the next item. And, well, shut off the A/C. It’s Texas. In the summer. (They don’t like to sweat.) I then resumed the interview, which continued without further incident.

(Pussy.)

Oh, yes. Homicidal personalities can be pussies. In fact, it takes strength to not give into your most base desires and instinctual yearnings. But, I digress.

I have to admit my interviewing style was partially through my individual research of Ressler’s own techniques (because the man is a true marvel) and working with a hostage negotiator who cut his teeth on Waco. (Yeah.) The most important piece of advice proffered me?

Never raise your voice. Ever.

You know those dommes who rant and rave and shriek and shout and think that they’re actually getting somewhere (besides having swollen lymph nodes)? There’s a reason why they think they have to project themselves so loudly. Likely, no one told them otherwise, and secondly, they fear they’ll simply not be heard. Think about it. Why do you raise your voice? It’s when you’re trying to be heard, right? You’re yelling at the dog, you’re calling to your spouse, you’re reprimanding your kid. ‘Damn it! I told you outside!’ ‘Honey, what time is that dinner thing tomorrow?’ ‘I told you, turn the TV down!’ Really, the only situation in which you’re not losing power — or just flat giving it up — is when calling to your spouse because there’s competing noise. But regarding your kid, and your dog, you’ve lost it.

And they know.

Let today’s lesson be a little about the reptilian brain. The oldest part of our human brain structure. That collection of nerves, synapses, and neural pathways that’s been there forever — that developed before anything else, and relies on instinct. That’s the part of you that wants to fuck the shit out of the buxom blonde with ridiculous tits walking her dog, even though you’re in the car coming back from church with your wife. (Ooh! Snap!) It’s also the part of you that wants to beat people with tire irons, just because. It’s a very uncivilised, generally unruly and almost infantile part of you. It wants what it wants. Now.

It also seeks to gain control of everything, because what do we want when we want overall? Control — because then everything else is a lot easier to obtain. Like a kleptocracy (look it up) where the ruling bodies have carte blanche to do whatever the hell it is they want to do, regardless of who gets hurt. Absolute power — in this case, corrupting absolutely. So, your lizard brain is all about getting the upper-hand in everything. A bit scary, but true. Your parents, your lover, your kids, your boss, your pets — even the cashier. As a result, we’re all subconsciously going about keeping ourselves in check. Don’t fuck the dog-walking-blonde. Don’t bludgeon your boss with the tire iron. It’s just a bad idea, and morally, very, very uncool.

But while you’re keeping your little devil on your shoulder from wreaking havoc, you’ve gotta keep an eye out for everyone else’s. And the surest way to fail is by giving any indication that you’re out of control. Take for example, your kid watching TV. You’ve told her to turn it down. She doesn’t really want to, however, so she’s going to see just how serious you are about this. The more you remind, the more she’ll test. Finally, you’ve got other shit to worry about than this, so you wander back in, find the TV still blaring, (or notice that it’s been turned back up) and think, ‘what the fuck!’ So, without thinking, in your exhaustion, you launch a counterattack. ‘I told you to turn that down!’ She can tell you’re angry — and the fact that your voice is booming is a clear sign that you’ve lost control. Her little reptilian brain smiles. Muahaha!

Okay, so all kids are not little budding supervillains, but you get the point. (Though, sometimes, they really do seem that way!) Instinctively, we know when someone else has just ceded control in some way, and we automatically position them submissively. It’s as if we’ve realised: ‘Oh, they, that person’s not a threat anymore. I don’t have to take them seriously.’ We also lose respect for that individual. Ouch.

So, how do you think the reptilian brain feels about the shouting dominatrix? Yeah, you guessed it. ‘Is she for real?’ Or, worse, ‘Man, she’s totally lost it. I’ve got her.’ Now, the submissive has gained total control, and — ick. That’s not even what he wanted, is it? So, the domme‘s been submissively positioned, and the sub is now in control of the situation.

And we wonder why kink can fail.

It’s not that we’ve incompatible kinks; it’s that we’re incorrectly expressing them. The domme’s actually too out of control to be in a position of real power. The sub knows this, and is given control by default. In the end, everyone’s pissed off, and no one’s having a very good time.

Short answer? Dommes: stop yelling. Seriously. Fuck that noise! You’re a Goddamned woman, for chrissake. What is between your legs? Go on, spread ‘em and take a look if you can’t remember. A pussy? Oh, good. Then you’re in the clear. Men will do everything in their power to get all up in that shit, and all you have to do is not raise your fucking voice. Is it that hard?

Real dommes don’t need to raise their voices, because they don’t question their dominance. If you do, then you are. Look into that.

Stay calm, steady, and project yourself with an air of confidence — not arrogance – I’m not talking about that ‘serve me, I’m a princess’ bullshit. Again, it’s fakery, and deep down, everyone knows it — especially, you! Just be firm, just, and seek to get your needs met. If your sub is truly submissive, seeing your needs met will meet his own.

How’s that for compatible kink?

Now you know the secret of power, use — and don’t abuse — this knowledge. Of course, power is a multifaceted thing, but this is the most basic, and the easiest to master — if you know how to do it.

Now you do.

Good luck!

I see this one a lot: on various websites of professional dommes — as well as Animal Planet. It seems like a strong means of advertising. It’s when they claim that it’s actuality — a component of their everyday existence — that I find myself … less than accepting.

So, I ask myself: how many of these ‘alpha females’ are actually dominant women? Plenty — and I mean, plenty — of pro-dommes are submissive in their personal life. (Why? Because there’s money in femdom for those enterprising beautiful people who are savvy enough to play a role 24/7 and not lose themselves.) Knowing this simple fact, however, I find myself always just a bit suspicious of those websites which tout such a thing to be the way it actually is.

One reason I love to get to know pro-dommes; I get to see beneath the veneer, and meet the actual woman. Sometimes, it’s a match. But most of the time — they’re just regular gals with an atypical job. They laugh, cry, fret over whether a guy they’re into will ever call them back, wonder and worry if they said something stupid to a girl-friend, bitch about their periods, and spend hours on the phone.

Because we’re women. Not automatons. Not weapons of feminine destruction. (For the most part.) And if you are, well, you didn’t get there through being a pro-domme. That’s just smoke-and-mirrors. That is the wizardress, my friends. Go take a peek behind the curtain and then let me know what you find.

I’m not saying alpha females aren’t in existence — there are a number of them; some of which I know personally. There are plenty of queenly women, too — who believe the world should bow down to them; that they shouldn’t have to work, to earn her achievements. That everything should be offered on a silver platter. Yeah. I know a few of those, too. (Though, I tend not to associate with them).

And, yeah, they tend to be beautiful. They tend to be from lots of money, have men falling at their feet, being given everything without asking for it, and taught to believe this is really the way it’s supposed to be. I know, because that’s how my mother was brought up — by my narcissistic beauty-queen grandmother who had celebrity boyfriends through most of her youth.

That’s why I laugh at a lot of pro-domme sites, and, often-times until I get to know them, the pro-domme they represent. Really? Do they really believe that shit? It’s like having an actor arrive for an audition fully-in and not at all breaking character — for even a second. You get lost after awhile — wondering if this is just them — their actual persona, or if they’re putting it on for the purpose of the audition. And the very good ones can fool you quite well.

Most pro-dommes are that: actresses. They know it, I know it. What gets me is that the men who so desperately want to believe — with a conviction more passionate than that of Fox Mulder — somehow can’t. But, hey, we believe what we want to. And in their case — they want to believe that these bitches really are the fucking rulers of the known universe … in their own minds, at least.

Sigh.

Ah, but all is not lost.

For those driven, those crafty enough to pull back the shroud, to glimpse beyond the veil … or … something — the heart of the woman lies underneath; and her friendship is not unattainable. But, do you — brave one — have the courage, the cunning to be real with them?

Here’s the deal.

We get tonnes (and I mean, metric fucktonnes) of subby-boys and wannabe ‘slaves’ contacting us all the damned time, with their, ‘Oh mistress you’re amazing mistress. Your the most amazing thing ever ever mistress. O my god oi’m not worthy mitsressssss!’ (SIC — ’cause that’s how they honestly read half the time. Spell-chequer? Whatever. They’ve never heard of it — or think they don’t have enough hands to fuck with it, given one is already around their cock).

Yeah. Put yourself in our shoes. How eager would you be to come home (or check your phone) and read that shit — a million times a day? From random homeys who can’t spell for shit and are probably fapping whilst typing? Euch. I d’know about you, but I’ve got better things to do.

However … every now and again, we’ll get an eloquent, well-planned, thoughtful, non-intrusive, respectful (but not hyperbolically spineless — as those are not the same thing) letter (I’ve even received one of the old-fashioned variety — in the actual post as of late, which was a very pleasant surprise) message, or email from someone with whom we actually would like to have a correspondence. It’s always a highlight, because it doesn’t happen very often, sadly.

And, yet, there are subby-boys lined up in the thousands at a single domme’s door desperately entreating her time and attention — and, in their wildest dreams, to gain admission to her private inner sanctum. Wishin’, and hopin’ and prayin’ that she might look upon him differently than the others he’s shoving out of the way, or who have come before him.

Unfortunately, the odds are against you. While not entirely unheard of that a domme may meet her longed-for submissive partner among her clientele, it’s probably about as likely as the plot of Pretty Woman. Might make a great rom-com, (and … did, actually, since there’s a bit of that in Walk All Over Me — check my Links and Amazon.com affiliate store for that one) but not that common in real life.

So, you’ve got to be apart from everyone at the get-go. You have to already have a spine, not be a pussy, and able to carry yourself as a human being before you drop on all fours and start calling her Mistress. You need to let your inner Han out; be roguishly charming, handsome, and a bit of a smart-ass. Don’t fucking give yourself over to her, dip-shit. Make her earn it. After all, this is what we want. Subby-boys and wannabe slaves that flood our Inbox and give us headaches don’t offer any chase. There’s no thrill. Now, now, I’m not saying you have to be a jackass, distant, and coy. We get to be coy. You get to be dynamic.

So, brave subby-boyfriend applicant. Here’s a sort of checklist you can scrawl down on a nearby napkin and stick in your pocket.

Call it ‘Lesson Plan 1′. (Test? The test will be through application. In the real world.)

Ready? Good. Here we go …

1. Got a job? Excellent.

2. Not looking for her to take over your entire life and be the sole means of your existence? Very good. That’s fun in play, and quite arousing (and endearing, actually) — but 24/7, it just gets annoying. After awhile, we just want to smack you around and remind you to grow some fucking balls, you pussy! But then, you probably like that anyway, so — good on you, mate. She doesn’t. Not yet.

3. If circumstances permit — still talk to your family? (And by circumstances permitting, I mean you’re not in some long, drawn-out and super-dramatic estrangement game.) Send your mom (providing she’s alive, of course) flowers on her birthday and Mother’s Day? Love and defend her honour? Good. We like that shit. It’s cute. Like the old rules say, the way a man treats his mother … Yep. That’s what we can expect in 50 years.

4. Do you know who the fuck you are? It’s okay if you’re still figuring it out; to some extent, we all are. But do you have enough of an idea what you are, and what you aren’t? Do you get that when a domme asks you who you are you don’t respond with, ‘I’m very submissive, Mistress.’ ? Because we already know that. You also don’t launch into some para-masturbatory explanation about all the kinky delights you wish to share with her.

Here’s a good primer.

HER: Hey. I’m Mistress Whatserbitch. Who’re you?

YOU: I’m John Doe. (Not ‘SlaveBoy4U’ or some other bullshit.)

HER: Cool, John. So … tell me about yourself.

(Here’s the one you do not want to fuck up. Two options: toss the ball back, or stick with the general.)

YOU (Option A: Toss-back): Well, what would you like to know?

HER: Anything. Surprise me. (Which is a very good response, since she wants to see where you’re going with it. Are you going to melt into fanboy-subbishness, or actually be a man? … Of course, it’s a test. That’s what we do. It’s fun.)

YOU (Option B: The General Response): Well, I used to be an accountant before, well, the economy went to hell. Now I’ve only been in my new job for a couple of months, but stuff’s looking up, I think. Let’s see … I like movies, though I think people made too much of a deal over Avatar — it revolutionised the industry, sure, but whatever. Oh, I like to cook. Italian, so — came from a large family, and everybody cooks. My mom taught me. [Pause] Not, uh, saying anything, but … I’m a pretty damned good cook.

HER: Are you? (Score!)

YOU: Oh, yeah. I make a lasagna from my family’s homemade recipe that’ll knock your panties off.

HER: Oh, really?

YOU: Absolutely.

HER: Uh-huh. And if you’re wrong?

YOU: Wrong? (Laugh. Be confident about it, but not a dick). Oh, I’m not wrong about this. I’m good at reading people. I know what they want.

HER: Do you now?

YOU: Oh, yeah.

HER: And what do I want?

YOU: For me to shut the fuck up and let you talk because I’ve spent way too long telling you about myself to the point where it’s becoming rude.

HER: (Laughing.) Well, shit.

Now, this can go two places. If you’re cute — dinner date is on. She already knows you’re submissive, so she just may be set up for an awesome meal and super-hot kink. Uh … bonus? And why does it work? Because you’re not an asshole, you’re showing you’re confident. You’re giving her a challenge — saying that she will want you. And NOT in that ‘I’m going to top you’ sort of way, but I’m going to make you want me sort of way. And that shit is fucking Hot with a capital ‘H’, bitches.

So, even if you’re not as super-smooth as … this weird amalgam of my ex-boyfriends, fiance, and Dalston Lockwood — you can still stand a chance. Just remember your 4 C’s:

1) Confidence

2) Competence

3) Charm

4) Chivalry

That’s all it is: Show us you’re confident at the beginning; that you have competence — in your life, with others, at your job; charm us, because we love a guy that’s smart, clever, and can laugh at himself. (That way, even if you fuck up royally, we’re likely to give you another shot.) And chivalry — because it’s not fucking dead, and there’s a huge difference between being chivalrous and being a doormat.

Learn the difference.

… and good luck!

But rather than randomly throw lyrics to Thompson Twin hits at you, I’m here to continue my fledgling little SotW series, (that’s ‘Spin of the Wheel’, for the currently uninitiated; here’s a dime — buy a clue) ‘Dimestore Dominatrix’. Those of you that get it — bravo. But for the rest that don’t, here’s a brief history of, well, me.

Since I can legally market myself as a therapist but not a psychologist (even though that‘s where all of my bloody formal education and training has been) I feel I have some right in getting angry with those who are uninformed spouting advice; better known as the ‘dime-store psychologist’. (Look it up. It’s a fuckbuddy of the ‘armchair warrior — but where they do the deed, I have no idea. Some metaphors die half-way in, others live to see the final punctuation. Jury’s still out on that one.) Now that I have you in the right mood, dime-store psychs aren’t all bad. Hardly. Most of them happen to be in professions where they’re basically practising their trade and counseling people — the last part being for free. (You ever stop to think about all the shit you tell your stylist? Your manicurist? Your … Blackjack dealer? Buy those bitches a machiatto, please.) And, being that most of what being a therapist is about is just learning and listening to people, it’s not that big of a shocker that some who are actually formally educated in something besides clinical psychology have some pretty sage advice for you.

And then … there’s the rest.

The know-it-alls that think fucking watching Oprah makes them an expert on the human condition. (Though one would be surprised what they learn from listening to years of Howard Stern. Strange, perhaps — but valid.) If they confined it to lesser-travelled corners of the Internet, I’d be fine, but most of these people have huge audiences. And they don’t know the first thing about what it is they’re masquerading. You can fake just about anything these days, but take heed: those who are experts and professionals in the field in which you’re pretending will know.

And you will annoy the fucking shit out of them.

That being said — dime-store shrinkism. (‘Shrinkology’ sounds fun, but since an ‘-ology’ is the study of, we’re not studying shrinks, so an ‘-ism’ works best.) In homage to my hatred of fakers spewing bad advice, I have ironically labeled my own series ‘Dimestore Dominatrix’ — which will feature bits and pieces of random advice and experiences from a formally educated and trained therapist in the field of clinical psychology, but who has chosen not to be a clinician, and doesn’t like the boxed-in feeling of certification and licensing. A lot of it is common fucking sense, but backed up with hard evidence from various disciplines in which I have experience.

It’s also free, assholes. You’re welcome. Oh, but if you do seek to thank me for my valuable service — that ‘Donate’ button ain’t gonna hit itself. Just sayin’.

That being said … on with the first of many!

‘Fuck Me / Fuck You‘:

Fuck. Whatta word. Ain’t it just astounding how we use identical vernacular with such broad, contradictory expression? One thing remains the same about it, though: it’s always passionate. Whether it’s, ‘Fuck you, asshole!’ or, ‘Oh, fuck me, baby,’ it’s got intensity. There are other words for conveying a sense of mild frustration, ennui, or partial conviction. Oh, no — when we f-bomb, we’re fucking serious about that shit. (See?)

It’s no wonder then, why we somehow think it’s okay to fight and then fuck.

Blood’s pumping, red is the current view, and suddenly, we just want to fucking throw that Goddamned son-of-a-bitch against the wall and use his cock for all it’s worth — regardless of how we’re currently feeling about the man attached to it. Why? ‘Cause sex has no place in a logical equation of human relationships. That’s the point at which civilisation breaks down and raw, carnal instinct takes over.

But should it? In a culture where make-up sex is known across-the-board as ‘the best kind’, don’t we ever take a stop and ponder why that should be? (I know I do, but I’m a genius, and we’re always filling our brains with useless shit that may potentially be useful, if we could just find it applicable somewhere.) Lucky for me, this is. Very. Sure, it’s got biochemical bullshit written all over it — but is that the full story? Hell, no — but it does certainly contribute to things. Like I said — blood pumping, logical thought shut down, instinct taking over. I learned of the inextricable link between sex and violence ages ago, and have been captivated since. Fortunately, there’s enough Vulcan in me to allow me to constantly view everything from an objective, rational, detached standpoint — even when I’m in someone’s face and really, really wanting to throw a drink in it. (Yeah, you Podcast listeners will get that one.) So, luckily, I can see where I’m either going (or very near-to) ape-shit and pull back enough to examine the situation with clean eyes.

Like you guys, I engaged in (perhaps even more than) my share of make-up sex, for the obvious reason that it was fucking hot, dude! How can you not be enamoured with circumstances in which people are being thrown against things, clothes are being ripped from bodies, and the mad frenzy is resulting in so much pleasure and pain that the two become indistinguishable from each other thanks to the endorphin rush? And as anybody who’s studied the brain on a more than lay-level understand, it becomes a powerful, conditioned response — and your brain and body want it more, more, more. Soon, what have you got?

Come on, this one’s easy. A (ha) no-brainer, even.

All right, I’ll tell you. You have an addiction. Yeah! You know, that thing they medically call a disease? Where all rational everything has been defenestrated, and you’re left at the mercy of this conditioned response that resulted from this one really awesome thing your brain majorly dug that one time? So, of course, you do it again. And then again. And … again. And again, and again, and again.

Take-home message? Make-up sex is an addiction. Now, typically, bad shit comes along with an addiction. Things we don’t want, stuff with which others close to us don’t want to deal, and a number of other headaches and mass confusion leading to more bad decision-making, now that the original intent is somewhere back there with the first chick you banged when you were angry, in a relationship that was only so-so, making sex between you for the very first time, unfathomably hot.

In short, you were fucked. In every which way imaginable. Just like learning is a hell of a lot easier than unlearning, getting unfucked is an equally complicated, somewhat mind-numbing (literally) venture. First, you have to go about how you ordinarily would in the case of any addiction, and stop fucking doing it, you dipshit. And for us kinksters — that’s a pretty tall order. STOP having incredibly hot, somewhat unhealthy, but unfuckingbelievably hot sex? Actually, I should add — kinky sex, since — let’s face it. Most of the time make-up sex is the gateway to kink in a relationship. Not always, but when that much shit is going down, all kinds of bizarreness happens. And when make-up sex is the way in which a couple experiences kink — more power to them. But they shouldn’t be relying on the make-up sex as a crutch for getting back to the amazing bonding they got from being kinky together. It’s important to separate cause from effect here, and keep everything in its right place. (Yeah, I quoted Radiohead. You got a problem with that? If so, fuck you. I may not really like anything post Hail To The Thief, either, but Pablo Honey and OK Computer got me through college. So, deal.)

Of course, I digress. This is me, after all. Not some other therapist-domme whose blog you read. Moving on.

So. If you, like countless others, have found yourself relying upon the short-lived thrill and extended badness of make-up sex, do take comfort that you’re not alone — and, like me — recovery is not impossible. In fact, I’m going to give you the first crucial steps to get there. (You’re welcome.)

1. Get Kinky

I know, it’s stupidly simple, isn’t it? Well, for those of us in an openly negotiated kinky relationship, practising varying degrees of BDSM on a daily, or near daily, basis. So, for us lucky ones, you need to have a mistress-subby sit-down and decide what role anger plays in your relationship. Not the playful, sexy ‘you’ve been a very bad boy,’ sort of stuff. No, the real anger — the times you wonder if he’s incapable of remembering the items of a grocery list, or doing his share of the housework, or succeeding in bringing you flowers twice a year (’cause they are pretty) or willing to listen rather than tune you out because he’s sure it’s the same shit he’s heard a million times before. Those times. (I bet your blood’s already boiling.)

WAIT. Put down the crop, and listen. Closely.

In a good relationship, where there’s positive mutual affirmation, respect, and a genuine desire to find resolutions to problems rather than sacrificing the commitment, anger is a signal that something’s misaligned somewhere — and if you love each other — really love each other — you’ll look for and fix it. A funny little irony is that typically, men bitch about shit that women do, while the feminine gripe tends to be over what he’s not doing. Think about that strange, accidental complement for a moment. We’re each going about things in our own way, and it peculiarly can line up — if we make it do so.

She wants him to pick up the house. He wants her to stop bitching (about his not picking up the house, but still.) He probably also needs some silence — just a bit — before she bombards him with everything in the universe that’s been going through her head for the last 8 hours, when he gets home. (Okay, so a lot of my own private education has been via John Gray. Again, deal with it.) This still applies to our modern, feminist-infused — and in our case, femdom — day and age. But even if she works, and he doesn’t, or they both do, or they keep odd hours separately — the same applies. Men will always have slightly different needs than women, but there’s a way for everyone to meet in the middle and be happy. (Really.)

As before, in a relationship that’s openly negotiated, anger can be incorporated into kinky play so long as there’s full consent and zero coercion. This means, obviously, that, ladies: if you want to beat his ass because you’re having a bad day, then he’s got to be completely down with that. Some men will be, others are less inclined. So, as always, actual mileage may vary.

2. Angry Time Is NOT Sexy Time

I mean, shit — for a lot of us the last thing the girl wants to do is give you any pleasure, you self-centred son-of-a-bitch — when you’re acting like an asshole. But alas, some couples do find themselves in coitus even before the gloves are off. So here’s another important tidbit:

Sex does not signal the end of a fight.

If you must, take a negotiated sex break while you’re breaking the addiction. What is a sex break? It’s where you fuck and then resume the fighting. No, I’m not fucking with you. Once you’ve both had your jollies, it’s time to get serious again. Why? Because it’s going to be coming up again quite soon — and it’s better to deal with it before you head to your friends’ dinner party and one (or both) of you end up wearing the casserole. So, unless the both of you were able to mutually determine that the roots of your spat were stupid before sexing — consider the fight to be postponed on account of hormones — not concluded.

And just what do you do then, if you’ve taken a ‘sex break’ ? How do you pick the fight back up? First things first — you wait a good 15, maybe 20 minutes so that the sex haze has worn off. In fact, it’s that very reason so many couples incorrectly think that make-up sex is a good thing. One word. Oxytocin. When that shit’s flowing, life is wonderful. And that man that made you so mad as hell for … erm … something, is just so damned wonderful — how could you ever have been angry with him? (Of course, it all mysteriously floods back to you after you’ve cleaned up and checked your email. Hmmm. Funny how that happens … ) Naturally, the poor guy thinks this was a win and everyone’s happy now. That he’s managed to emerge victorious, unscathed, and with the bonus of an orgasm.

Oh, how very wrong he is …

Now, I hear you dissenters piping up in your gathering chorus. If sex is so crucial to a good relationship, (and make no mistake — it is) then does it really matter how the couple goes about it? Yes, and no. Of course, the assumption we’re making here is in the first part of the sentence: good relationship. If you’ve got that nailed down, then a bit of occasional make-up sexing won’t kill you — just watch out for it becoming a habit. That can in the long-run.

To illustrate, let’s take our emergent hypothetical couple here, and say that this has become a pattern for them. They haven’t been together for all that long, they’re relatively happy, and their sex always happens after a fight. For any therapist, there are sirens and bells going off all over the place — starting with the couple being pretty newly formed. Since time is the great revealer (– I know it’s not a word — fuck off –) of many things, any counselor worth their salt will fear that this relationship will never really gain solid footing, since it’s gotten such a rocky start sexually. This couple has yet to build a stable sexual relationship based upon trust and genuine admiration — something that could sustain them — since they’ve decided to skate by on fuck-and-fight, which may get you through six months, but not much longer than that. Not without major unhappiness, a sense of feeling trapped, and a general inability to quite get what’s wrong, while there’s the underlying sense that everything is. So, for a new couple, it’s practically a death sentence. For an experienced couple? Maybe a sign of laziness — or boredom. They’re seeking to change it up, basically feel secure in their foundation, and are getting a little sloppy. Again, the first blow won’t topple the whole structure, but repeated attacks will. Be forewarned.

Unfortunately, the best solution is the simplest — and most difficult to implement:

3. There Is A Time: For Sex, and For Anger — But NOT TOGETHER.

If you’ve allotted separate kink time to relieve the pressure of fights before they start — then good for you. So long as you keep a constant and open negotiation going, you should never encounter the negativity that can sometimes come from incorporating real anger with your kink.

While it may be very difficult not to fall into bed together at the first inclination that your fury is turning into fucking, you’ll find greater harmony and alignment in the long-term. If you love each other, and are still attracted to one another, it’s natural that you’re going to want to seize the moment. Don’t. It’s the hormones talking, and they’ll be there — if your relationship is a truly good one, with the right ingredients — once you’ve found a resolution to your current dilemma. Remember, once the hormones have subsided, the fight will still be there underneath them. Deal with it first. You’ll be glad you did.

Oh, and before I forget — replace your make-up sex with gratitude sex. It’s basically the stuff you thought you were having, minus all of the hormones confusing everything up in the heat of the moment. What the fuck is it? Gratitude sex is not what you’re thinking: it’s not the post-expensive-dinner-blow-job. Gratitude sex is the genuine seeking to bond — typically of both partners — after a real resolution has been reached to what may have been a threat to their relationship.

Why it’s ‘gratitude’ should be obvious; you just dodged a bullet. And fuck, that’s something to celebrate.

Have fun.