My Journey, Part Five

As I started adulthood, things started to look up.  I had been in therapy with a very good psychologist for a couple of years.  I had gotten into legal trouble, yet was very lucky all at the same time.  The resolution to the legal problems was court ordered therapy, which doesn’t sound very lucky on the surface.  However, the therapist saw through my mother immediately, and accordingly, I was in group therapy once a week as well as two private sessions a week.  The luck part came in when my parents did not like the direction of my therapy, or her tone towards them, but because of the court order they were powerless to pull me out of it.

One of the first things I did as an adult is completely restructure the relationship with my parents.  Yes, believe it or not, I still talk to them even to this day.  However, I made it perfectly clear that now I could, and would, leave.  Forever, if necessary.  My sibling did completely sever their relationship, so they knew it was possible.  Did it make everything better?  Absolutely not, but it did change the power dynamic.  They would try to push, I would walk away.  They still try to push, I still walk away.

As for my sex life, I had a completely vanilla one except that I habitually dated older, married women.  I did not want the commitment long term, and for the most part they were unable to provide one.  Besides, unhappy married women tend to be much more sexually forward than women in their early twenties.  They had no trouble making it perfectly clear what they wanted, thus alleviating any need for me to be sexually aggressive.  I’m not trying to say life was golden, however.  There were a few very awkward situations to live through, but I was content to just sort of float through this area of my life.

At this point, we arrive back to one of my original questions of the series:  How in the world did I ever get involved in the lifestyle and it’s activities, especially given all the abuse?

I have always, even as a teen, masturbated regularly when not in a sexual relationship with someone.  I got my first computer at twenty-one, and while the 14.4b modem certainly presented a different version of the internet than we enjoy today, I discovered erotica, and specifically lifestyle themed erotica.  As is still true today, the vast majority of material is of a male dominant and female submissive.  A curious thing happens even to this day when I read or watch at this variety of porn:  I put myself in the submissive’s role.  Not that I want to be a woman, or want a male dominant, but I extend the fantasy of what is presented by imagining it being done to me.  The activities I found arousing, I would look into more deeply.  Some of it turned out to be mere flights of the author’s fancy, some things while theoretically possible were not very plausible or sane to me, and much of it left me with a huge sense of “I wish…”  It took a little over three years before I stumbled upon a story with an abbreviation in the title I did not recognize: FemDom.  I read it, and I think a part of my brain literally exploded.

There, encapsulated in a single story, was the seeming answer to everything I was looking for.  In that one story was the depiction of an adult relationship, including all the activities I had been fantasizing about, where I did not have to be sexually aggressive, or pretend to be a woman, or be with a man.  I headed back into research mode, trying to find out if this was actually a real thing.  Believe it or not, the internet was not yet the information gold mine it is today twenty years ago.  The information I was looking for was scarce, and what there was to be found was oblique and misleading.  But I am nothing if not hard-headed.  I reasoned that I could not possibly be the only person to think this way, after all I had the story written by a woman I did not know, so began the journey of introducing it to my girlfriends, and if they were interested, seeing where it went.

As for the abuse aspect, and it’s impact, I have to say that the two things have never collided.  The lifestyle, in general, is firmly based upon the concept of consent.  Through my previous research into activities, I was already aware of this.  I was also acutely aware that there was no consent in any form of abuse.  The two worlds just do not, ever, overlap when the parties involved hold this one simple concept at the center of their play. One word can stop a BDSM scene. A thousand words cannot stop abuse.

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My Journey, Part Four

Near the end of Part Three, I mentioned a remarkable incident that happened when I was seventeen.  Unfortunately, it was an incident rivaling the best comedy of errors I have ever read.  It was hilarious, unbelievable, and in some ways life and perception altering.

By my late teens I was fed up.  I had had enough of the abuse, the lies having to be told to keep it quiet, and the uncaring, if not downright condoning, attitudes of the authorities, schools, etc.  I cannot say that I was a “good” kid.  I did basically whatever the fuck I wanted, and paid the price for it.  But shit, I was getting abused regardless, so I might as well as have had some fun to deserve it.  At least, that is what my mindset was at the time.

Anyhow, I did a very typical teen thing.  I came home before curfew, yawned a couple of times, said good night, closed my bedroom door and out the window I went back to my friends.  I had a really good time, until I was woken up, pinned down with my arms under the covers of my bed, and my father standing over me in just his underwear and shirt beating the crap out of me.  Okay, I probably deserved it, but I had already formed two rules in my head.  First, if you ball up your fist to me, you are not looking to discipline or reprimand, you are looking for a fight.  Second, beware if you think I’m not going to retaliate if you choose to fight in an unfair manner.  The beating stopped, and I took the time to shake my head and jumped up to continue the fight.  I have no idea where my father got dressed that morning since all I saw were the taillights of his car going down the street.

My mother got up to find me cleaning a pistol in the living room, and one simple statement from me: “I’m going to kill the fucking coward if he walks through that door again.”  After a series of frantic phone calls, and because it is easier to remove a minor from a house, off I went to the nearest psych ward with an open bed by that afternoon. It is probably the singular reason I am able to still enjoy my freedom now.  There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that I was going to prison that night, and I was alright with it.  I spent four months on a locked, private co-ed psych ward for teenagers while they tried to discover what was “wrong” with me.

Here is what they came up with:  I was depressed, and manic, but it was all due to my severely repressed homosexuality.  Yes, at that time, homosexuality was still something requiring psychiatric diagnosis rather than just being part of the greater human sexuality spectrum.  As far as “severely repressed”… no shit, even I didn’t know! This wonderful diagnosis was achieved because to pass the time I would draw my old high school mascot, the head of a Trojan warrior.  Can we all say WTF?  Thankfully, society and even the field of psychiatry has moved forward from this way of thinking in the last 25 years or so.

What I found even more ludicrous in the entire incident is that after making this diagnosis, my treatment did not take the course of trying to “change” me, or giving me help on how to deal with it, or even once maybe asking if I agreed with it at all.  Instead, my entire treatment regimen became focused on preparing my father that he had a homosexual son!  Once again, all together now…  WTF???

But funny how some things just seem to stick like a bad hangnail in the back of the mind. During my twenties, I again had a couple of female friends who also questioned whether or not I was homosexual, or at least bi-sexual.  It seemed I could never get completely away from it.  Finally, in my mid-thirties, I did have my one and only homosexual relationship basically just to see if it could be true that other people were seeing things in me that I could not see myself.  Yep, that’s what I thought, I’m not homosexual, not even bi-sexual.  Nothing wrong with either, it’s just not a part of my sexuality.

Moral of the story:  Fuck the years of abuse, screw any ability to think for oneself, we have to save Dad from the indignity of a homosexual son!  Yeah, I don’t think so!