Search: label/the before

A few weeks ago now I blogged about the somewhat disturbing trend I’d noticed whilst Internet dating. It’s actually quite logical. Police officers tend to be the alpha male type. And the alpha male types tend to be into a little bit of hardcore bondage.

To offset how very uncomfortable and vulnerable it made me feel, offers of coppers tying me up with rope; I reacted with depreciating humor. Not self depreciating humor… just depreciating.Cause that’s what we do.

Now, it’s coming to my attention more and more that the people who read this blog are very, very cool. I’ve always thought that– how could I not, when every comment and email I receive speaks to that being true? But the results of this survey are making me realize what a liberal, open minded, honest bunch of people you lot really are. And that is fucking awesome. (Surveys still open, by the way).

Every now and then, someone will leave me a comment that ruffles my feathers and challenges me slightly. I always fight the urge to dismiss them as ‘trolling’, or call them a dickhead just because they don’t agree with me. If something’s making me feel bitchy, there’s probably an issue there I need to take a look at. And this comment, left on that post about coppers and bondage, was no different…

“Not that you have a judgmental attitude to go along with your complete lack of knowledge of BDSM. Oh no, not at all. Can you feel the sarcasm? I do hope so.

I have no issue with your not being kinky, to each their own, but just because it’s not your thing doesn’t make these people creepy or irresponsible or disturbed. That’s your own internal prejudice, and this post is exceptionally narrow minded. Go and do some research before applying such labels to anyone who doesn’t want to fuck the same way you do.” (Edited to correct spelling).

I freaking hate it when people are right.

And this commenter couldn’t have been more correct. I knew nothing about BDSM. That much was evident in my surprise at the new knowledge that this was actually a ‘culture’… there was more to this than sex.

I despise willful ignorance. And with an Internet connection, in the year 2012, there’s very little excuse for it. This was so terrifying because I knew nothing at all about it… and that’s the kind of attitude in the human race that is, in the long run, responsible for starting wars and spilling blood.

So I did a little bit of research. And, as one usually finds when they delve into the human psyche, what I found was nothing short of fascinating.

Forget sex. This has nothing to do with sex. What I mistook for role playing is a lifestyle for some people– and here is where I am going to apologize for not acknowledging that in the first place.

The Doc likes to say that everything is about sex except sex, which is about power. That’s a basic human truth. People feed on power, and it tends to bring out the worst in us. I guess that’s why the appeal of dominating someone seems to easy to understand. Even if it’s not something that gets you off, there are a million examples of it, and it’s a base truth is pop psychology– power is sexy. Power is heady and narcissistic and so easy to wield.

The talent would have to be in restraining it.

But while it’s easy to understand, in theory at least, the attraction of being the one who is dominant; it’s the role of the submissive that seems terrifying, difficult and almost impossible to understand. And yet, for someone in control of every aspect of every their life, with little direction from others, there is an appeal to it which I’ve written about before. The thrill of letting go. The wanton hedonism that comes with feeling like an object.

I read The Story of O, infamous long before 50 Shades of Grey, and fond myself marveling at the language used, the lack of vulgarity and crude nouns where synonyms can be used instead, exemplified by the slight lilt of the French–to–English translation of a book penned forty years ago. I find blogs, of course, ones that I could spend hours reading for the simple fact that the lives chronicled in them are so different to mine. I stumble across the online journals of women who are married, who have been with their Master for years and live a normal suburban life when they’re not naked and collared in the presence of their husband. I discover women who are single and have chosen submission, who are preparing and training themselves as they search for someone who would be compatible… a yin to their yang. A darkness to their light.

And again, I’m not talking about sex… this has nothing to do with sex. There is an admirable element of self improvement and self denial, of restraint and discipline. The practice of yoga is encouraged, as is the perfection of poses that streamline the body and can be assumed upon request or demand.

Somewhere deep in the shady underground of the interwebs where fluorescent mushrooms bloom in the darkness, I find a submissive prayer, a rosary to be said in meditation. A supplication to one’s master as if they were a God. The deliberate and careful use of language within BDsM fascinates me– I resonate with people who play intermiddley with the English language, who flirt with capital letters and double entrendes.

Don’t get me wrong– I saw plenty of kinky perversions too. And why yes, I did feel all kinds of weird and creepy “doing research on fetish sites”, even if it was legit. (It’s right up there with telling the salesman at Harvey Norman you want a high quality HD webcam and feeling as though you should add “it’s not
for that!”). But the implicit kink that comes with wearing a dog collar somehow feels far more wholesome than the Christian Domestic Discipline fetish movement that involves God–fearing men spanking their middle aged wives into premenopausal submission.

Sarcasm (laced with fear) aside, I’ve discovered a subculture seething with base psychology. And, as we know– I love that kinda thing. Bizarrely and unexpectedly, I’ve found myself with a genuine respect for a lot of women who act as full time submissive slaves, in the same way I found myself startled at the admiration I had for women who are paid to strip. There’s nothing easy or simple about it– it appears to be a matter of dedication and hard work, of being as in control of one’s mind as completely as to let someone else control you, to trust someone complexity as to allow them that kind of power of your body, to believe they know you intuitively enough to make your decisions for you. It was difficult to find a great deal of information about the psychology of the practice and the way the inherent differences between makes and females serve to strengthen submissive relationships… But perhaps I just didn’t know where to look.

Before we all go taking massive leaps to sordid conclusions- I find myself so amazed by the trust required to actively practice as a submissive simply because I could never imagine having that kind of implicit faith in someone. I’d add ‘ever again’ to the end of that sentence, but truly I don’t recall if I had that intense of a souls agreement with my husband, or not. And neither the person I am now nor the one I was in the Before is capable of that level of selflessness or patience. I require too much time to myself, my temper burns far too hot when I feel my freedom is restricted.

Human nature never ceases to strike me as incredible. I’ve discovered a whole slice of humanity I never knew existed, a mindset that’s akin to a religion. I dislike it when I discover a flat spot of understanding in myself. A big raspberry-blowing kind-of thank you to those of you who kick my arse into line when you happen to see it, too.

If you read this blog… do you trust me?

Why…?

I’ll confess I am an inherently trusting person– trust is my default setting and I’m always shocked and hurt upon discovering I can’t trust someone in the way I thought I could. That extends to online interactions and the social medias; to blogging, to Twitter, to Internet dating.

I was accused of lying on this blog in an anonymous comment a few weeks ago. It’s not the first time I’ve been accused of lying. But it’s the first time that accusation came with no emotional undertones, no nastiness and blame. This accusation was based on my facts not adding up, mathematically.

And it just pissed off no end.

It pissed me off more that it made it’s way under my skin, when we all know most anonymous comments are fifty percent troll and twenty percent coward. But it made me seethe, sent me hurtling to defend myself– which is, of course, the best way to make yourself look like you are deceiving someone.

Anyway. I wasn’t. And I think it annoyed so much because, dammit, I have done nothing but told the raw truth in this space for the last eighteen months. And I’ve bled for it, been flagellated not only by strangers but by people who I once thought loved me. And I’ve stuck firm, held my head up high, cried a thousand tears… and kept writing.

After all that, why would I lie about something so simple, when the story without it would have been enough…? When it was so dramatically coincidentally that it sounded like a fable anyway?

Do I not have enough drama on my blog already?

Whatever. The irony of it is such a kick in the head. I remember, somewhere in the murky haze of those first few days After, waiting with a sliding paranoia for someone to accuse me of lying, call me a troll. Again, it was a story so remarkable that it almost seemed fiction, and I wouldn’t be surprised, nor would I blame anyone for it, if there had been a few covert enquiries made to ensure I was telling the truth.

The further we trek into the After, the less I worry about that– it never crosses my mind, to be honest. Surely, the work involved in carrying on such a long, arduous second life would surely be too monstrous to attempt.

Then I read this article and that theory was blown out right out of the interwebs.

Emily Dirr pretended to be someone else for eleven years. Apparently- if you can believe anything at all in this particularly twisted destined-to-become urban myth- she grew with the Internet, from LiveJournal to MySpace to FaceBook, weaving a story that seemed plausible. How many bloggers do you know with extended, blended families; living lives so very different from your own? Isn’t that why we read other people’s blogs to begin with?

The story of J.S. Dirr, the digital entity Emily created, only untangled when reality bulged just that little too far past the boundaries of normal. After Dana Dirr, wife and mother to their nineteen children (step, adopted, fostered and natural) was run over on Christmas Eve, while pregnant with another child, on her way to work as a life–saving trauma surgeon…. someone took a closer look.

I can’t imagine why, really. Even compared to my story, that seems totally plausible.

Back when I first began blogging- when I was fresh meat at the time and had no real bearing on what was happening- there were a few women I knew on Twitter who, it came out, were duped by another blogger they believed they had supported through both a coma and chemotherapy. Even without knowing the finer details, and only just beginning to form friendships with the innocent parties, the sense of hurt and betrayal when this woman’s house of cards fell down was palpable.

They tell you not to believe everything you read, especially here online where identities are only as good as an email address and you can be whoever you please. Don’t we all someone who just doesn’t seem to add up, who gives you that funny ringing in the back of your mind that something is just not right…?

I’ve said before, good blogging is good story telling, and that involves omitting some details and emphasizing others. But that’s as far as it should go, surely. I know of at least one blogger who is happy to state her blog is thirty percent truth, seventy percent fiction– isn’t that pushing the balance of entertaining people with your truth and lying to them a bit too far?

It’s a rock and a metaphorical hard place. It’s not cynical, just practical and logical, to be aware that some people simply don’t have the sense of morals or truth or ethics (call it self–righteousness, for sure) as me or you might possess. It’s not something I like– my husband often accused me of living in some kind of fairy land where everyone was inherently good and people could be trusted– but that’s life, and forgetting that seems to be an almost guaranteed way of getting yourself hurt, embarrassed or taken advantage of.

But when the Internet is your community, that changes things. I’ve blogged before about the way online interaction is a healthy substitute for the direct psychical support of other women, other mothers; and IBM seems to agree that the further we hurtle into the 21st century, the more of our socializing will be done online. With that in mind, don’t we have a right to assume that the people we are talking to on Twitter or FaceBook, the person who’s blog or Tumblr we are following, is authentic, real, flesh and blood and exactly who they say they are?

Probably not. But we don’t even have that right when it comes to face to face, In Real Life contact– everything is, potentially, a scam, a lie or a threat.

You tie all those strings together– the digital, the Reality, the mediums used the communicate and the propensity of potential liars around– and you’re left with a strange, amateur crochet of an evolving society. Societies become communities when bonds are formed, and for that to happen, there has to be some level of trust, some sense of exposing of your vulnerabilities in the light of people’s ability to tread all over them, and their choice not to.

We have a community here. We expect authenticity from the people we feel we have a connection with. If we didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt so much, inspire so much anger, when we discover things just aren’t what they seem.