I’ve written a version of this blog post about ten times over… — The Ethical Dom

Published with permission of The Boss.

Disclaimer: This was written before this. It’s been sat in my inbox for a long while, and sometimes the easiest way to set things free is to expose them.

Ten times. That means I’ve edited it at least thirty times — my secret shame: I am a serial editor. That doesn’t make my writing any better, in fact it gets worse. The message always gets lost as I water down my words to the point where they are paralysed by as much fear as I’m feeling right now. So here is yet another version. Unedited and straight off my sometimes clouded mind.

The fear is unjustified. Not many people know who I am in this space, and those that do have always made it safe.

I’m stalling again. Stalling the inevitable. Procrastination is my middle name. I have it down to a fine art. When I should be writing, you can find me hoovering an immaculate carpet, the drum of the hoover begging for more than the whispers of dust it receives. When I should be studying, you will find me wallowing in the bath — the perfect place to read a book? Think again. The perfect place to respond to those emails that didn’t need looking at when they arrived let alone two weeks after the fact. And here I go again.

I was sexually assaulted. I was raped. There I’ve done it. Rip off the band aid. It’s not the first time I’ve mentioned it on this blog, but it’s the first time I’m going to talk about it. This blog, much like our lifestyle, is about owning our sexualities. And while we tend to keep the sex talk to one side, it is an inescapable part of the way we Masters and slaves live our truths.

One of the reasons I have been reluctant to discuss this is that, as a BDSMer I am constantly faced with the faux psychology that we who practice such a thing must all be survivors of trauma. Not only is that ignorant, it’s also categorically untrue.

I am always quick to point out that I existed within this community many years before my assault. Perhaps too quick, but I mean it as a way of reframing the assumption. I don’t do it to diminish those who do come to this lifestyle from existing trauma, because they absolutely exist and have a right to live their truths. Yet I don’t speak for them, because I am not one of them.

I understand those survivors completely. Because this lifestyle is nothing short of divinity when you can tap into its healing nature.

There’s not much to say about the rape itself. I’ve told the story so many times, to a handful of therapists and select close friends, it honestly bores me. My recollection is hazy due to the fact that I had been drugged that night.

I remember saying ‘no’. But even if I hadn’t, I was in no state to give consent. One of my recollections about the night, the most vivid perhaps, is my yelling out safewords at the top of my lungs. Safewords I had been taught to use within my community. They fell up on death ears. What little I know of the man who assaulted me, I know he wasn’t part of our community. Again, something else I’m quick to point out, and this is where my message gets muddled.

Vanilla society tends to fit BDSMers into two tiny, inescapable boxes that their ignorant minds can explain away. They like to think that dominants are abusers and submissives are abused. Therefore, I will never stop pointing out that my abuser was not a member of the community.

Of course there are abusers in our community. But it’s not a BDSM condition, it’s a human one.

One thing my experience did give me, was an alternative look at consent. Before that night I had experienced many a consensual relationship and also experienced what we BDSMers refer to as consensual non-consent.

Consensual non-consent (CNC) is not wrong. It’s a big part of consensual BDSM. CNC is a surrender, the sweet surrender of control. It’s where I perversely feel safe, when it comes to the physical part of my relationship with The Boss. And I’ve felt the same with other Doms and Masters who have been in my life over the years.

With The Boss, most of what we do was consented to up front. During training, I gave what we call blanket consent to pretty much all facets of our Power Exchange. That doesn’t mean I am legally bound to uphold that consent. In fact, I could withdraw it at any time. But I choose not to. It’s one of the most misunderstood parts of a TPE — the hidden power of a slave.

For people mired in the porn narrative of what a Master/slave relationship is, when you mention the hidden power of a slave, they start to squirm. The notion starts chipping away at their fragile fantasy. What I would like to explain is that acknowledging that we have a certain amount of power doesn’t make a slave any less submissive, any less dependent upon their Master. It’s just realistic. And, as the Boss has said in the past, the easiest way to strengthen a fantasy is to root it in the real world.

I choose not to choose. I surrender that right to the man I love, honour and obey. There are parts of our relationship that I don’t from time to time enjoy. But that’s the same for any relationship.

And again, I talked my way out of talking about the subject I came here to talk about. Why? Because, however much I like to sing and dance about how far I’ve come, that night will always hold some power over me. And there is the point. Surrendering our power must always be a conscious choice. If we don’t choose to surrender our power and someone takes it anyway, then we start to lose ourselves. And, although losing yourself in the confines of voluntary servitude is eminently healing, liberating, cathartic, soul-strengthening — all that jazz — it’s about choice.

Choice is power. Power is the ability to choose freely. And despite that event that happened over a decade ago now, I am still strong enough to choose to surrender my choices to a person I trust. That might seem confusing to some, but it makes sense to me. I find people’s choices confusing too. We are all human, the same in many ways, but vastly different in others. And one of our most infuriating habits is to judge the choices of others. I’m not innocent, I do it all the time. But can we just agree to hear people out from time to time.

I dedicate this blog post to the well-meaning woman on social media who, while blindly believing she was saving my soul, actually knocked me off course for a day or two. I hope this brief diatribe helps you understand a little bit more about me and what I choose (because yes that’s a thing, even for a slave) to do.

Stay safe,

boi slave (Mattie)

Originally published at https://theethicaldom.com on November 1, 2021.