“Terror enlarges the object, as does joy.” — William Carlos Williams

I used to fixate on scenes for days in advance. Rather than simply not doing it and, you know, taking up tennis or knitting instead of S&M, I spent most of my waking moments just barely restraining myself from chickening out.

As afraid as I was, however, I was rarely brave enough for that kind of cowardice; I knew canceling would just prolong this horrible anticipation, and might even cause my top to suggest that our rescheduled beating be even more injurious or humiliating, something that I found very difficult to say no to. A frog eater to my core, more often than not I went through with it, though I hoped and prayed until the last possible moment that an act of god (head cold, death in the family, etc.) would make my top reschedule. And while god did come through once or twice, almost invariably the agreed-upon hour would approach to find me—flushed, sweaty, positively vibrating—packing a clean change of clothes and double-checking the address of the dungeon (punk house, condo, whatever) where my top awaited me, I imagined, in still and silent darkness, like a wooden soldier inside a cuckoo clock in the seconds before midnight finally strikes.

Read more