I miss being flogged. I miss the impact of a thick leather flogger crashing into my back, pushing me forward, thudding the air out of my lungs. I miss the soft surface slaps saying hello, the stingy tips burning my skin, the heavy strands slamming into my body, the cool tails trailing gently across my curves; so many different sensations from a single source. I miss offering my whole backside to be hit: shoulders, back, ass, thighs, and back again. I miss my tops putting their whole body into hitting me. I miss the rhythm of heavy slaps dancing up and down my back. I miss the swish of cool air before the whip collides with my flesh. I miss my tops dancing back and forth between being at striking distance and being right up against me for a check-in or a change of sensation. I miss us taking up all that space in a dungeon with just a single toy between two people. I miss the deep thuds that reverberate through my entire body, making me feel like there is no part of me that is not part of this. I miss moaning into the blows; purring, growling, grunting. I miss being able to stand there, hands on a wall or on a St. Andrew’s Cross, feet firmly rooted, and take it like someone much more well-padded. I miss swinging back and forth under that impact, being shoved away by its force, then returning for more in an endless undulation. I miss the smell of leather wafting around me, like a very slow tornado with me the still point at its center. I miss being flogged.
Sometimes I still pretend I can go back to it eventually. That the permanent medical condition that has moved this activity onto the hard limits list will at some point be resolved. That I will somehow recover from something that doesn’t come with a recovery option. That some day, there won’t be the not-unlikely risk that a good, hard back flogging will land me in the emergency room. Sometimes, I still pretend this is all temporary. That I don’t really have to give this up forever. That there is still a chance I can do this again, sometime in the future.
Because I’m still not quite ready to accept the loss of it. I’m not quite ready to actually feel all the grief over having this possibility taken away from me, entirely without my consent and completely against my will. I’m not quite ready to make peace with the fact that the last flogging I have received — not knowing it was the last one, of course — wasn’t even very good. That it wasn’t even with an important partner. That it wasn’t what I would have chosen if I had known it was the last one, ever.
I don’t actually think there is any chance for the recovery I’d need to make this a possibility again. Nothing I know about this condition points to it ever being a good idea to get flogged on my back again. But it’s easier to think “not today, not this month, not this year, not in the foreseeable future,” easier to keep a tiny little “maybe sometime” in a hidden corner of my heart than it is to face “not ever.”
Because damn, I loved being flogged like that. And damn. I miss it.
And I don’t think that will change, either.
I very deliberately did not end this piece on a “positive” note.
Because I’m tired of always immediately following up my lists of “things I can’t do anymore” and “things I can only do very carefully now” with a cheerful catalog of all the things I can do, things that don’t need adjusting. I’m tired of feeling like I have to prove that I’m still a damn gorgeous play partner even if I’m now a lot more disabled/chronically ill than I used to be (internalized ableism is a thing and #DisabledPeopleAreHot, obviously). I’m tired of pushing away the loss and grief I feel over several of the changes that late-acquired disability/chronic illness have brought to my life so I don’t ruin anyone’s kinky fun and sexytimes (often including my own).
I want to make space for the hard feelings, too. Because they are also a part of kink life. Because they are also a part of life, full stop. And sometimes we just need to sit with them for a while without anyone trying to “fix” anything. Without anyone telling us that we “just have to accept” something that feels completely unacceptable in that particular moment. Without anyone doing anything but say, “It’s hard. I hear you. I’m here.”
The prompt for this week’s Food for Thought Friday was “gone awry” which had also been listed as “when our bodies let us down” when I first saw it.
I’m also adding this to the Kinktober catch-up list, as an adaptation of the “scars” prompt.
Image source: FreeStockPhotos