Plump, ripe strawberries with their tips dipped in dark, silky melted chocolate are pretty sexy.
Placing them gently, one by one, onto the warm, supple flesh of a naked woman is even sexier.
And being that woman, in a roomful of people who not only understand why I would do this but support and enjoy my being transformed into a human dessert, is the sexiest thing of all.
The dynamic of BDSM -- or bondage and discipline, sadism and masochism -- is often misunderstood, and being into kink and fetish play in the bedroom, or outside of it, sometimes evokes images of oversexed, psychotic basement-dwellers who don leather harnesses, chain people to furniture and get their jollies by doing things too graphic and unimaginable for the Bible to warn against.
Images like this are sometimes accurate, but they don't show that the people involved in this lifestyle are also risk-aware and consensual.
The movie Secretary laid out kink, fetish and D/s (dominant/submissive) relationships for a wide world of vanilla (the name kinksters use to describe people who aren't into kink); when I saw the movie, everyone else in the theater gasped when James Spader gave Maggie Gyllenhaal a masterful and erotic spanking while she bent over his desk as ordered.
Movies reflecting real life like a mirror are appreciated just as much as those predicated on pure fantasy -- and when a movie manages to pull off both at the same time, it turns a simple scene about a submissive on all fours atop a desk with a saddle on her back and a carrot in her mouth into something not only watchable but very much a reflection of how truly precious a gift it is to submit to someone. Sexual objectification, when done in the right way with the right people, is hotter than a ceramic fondue pot with the candle lit.
If my little fondue pot could speak, it would enlighten with a tale of sweet, sweet debauchery at a private kink party, but other than me, the other participants' identities will be anonymous to protect the innocent -- and the guilty.
Anyone who sat through a middle-school English class knows the textbook definition of objectification, and when you add sex, it becomes the process of viewing a person as an object for one's own sexual gratification. When I asked my Dominant to help me construct a public scene wherein I was transformed into a human dessert plate, that's exactly what I wanted to become -- a mere entity, used for sexual gratification, and turned from a human being into a naked, sexually exploited fondue platter.
Betty Friedan might have objected had she been there, but then again, who knows if she liked being being bound with rope and shoved into a closet until her Dominant wanted her to be set free? Who knows if she kept a beautiful submissive boy in her closet, ready to serve his Mistress at a snap of her fingers? It's too bad we'll never know, but believe me, it's always and never the people you think who are the kinksters.
This was my first public scene here in Denver so my Dom and I wanted to make sure it was artistic, entertaining, sexy -- and most of all, safe. A Dominant worth his or her salt will always put safety first, and a submissive's job is to communicate honestly and effectively. We as a team devised the scene, set up the perimeters, and then went shopping for supplies. The beauty part of scenes like this is that unsuspecting grocery store clerks have no idea that these seemingly benign dessert ingredients are anything other than two brown paper bags filled with all the makings of a private, romantic evening at home.
They would be mostly correct in this case, but this was a relatively benign shopping experience. In the past, I've made hasty trips to grocery stores at closing time to procure things like twine, squeezy bear bottles of honey, condoms, pudding cups and disposable enema kits, and the raised eyebrows at the checkout line are almost as gratifying as the evenings that followed.
My Dominant and I talked. And talked. We negotiated what we wanted to happen with the scene, what was expected and desired from both of us, and the basic housekeeping of how we were going to pull this off. There is a common misconception that kinksters just head down to the basement with their whips and chains and do their dirty, debauched activities with impunity. In actuality, kinksters value clear communication, and we have to talk twice as much as vanilla couples in some instances, because unlike a missionary-inspired evening in front of the fireplace, we have more layers -- and more players.
The night began with us scrambling to make sure we had everything together, which meant conducting an inventory of our "toy box," much as you'd do before a camping trip to the mountains, to check that the chocolate chips and freshly-washed strawberries were not left at home on the counter. I did forget to bring my favorite nipple clamps and the leather mask I had set aside for the event, but no biggie. These peripheral details weren't essential, and the toy box always contains plenty of nipple clamps and a festive variety of masks for any occasion. I'm nothing if not organized.
This was a private party, and the address was only given out to those who RSVPd and were known to the hosts. This ensures that kink events are kept private -- not only to protect the players who don't wish to be "outed" to the community, but also to act as a deterrent to swarms of horny idiots who don't know/don't understand/don't care about the lifestyle so much as just crashing the parties to try and get their rocks off. Contrary to popular belief, the kink scene is not a free-for-all. Not even close. New people who are curious about the scene are welcomed, but "tourists" and "trolls" are generally discouraged.
My Dom set up a massage table in the kitchen area (he does the heavy lifting) and I proceeded to prep the dessert supplies. The table was covered with a drop cloth, the chocolate was melted and I stripped down to bare essentials and hoisted myself onto the table.
Our scene centered on my absolutely silent obedience to my Dom. I was not a person for this hour in time. I was a dessert plate for him and other spectators to view, admire and eat chocolate-covered strawberries off of while my Dom tested my will and submission to being slathered with sweets and poked, prodded and pleasured with the bamboo skewers we used instead of fondue forks. Disposable skewers are a lifesaver for such events, and since I was relatively certain which special parts of my body those pointy little sticks were going to be pleasuring, it seemed rather déclassé to re-use the forks that I'd offered my friends and family at my annual Christmas Eve fondue party.
I laid on the table, savoring the first few dollops of searing chocolate lopped onto my back, and felt myself drifting into my "sub space." Sub space is an abstract concept that is difficult to explain to non-subs, and it's different for each subbie. For me, it's a feeling of calm, almost surreal submersion of all thoughts, feelings and senses; I am relinquishing complete control over my body and mind to my Dom, whose job it is to cherish my trust and respect it, all while running a really, really sharp skewer stick up and down my arms, legs, back and buttocks.
Some of the party-goers stood and silently observed. Some of them ran a commentary on the proceedings as profound as any FoxNews analyst could deliver. Some of them asked my Dom's permission to touch me, sample the chocolate-dipped fruit, take a turn lacing my prone flesh with chocolate, or using those evil, delightful little skewers to wickedly tease my naughty parts.
There was also licking. I could feel it. It was fantastic to the point of orgasm, but my Dom ordered me not to climax no matter what, and grave punishments were in store for me if I disobeyed. It was a pity, because I was so riled up that I really wanted to get fucked into oblivion while dripping with chocolate, but sex was not a part of this scene.
Another common misconception about kink is that it's always about getting your brains fucked out every time. Nope. As a matter of fact, while actual penetration isn't necessarily discouraged during scene play if it's relevant to the scene itself, gratuitous intercourse just for its own sake isn't normally seen at play parties or club events. For the most part, that's reserved for swingers parties and clubs, and although the two lifestyles do intersect, they aren't the same thing at all.
We Believe Local Journalism is Critical to the Life of a City
Engaging with our readers is essential to Westword's mission. Make a financial contribution or sign up for a newsletter, and help us keep telling Denver's stories with no paywalls.
Support Our Journalism
My hour on the table was over, and then came the giggling, teasing and scramble to clean up most of the chocolate before it hit the floor and made cleanup last that much longer. Other scenes were taking place that I wanted to watch, so I put some of my clothes back on and did my cleanup and dish detail. I'm the sub, so I get to do the dishes. Those are the rules.
So what did I get out of all this? What do people get from any of this?
Some of us are hardwired differently, and we love the power, the pleasure, the pain, the feeling, the excitement, the rush, the drop and, ultimately, yes, the sexual gratification that a BDSM dynamic affords us. Getting off mentally, emotionally and physically comes in all sorts of flavors, including vanilla -- and chocolate-covered strawberry.