Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

The most romantic story I’ve ever heard is told to me in my aunt’s kitchen during a family party.

It’s shortly before the total solar eclipse of summer 2017. An older woman I hardly know – a distant relative by marriage – is sipping white wine on a barstool next to me, and we strike up a casual conversation. “My husband and I are headed down to Illinois to see the solar eclipse,” she announces breezily. “We’ve been planning this trip for almost 30 years!”

I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”

I watch her eyes wander fondly to the nerdy, affable-looking guy currently fussing with a roast chicken he’s about to slide into the oven. “When I first met him, in the ’80s, a total solar eclipse had just happened, and he’s a big eclipse nerd, so he was there,” she tells me in a low, conspiratorial voice. “He said, ‘Hey, you should come with me to Illinois for the total solar eclipse in 2017. It’s going to be beautiful.'” She takes another sip of her wine. Her husband is catching none of this; he’s too busy making dinner. “We’d only been dating a few weeks,” she adds with a smile, “and now it’s decades later and we’re going!”

I’m floored. Shortly into a new relationship myself, I have no idea what would make someone so sure of a relationship so quickly that they would start making plans that far in the future. People breeze in and out of my life so easily, so suddenly; I can barely imagine believing a partner will still be around in a few weeks, let alone a few decades.

“Did that freak you out?” I ask, unable to contain myself. “That he asked you that, so soon into your relationship?”

She considers the question, and shrugs. “No, not really. I guess I just knew.”

Both of our eyes slide back over to her husband, and I can feel us wondering how he knew. How anyone knows a relationship is meant to last. It’s an impossible, unanswerable question, and one I desperately want an answer for.

Some heartbreaks are big, and some are small. That summer goes on to contain both for me. The first in the series comes when my boyfriend sleeps with someone else when we’ve only been dating for an intense, heady two weeks – without asking me, notifying me in advance, or seeming in any way to consider my feelings in this decision. I feel like the rug’s been ripped out from under me, but because we’ve agreed to be non-monogamous, I feel I have no right to express displeasure with him, even as my heart crumples in on itself.

But he’s not completely oblivious. Apparently sensing my misery, he texts me, “I was having this lovely daydream yesterday, of us together in a few years. You were more established as a writer, and you’d always bring me as your +1 to all the fancy events.”

This text comes in while I’m en route to a coffee shop, and I burst into tears on the street.

His near-immediate gravitation toward someone else, so soon after meeting me, has me feeling like he doesn’t want me anymore, or like our relationship is doomed. So to receive this explicit acknowledgment that he not only wants me now but thinks he’ll still want me in a few years is groundbreaking: a balm for my wounded heart. It hasn’t occurred to me yet to wonder if I still want to be with him in a few years, because women are socialized to desperately cling to any halfway-decent man who wants us, our own desire and comfort be damned.

“It made me feel really happy and safe to know that you think we’ll still be together years from now,” I tell him later. “That’s why I cried when I got that text.”

“I know,” he replies. “That’s why I sent it.”

But his daydream turns out to be an empty promise. When he breaks up with me a few months later, he offers dully by way of explanation, “The long-term potential I thought I saw isn’t actually there.” I gather my things and walk out his door with hot tears stinging my eyes, faced with the task of rewriting all those futures I thought he’d be a part of.

“My heart is fucking broken,” I write in my journal. “This makes me feel like I can never trust anyone again. Like even people who insist they love me and will take care of me, and who prove it for a while, cannot be trusted to stick around.”

My dating life, for a while, is haunted by the spectre of this man. Far from “seeing what happens” and “going with the flow,” I can’t maintain an interest in any person in the present because their presence in my future is not assured. I know, logically, that any relationship can end at any time for any reason, but still I long for the safety of a solid long-term commitment. Without that, I feel sad, adrift, and alone.

The shadow of that perceived betrayal weighs heavily on my next relationship, to my chagrin. “It’s like the two of you are in dialogue with each other,” I tell my new boyfriend thoughtfully over the phone, after relaying to him – in January – the details of my August breakup. I should be over it by now. I know that; I do. But that profound feeling of safe-and-then-suddenly-not-safe is still haunting my psychology, making me see danger where there is none.

See, this new relationship is, by all indications, safe as houses. Five days after my first date with this mysterious Twitter crush from New York, I’m telling him about the Hippo Campus concert I’ll be attending on my next trip to his city, and he asks, “Is someone going with you to that?”

“Nah, just me.” It hadn’t occurred to me to ask anyone. I don’t know any other Hippo Campus fans in real life, and certainly would never expect a friend to trek to another country just to see my favorite band play. “Do you want a date?” he asks, so casual, like this question isn’t a Big Fucking Deal.

“Haven’t you not even heard any of their music?” I ask, and he answers coolly, “I’ve got time.” And then he hops onto the Brooklyn Steel website and orders his ticket.

I can’t articulate how much this gesture means to me, and I worry that even if I could, it would scare him off. Because what he’s telling me with this simple $20 ticket purchase is: I like you enough to stay in your life for two months, at least. We’ve only spent a couple hours together so far, over coffee and kisses, and he’s already sold enough on me to bet we’ll want to dance together to a quartet of indie-pop boys two whole months from now. It’s funny how I’ll happily make plans with friends months in advance, but a new potential romantic partner tries to flip a couple calendar pages and I panic. There’s no way he’ll still be interested in me by then, I think, pathetically – but he’s already bought the ticket, so what can I do?

As those two months slide by, more and more hints emerge that maybe this boy plans to stick around. I tease him, “You’ve gotta charm my best friend if you ever meet them,” and he amends, “Hopefully when.” I tell him I know what color I’d use for him in my spreadsheet if we had sex, and he corrects me, “When, not if.” One night during a tearful phone call about Serious Emotional Stuff, I wipe my leaky eyes and say, “I’m sorry; I’m just not used to feeling this emotionally safe with someone,” and he answers fiercely, “Well, you can get used to it, because I’m not going anywhere.” I melt. I cry harder. I melt some more.

When the night of the concert comes, it’s even more special than I imagined it being when he first bought the ticket – because I’m not just going to a show with some guy I went on a date with once; I’m going to a show with someone I’ve been talking to on the phone almost every night, and slowly negotiating a delicious D/s dynamic with, and – whoops – falling in love with. He kisses me in the line outside the venue, holding my gaze steadily whenever our lips aren’t touching, and I imagine showing this tableau to me-from-two-months-ago. She’d be shocked he showed up at all, let alone showed up with this ferocious affection in his eyes.

Later that night, at a rooftop bar overlooking Brooklyn, he tells me he loves me for the first time. I say it back, and it’s devastatingly true. It’s so much not what I was expecting, and yet it’s exactly what I want.

He’s shown me even more, in the months since then, just how enduring he thinks our love will be. He’s bought plane tickets to Toronto a month in advance, and then showed up at my doorstep on the appointed day, handsome and smiling. He’s assigned me protocols that reach into the future, with more certainty than I can muster – enough certainty for the both of us. He’s bought tickets to conferences I’m attending, and exclaimed excitedly about all the things we’ll do there. Most of all, he’s told me, many nights, “I want to love you for a long time.” And though it’s impossible to guarantee such a thing, I feel more and more safe in his love every time he re-asserts this sentiment. We’re building something together, and I can see from his actions – not just his words – that he is serious about building it strong, building it well, building it to last.

When I used to complain to my therapist that no relationship felt safe to me because there was no certain promise of a future together, she’d ask, “But why do you need that to feel safe? Can’t you just enjoy the way things are right now, without worrying about what comes next?”

I can’t. Maybe it’s my anxiety, or my past heartbreaks, or just my temperament, but I can’t be fully satisfied with a futureless present, try as I might.

But fortunately, in this relationship, both the present and the future look pretty bright.

Behind the Seams: Slutty Seductress + Glamorous Grampa

March 24th, 2018. I wore this to a party my friend Suz threw to celebrate the overhaul and relaunch of her blog. The event description said, “Kinky, queer, fetish wear, glitter, and extra outfits are highly encouraged!” so I decided to get real slutty.

I bought this dress at Forever 21 in early 2016 and couldn’t believe such a mainstream store was selling such an overtly fetishistic item. However, then Bex pointed out that I may have been wearing it backwards… and, as it turned out, they were right. The corsetry is supposed to go up the back, instead of being essentially a cleavage window. But fuck that: I do what I want!

The party was a good time: we danced to ’90s pop, drank cocktails, talked about sex research, watched porn being projected on a giant screen, ate cupcakes with penises and vulvas on them, and debated the merits of various sex toys. Suz really knows how to throw a shindig!

What I’m wearing:
• Hair in braided high pigtails (the Baby Spice vibez are TOO good; I need to do this more often)
• Tight black lace-up dress – Forever 21
• Skin-tone pantyhose – probably Shoppers Drugmart (bought to wear to a wedding last year)
• Black leather Frye engineer boots
• Silver “Daddy’s” heart-shaped padlock – a gift from my love, custom-made by L’Amour-Propre, worn on a chain from a silver key necklace I got on Canal Street in 2006


April 15th, 2018. When I put this on, I looked at myself in the mirror and decided I looked like a glamorous grampa. It’s quite an aesthetic!

This is, IMO, the ideal outfit for schlepping through a foot of snow to a local café on a lazy Sunday afternoon, sipping a latte, and reading a trippy award-winning novel for a few hours, which is exactly what I did. I also journaled about the top-10 most memorable sexual experiences of my life thus far, because what else would a sex writer do on her day off?

What I’m wearing:
• Maybelline SuperStay Matte Ink liquid lipstick in “Pioneer” (it stayed on admirably and didn’t even mark the mug I drank from – impressive!)
White J. Crew men’s T-shirt – a gift from my boyfriend; he wore it under an impeccable navy suit on our second date and, the next morning, told me I could keep it, a gesture I predictably reacted to by clutching it against my nose and bursting into tears
• Berry-pink merino wool V-neck cardigan – the Gap
• Black leggings – the Gap
• Black leather Frye engineer boots
• Coach Mercer satchel in a color called “Cloud” – one of the few fancy treats I bought when I briefly had a sugar daddy last year
• Montale “Aoud Lime” perfume (obsessed – it’s like a little kick of springtime, which, on this absurdly wintry mid-April day, felt necessary)


April 24th, 2018. I wore this to perform in the Bed Post variety show at the Super Wonder Gallery. I’ve been on the bill at Bed Post a couple times before and it’s always a hoot: the host, Erin Pim, is a whip-smart driven fox, and she always picks such funny, talented, magnetic people for her show’s lineup. It was an honor to be invited back!

I played 3 sexy and/or kinky songs of mine: “Compliance,” “Casual,” and “A Nerd Like You.” Then I settled in with a whiskey on the rocks to watch the other acts, including adorable comedian Emily Bilton and burlesque bombshell Zyra Lee Vanity. Such a fun evening!

What I’m wearing:
• A navy blue smoky eye and red lipstick
• Hair in braided pigtails because Sir said so
• Blue L’Amour-Propre collar, also because Sir said so
• “It’s Magic” T-shirt – Pen and Kink
• Navy high-waisted skirt – Old Navy
• Navy tights – Hue
• Black leather Frye harness boots
• (Not pictured) Leather jacket for that rock-star edge

A Bespoke Signature Scent From My Love

Photo via Stephen Dirkes

I often joke-without-joking that, at 26, I’m not an adult yet and I don’t know when I will be. True, I’ve reached certain milestones I associate with adulthood – living away from home, having a stable job, making to-do lists with boring things on them like “submit tax forms” and “take out the recycling” – but, in many ways, I still think of myself as a child. For all the Adult Benchmarks I’ve crossed off my list, there are many more I have not – like owning a set of glassware, getting a driver’s license, and, until recently, having a signature scent.

That last one happened quite recently, in fact. You see, for my birthday, my boyfriend commissioned perfumer Stephen Dirkes of Euphorium Brooklyn to make me my own custom fragrance. (Cue swoony girlish screaming.)

My love was mysterious about it throughout the entire process. “I met with a guy named Stephen today about your birthday gift,” he told me a few weeks before I was to turn 26. “He says the timeline is tight, but he thinks we can make it work.”

The following week, he updated me: “Today I did a bunch of research and sent Stephen a lot of what I learned. Hopefully it’ll be useful.” I was mystified. What did he have up his sleeve?!

Finally, a few days before my birthday, my beau arrived in Toronto for a weekend visit. Not long after getting to my apartment and setting down his bags, he told me, “I wanna give you your present now, because I can’t wait any longer.”

At his behest, I put on a blindfold while he rooted through his suitcase for the present, so I wouldn’t see anything until he wanted me to. Then he had me hold my upturned wrists out in front of me, and I felt him spray them with a cold liquid. An unfamiliar scent hit my nostrils, floral and dark and complicated. And then my love took off my blindfold and handed me a bottle of Aimanté.

I practically started hyperventilating as he explained how he had turned an idea into a perfume. He knew someone who had commissioned Stephen Dirkes to make a custom scent, and, knowing about my fragrance proclivities, thought I might like one of my own. (Um, very yes.) So he set up a meeting with Stephen and started collecting information about my scent preferences however he could: searching through old tweets and blog posts, looking up my favorite perfumes to determine which notes they had in common, and pondering how to distill his love for me into a scent.

Scents have been a recurring motif in our relationship, as I’m sure they are in many. Shortly after our first date, I told him the smell of him was still flitting through my memory, and he texted me a link to the cologne he’d been wearing. Since then, he’s decided which perfume I should wear when we’re out together, left me shirts of his to inhale deeply in his absence, sent me flowers to excite my senses during depressed spells, and even kept the occasional pair of my panties to sniff when he misses me. Giving me a unique perfume seemed like a natural evolution of the olfactory flirtation we’d already been engaged in for quite some time.

“The juice” went through a few iterations; my partner brought some rough drafts on sampling cards for me to sniff. The final fragrance is aggressively feminine and sexy, yet quirky – like me. It’s a blend of blood orange, red geranium, balsam, amber, cocoa, patchouli, and vetiver, which reads to me like a peculiar mishmash of notes but which flows together undeniably well when you actually sniff it.

The name, Aimanté, is a French word meaning either “loving” or “magnetic,” depending on context. It’s a nod to how the two of us have often described our attraction as inevitable, ineffable, magnetic. On our second date, yearning to kiss him but not yet allowed, I told him, “I feel like a magnet,” and he said, “I do too.”

The scent itself intrigued me from the first, and has grown on me with every wear. When my darling debuted it on my wrists that day, it struck me as outsized: too loud for li’l old me, bolder and brasher and more beautiful than I have ever felt. But then I thought of something Helena Fitzgerald once wrote in the Dry Down: “Giving someone perfume as a gift is a chance to show them who they are to you,” she theorized, “and receiving perfume as a gift is the opportunity to wear that self as a costume, for brief periods of time to live as the person someone else understands you to be.”

With that in mind, the perfume felt more right to me. It’s like when someone who loves you takes a photo of you and captures a beauty you’ve never been able to see in yourself. I began to feel stirrings of the zaftig confidence evoked by the fragrance, which I know my partner sees in me but which I often can’t see in myself. What an unspeakably powerful gift to give someone.

Like most perfumes, Aimanté goes through an evolution as you wear it. The first few minutes are heady and floral, a burst of ridiculous femininity, like a wealthy woman posing for a portrait in her powder room, clutching a bouquet of geraniums. On me, it fades down gradually, hour by hour, into something sweeter and simpler. The sinful creaminess of the cocoa and vetiver sing at its core, so I can be a brassy broad by day and an elegant femme by night. The truth of me is somewhere between those two extremes – I’m neither totally bold nor totally docile – so I like that my new perfume oscillates between these two types of woman, too.

The idea of having a “signature scent” has long appealed to me, ever since I was rocking Kate by Kate Moss daily in the 10th grade and maybe even before that. But I rarely found a fragrance that resonated enough to make it my go-to. Certain faves have emerged over the years – Varvatos, Tobacco Vanille, Noel au Balcon, and Aoud Lime, to name just a few – but seldom has one endured as the scent I wanted to represent me in others’ minds and memories. None of them felt entirely like “me.” I suppose it took a partner who knows me inside and out to create a scent that really feels, wholly and harmoniously, like the essence of me.

I can’t think of another gift I’ve received that made me feel as seen, as understood, or as loved as this one. And I’m reminded of that deep, fierce love each time I lift my wrist to my nose.

10 Ways to Love a Writer

1. Read their work. But like, really read it, though. Soak it up. Tell them what you liked about it. Tell them how it made you feel. Marvel at their clever word choices and melodious phrasing. If you haven’t had time to read their latest piece yet, say, “I’ve been saving it for when I can really take my time with it,” and mean that, and follow through.

2. Brag about them. When the subject of her last piece comes up at a dinner party, inquire, “Did you read her article about that? It was great!” When you introduce him to your friends, tell them, “He’s an incredibly talented writer.” Have her big-deal byline framed. Bring up his accomplishments in spaces where he might be too shy to do so himself. Be your sweetheart’s one-person hype machine.

3. Read their work aloud to them. Whether it’s an in-progress draft or an essay they wrote years ago, they’ll hear it differently in your voice. They’ll adore hearing which sentences surprise you, which metaphors make you giggle, which piece of dialogue trips you up. It’s a sort of artistic collaboration: their words, your voice, mingling to create something new.

4. Don’t offer edits unless asked to. If you’re not sure, ask before you begin to read, “What kind of feedback are you looking for on this, if any?” Sometimes they might want your detailed suggestions. Other times they might just want someone to look it over and say, “This is great!”

5. Nerd out about books with them. Be the person to whom they can text excerpts excitedly, or shriek gleefully about perfect sentences. Recommend them your favorites, and read theirs. Lie in bed together reading, taking occasional breaks to query, “What the fuck is this character doing?!” or “How the fuck is this going to end?!” Give them a gift certificate to their favorite used bookstore, or an annotated edition of their fave novel, or a shiny new Kindle. Hold them and kiss their shoulders while they devour something beautiful.

6. Let them bounce ideas off you. Help them shape the plot of their novel, or the arc of their essay, by listening and asking questions. Tell them what’s working for you and (gently) what isn’t. Point out plot holes or fallacies, and help them fill in the gaps. Develop the skill of being diplomatic but honest when asked, “Does this make sense?” or “Is this funny?” or “Is this any good?”

7. Write them love notes. Their love language is probably linguistic, so they’ll appreciate this even more than the average person. Put into words why you love them, what they mean to you, what they bring to your life. Tell them how their presence in your life heals your past, sweetens your present, and brightens your future. Write things that are meaningful, sweet, and true. Your prose doesn’t have to be flowery or crystalline like theirs is, though maybe they inspire you to make it moreso.

8. Surprise them with beautiful writing supplies. But ideally the ones you know they prefer, since that proves you truly know them. Get them their next journal, a box of exquisite pens or pencils, a year-long subscription to Evernote Premium or a domain for their blog… Whatever you know will get them fired up to write even more.

9. Give them space to write. Don’t take “I can’t; I’m writing” as a rejection; be flattered they trust you enough to be honest with you about their boundaries and needs. Don’t interrupt them when they’ve retired to a private space to write – or, if you must, ask first if it’s okay. Find ways to work on solitary pursuits, independently but together – they will feel adored and accepted when they see you can amuse yourself with some other activity while they write, happy just to be near them. They’ll be happy to be near you, too.

10. Give them things to write about. Magical experiences, poignant moments, deep and true love. Kiss them in pretty places, hold their hand in bustling streets, shoot them meaningful glances from across a room. Incite in them joy and lust and exhilaration and whatever feelings you’d want to read about – because they want to write about those feelings, but more than that, they want to feel them.

8 Strategies For Taking More (Consensual) Pain

Photo of me and Suz by Taylor J Mace

They say that if there’s something in your life you don’t like, you can either change the thing itself, or change your attitude about it. That’s an idealistic oversimplification when it comes to complex issues like poverty or chronic illness – but if we’re talkin’ consensual pain, then yes, I find changing my mindset makes all the difference in the world.

My first forays into consensual pain were mild spankings – first, with a long-term boyfriend, and later, with a super-kinky FWB. Almost as soon as the sensation veered from “scarcely noticeable” into “actually painful,” I would call an end to it. It didn’t feel good, so I couldn’t enjoy it. Right?

I’m sure this is true for many people, and no one should feel pressured to pursue sexual experiences they don’t actually enjoy or want. But in my case, I had Kink Feelingz about the idea of taking pain, so I wanted to keep trying. I was determined that my pain tolerance in reality would one day catch up to my pain tolerance in fantasy.

So I started learning and practicing what I call cognitive strategies for dealing with pain. I’ve helped a number of baby-kinkster friends through their initial adventures in masochism, and I think, in many cases, mental strategies help more than physical adjustments (although both can be helpful). Here are 8 tricks I’ve picked up that help me when I want to take a lot of pain; they’re not new or revolutionary, but they work for me.

1. Establish safewords and safe-signals. This is a 101-level kink safety requirement, but beyond being necessary to keep all participants safe, I also find these tools help me take more pain. When utilized with a communication-savvy partner who reads my body well and checks in as needed, these tools can help me moderate the sensation I’m receiving without breaking role or feeling pulled out of the moment. Try these:

  • The top can ask, “Where was that last hit on a scale from 1 to 10?” The bottom rates the hit. Then the top has a better sense of the bottom’s current pain tolerance, and can ask useful follow-up questions like, “Where would you like to be, on a scale from 1 to 10?” or “Do you think you could take a 7 for me right now?”
  • The top can ask, “What color are you?” and the bottom can answer either green (“I’m fine; you can continue”), yellow (“I’m okay but I need you to slow down/decrease the intensity”), or red (“I need you to stop immediately”).
  • You can develop a nonverbal communication strategy, e.g. the bottom taps the top’s leg/arm if they want the sensation to slow down, and squeezes it if they want more sensation. (This approach doesn’t work great for me because I tend to do these things involuntarily while receiving pain, but if you have more control over your body at that time, you might find this a useful technique.)

Notice that these strategies only ever require one-word answers from the bottom, if that. Pain can put a lot of people into a nonverbal headspace, so adapting your communication strategies in this way can help make sure everyone is safe and getting what they want, even when the bottom doesn’t entirely have their wits about them.

2. Warm up properly. This is less a cognitive strategy and more of a physical one, although really, when done well, it’s both. I can’t delve straight into an intense spanking sans warmup, both because my body isn’t ready for it and because my mind isn’t.

Regardless of what kind of pain you’re playing with (spanking, face-slapping, E-stim, nipple clamps, what have you), you can warm up by starting the pain at a mild level and slowly increasing it as the bottom goes deeper into subspace and can handle more. (As a top, if you’re not sure if the bottom is ready for more, the above communication tools are ideal for figuring that out.)

Note that some people prefer pain to feel “too” intense too quickly, and may want to skip warmup for this reason. I would only recommend this for people who already know their body’s pain responses pretty well, though.

3. Breathe. You hear this “tip” at every yoga class and in every meditation video. If you’re anything like me, you get a little annoyed by it after a while. I know, I know. Breathe deeply, you’ll think with an irritated eye-roll.

However, controlling my breathing has been one of the most useful skills I’ve learned in increasing my pain tolerance (there’s even scientific backing for this). I think that’s mostly because it gives me something to focus on that isn’t the pain, and lets me feel like I’m doing something, rather than just helplessly, hopelessly suffering.

Experiment with different breathing patterns to find what works for you. Personally, I like to take long, slow, deep, steadily rhythmic breaths through my nose. Sometimes my rhythm gets messed up when I get hit particularly hard, but I just try to remind myself to refocus on my breathing, and that helps a great deal.

Note: a bottom who uses breathing techniques to get through pain might find it disruptive to be told to count impacts out loud, repeat mantras, answer a top’s frequent questions, etc. If you are a top who likes to ask bottoms a lot of questions or make them count aloud, maybe check in beforehand with each bottom to see if they think that practice will fuck with their ability to modulate their pain the way they prefer.

4. Establish finite limits to the pain. I find this helpful for the same reason it’s helpful to know the length of a long-distance race before you run it: discomfort is so much worse when you have no idea when it’ll end.

This is not to say you have to start a scene by announcing, say, “I’m going to spank you for exactly thirty minutes”! For me, the quantification of pain often happens on a smaller scale during a scene. For example:

  • “I’m going to hit you really hard 5 more times, and then we’ll be done.”
  • “Think you can take 10 more hits like that?”
  • “I’m only going to hit you for one more minute. You can keep an eye on the clock if you want.”
  • “If you can get through another 30 seconds of pain, you’ll have earned lots of cuddles and chocolate.”
  • “You’re getting 25 more hits – unless you make another bratty remark, in which case, your punishment will be much worse.” (I learned this technique from spanking fetishist extraordinaire Jillian Keenan, who recommends it as a way of indirectly inquiring about a bottom’s limits without breaking D/s roles. Brilliant.)

Note: some bottoms prefer the chaotic unknown. Having no idea when a scene will end may increase their sense of fear in a way they find hot and/or cathartic. As with many of these tips, you can clarify your approach as a top by asking your bottom lots of questions about what they like about receiving pain, what specific feelings they’re seeking when they crave pain, how they conceptualize their pain, etc.

5. Use rhythm. This is a super contentious point amongst bottoms, I find. Ask 10 masochistic bottoms how they feel about rhythm versus randomness when they take pain, and you’re likely to get 10 different answers.

Personally, I find it so much easier to take large amounts of pain if it’s occurring at steady intervals. Randomness causes my body to tense up erratically, so I can never really relax or breathe deeply or give myself over to endorphin-y subspace in the way I prefer to.

That said, I’ve met many bottoms who find it exciting and hot to have no clue when the next hit will land (or the next zap, punch, scratch, etc.) – so now, when I’m topping, I usually ask bottoms beforehand whether they like their pain to be rhythmic or not. It’s a seemingly small thing but it can make a huge difference.

6. Remember why you’re doing this. As with any kind of suffering in life – consensual or not – it’s easier to get through pain if it feels like it’s for a specific reason, and you believe that reason is a good one.

As a bottom, sometimes I’m taking pain to impress a top, to serve them, to show them how good I can be for them. Sometimes pain is a tool we’re using to achieve a certain effect, like bringing me into subspace, turning me on, or giving me bruises we can admire later. Sometimes pain is a punishment, sometimes it’s a reward, sometimes it’s a fun bonding activity… It can be so many different things, and it helps to clarify, before any given session, what it is going to mean on that particular day.

As a top, here are some examples of how you can remind your bottom mid-scene of their pain’s purpose. As always, adapt these approaches to fit your bottom’s specific tastes and motivations for enjoying pain, which you can find out by – spoiler alert! – asking them.

  • “I love seeing you in pain like this. You’re taking it so well.”
  • “This’ll teach you not to [do x thing they’re being punished for] again, won’t it?”
  • “You love how subspacey and turned-on you get when I hit you, don’t you?”
  • “I wonder how much more you can take for me.”
  • “Your bruises are going to look so pretty for me once we’re done.”

7. Repeat an affirmation. (Also known as a mantra, though I’m trying to use this term less because some say it’s culturally appropriative.) I find this useful for many of the same reasons I find rhythmic breathing useful: it gives me something to focus on that isn’t the pain, and feels like a life preserver I can cling to in a hopeless, roiling sea of pain.

The two phrases I’ve thought most often during spankings are “no moment is unendurable” (originally from David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest) and “this too shall pass.” The latter has been so useful for me in so many situations that I have it tattooed on my wrists – a handy placement, ’cause I can hold my upturned hands out in front of me during a spanking and read my ink over and over to help me get through the pain!

As a top, if you know your bottom finds these repeated affirmations helpful, you can give them one and tell them to think it or say it over and over while you hurt them. For example, my partner sometimes asks me mid-scene, “What are you?” and my ritualized answer is, “I’m your helpless little slut.” It helps recenter and refocus me on my desire to serve him, which can be nice when we’re doing something I find challenging. You can also just repeat a phrase at them if there’s one you think they’d find helpful – e.g. “You’re a good girl,” “Take a little more for me,” “You’re doing so well,” “You get what you deserve,” and so on. (Not to sound like a broken record, but you should really inquire about your bottom’s motivations for enjoying pain before you try this; telling a punishment slut they’re a good boy, for example, is unlikely to be effective.)

8. Focus on another sensation elsewhere in your body. I had a partner last year who would often put one hand on my lower back while the other spanked me. It was ostensibly just to steady himself so he could aim better, but it had the unforeseen (for me) effect of increasing my pain tolerance – because whenever the sting on my ass got too intense, I would just reroute my focus to my partner’s warm hand on my back. That touch felt so loving compared to the wallops of pain his other hand was serving up, and even that small cognitive adjustment helped me tune out the pain and focus on the affection that fuelled it.

I’ve sometimes found it helpful to bite my lip or dig my nails into my arm while getting spanked, because that less-intense pain helped draw my focus away from the spanking when it became almost too much to bear. A similar effect is achieved when a partner lets me hold a vibrator against my clit while they hit me, or allows me to grind against their lap.

Even if there’s no deliberate touch going on except for the pain, you can still focus on other tactile sensations: the bed underneath you holding up your weight, your clothes (if any) sliding against your skin, a collar tight against your throat. You can bring your mind back to the pain when you’re ready, but tuning it out for even just a few moments can help you get through a difficult interlude when you need to.

What strategies do you like for enduring (or helping a partner endure) consensual pain?