insecurity

You Are Not a Bad Submissive

Kate Sloan

Being a loudly and proudly submissive woman on the internet, I get a lot of questions in my various inboxes from other submissives, seeking affirmation and advice. Sadly, the subtext (ha!) of all too many messages in this vein is: “Am I a bad submissive because I don’t [do xyz thing that someone told me submissives do]?”

You can fill in that “xyz” with just about any kinky activity. Service. Masochism. Being tied up. Being “forced” to orgasm. Giving oral sex. Being a brat. Being obedient. Being “hot enough” or “pretty enough” or “kinky enough” or just… enough. There are so many areas where submissives doubt themselves and their ability to do certain things they feel are expected of submissives, whether due to physical limitations or psychological baggage or just… not liking certain acts.

Thinking you’re a “bad submissive” because you can’t do, or don’t like doing, certain things is like thinking you’re “bad at sex” for the same reasons. Sure, there are some overarching attributes and behaviors that are likely to make you a good submissive, or good at sex, no matter who you’re fucking: on-point communication skills, well-attuned self-knowledge, generosity of spirit. But it would be erroneous to assume that you’re universally bad at being submissive, or at having sex, just because your tastes and style don’t align perfectly with those of everyone you encounter in your sex life. Sure, yeah, maybe you had a dom once who craved good obedient service and your idea of sexy-fun submission is more like brash brattiness. That doesn’t mean you’re a bad submissive. It just means you’re not compatible with that dom in that way.

I dated a dude once who was way kinkier than me by every measure I can think of: he had more kinks than I do, felt more strongly about them, and could find ways to eroticize things that sometimes seemed pretty random and odd to me (in the best way). When we first started dating, I was nervous that I wouldn’t be able to live up to his expectations – that he would look at me, tied up and squirming on his massage table, and wish he was throat-fucking me instead, or caning my calves, or encasing me in saran wrap from head to toe.

However, in our numerous detailed kink negotiations, I learned that he didn’t think that way at all. He wasn’t sizing me up, putting together a wishlist of things he wanted to do to me, regardless of my opinions on the matter – he wanted us to figure out together what would be fulfilling for us to do. This is the basis of how every good dom approaches their dynamics, in my opinion. Sure, sometimes it can be fun to invite a partner to try an activity they’ve never tried before, to see if they’ll be into it – but if the answer is no, any dom worth their salt will accept that completely and unequivocally. If it’s a dealbreaker for them – like if they have one primary fetish and their sexual relationships just aren’t complete without it – they have the right to communicate that, so the two of you can make decisions accordingly. But they should never make you feel pressured to participate, and moreover, you are not a bad submissive if you can’t or won’t get onboard with what they’re proposing. It just means you may not be compatible and should likely go your separate ways.

If anyone ever tells you you’re a bad submissive, a) they’re an asshole and b) they probably just mean you’re not a well-suited submissive for them. This is every bit as weird and shitty as telling someone they have bad taste in food just because you don’t like their favorite dish. Like, first of all, who asked you? And secondly, why are you under the impression that your highly subjective opinion is objectively correct?!

To continue the food metaphor, the list of activities dominants and submissives can explore together is a colossal buffet, and you don’t have to like every dish on the menu. In fact, it’s pretty unlikely that you will. Just skip over the ones you don’t like!

Beware of any dom who, when you mention that you don’t like [x], gets huffy or argumentative. Yes, sometimes it can be disappointing to hear that the hot new person you’re into doesn’t like doing your favorite thing, and yes, sometimes a dom might be a little sad upon hearing that news. But any attempt to sway your answer is edging into manipulation territory, and that’s just not cool. I think saying “You’re a bad submissive” is often a last-ditch attempt to shame someone into doing certain things, and it should be seen as such: an abusive falsehood, not a damning proclamation.

When you think about dominants you’ve known, I bet you don’t mentally sort them into “good doms” and “bad doms” based solely on what they did and didn’t like. Maybe that guy who adored chain bondage or that goddess who loved cake-sitting didn’t turn your crank, but that doesn’t mean they were bad doms. The same is true for you: your boundaries are valid, you don’t owe anyone explanations about your preferred palette of kink activities, and your incompatibility with certain people is not a statement about your overall value.

I spent years feeling like a shitty submissive because I didn’t make pretty-enough faces while getting whipped, or couldn’t hold certain positions for long periods of time, or sometimes spaced and forgot to do the kinds of pre-emptive service my doms may have preferred. But in my current dynamic, my partner makes me feel every day like I’m the best submissive in the world – or, more importantly, the best submissive for them. We play to each other’s strengths, and don’t push each other’s boundaries (except in the fun, consensual way!). Just as they make me feel like a stellar submissive, I work hard to let them know that they’re an incredible dominant – not just in general, but for me. That’s what matters in a D/s dynamic, and anyone who tells you otherwise probably isn’t fun to play with anyway.

Submissive babes, I love you, I see you, and I want you to be happy. And an important part of that journey is recognizing that you’re a good submissive, for somebody, even if that somebody isn’t currently in your life. The more you accept and broadcast the unique fingerprint of your yeses and no’s, the closer you’ll get to meeting someone whose list matches yours. And then you’ll get to feel like the very, very good submissive that you are. 💖

But also? You’re a good submissive even if you don’t have a partner. You’re a good submissive even if you never have a partner. You’re a good submissive because, just by virtue of identifying as a submissive, you’ve taken the time to figure out who you are and what you want, to some extent. Your self-knowledge is beautiful, and inspirational, and revelatory, and – guess what? – good.

I Have Psoriasis… and I’m Still Hot

Kate Sloan

When my dermatologist diagnosed me with psoriasis, she stared sadly into my eyes and intoned, “There is no cure. This is a lifelong condition.”

Her grave demeanor made this skin condition seem like a death sentence – and indeed, for many psoriasis sufferers, managing symptoms is a daily struggle, as is managing people’s feelings about those symptoms, as well as your own. But my own case was relatively mild. I had a flaky scalp, some red and irritated spots on my face, and a handful of other unsightly zones scattered around my body. I wasn’t sad to receive my diagnosis – I was glad I finally had an answer, and some potential treatment routes to take.

In the years since, my psoriasis has gotten a bit worse but mostly stayed the same. My scalp still plaques and flakes; there’s a seemingly permanent red spot between my eyebrows that I cover with concealer when I can be bothered; my ears and butt and nose and hands all occasionally flare up with flaky bits. I use medicated shampoo and prescription ointments and they help, a little, sometimes. I’m doing okay.

For me, the worst thing about having psoriasis is the way it makes me feel like people are judging me and think my flakes are gross. I have no idea if they actually are thinking that, and no sexual partners have ever even said anything to me about it, except to occasionally point out an errant piece of dead skin I needed to pull out of my hair. But even the idea that they might think it’s gross is enough to make me want to stay clothed and celibate forever, sometimes.

For years, I’ve stopped partners from kissing or otherwise touching my ears, one of my grossest zones. Having my scalp scratched or massaged is a no-go for me, even though I like the way it feels, because I get too self-conscious about cascading flakes. I sometimes decline spankings (I love being spanked!) because I don’t want a partner to look at my butt. It’s sad, all the various ways this condition has impacted my sense of my own desirability.

It’s only really in my current relationship that I’ve begun to loosen that shame’s stranglehold on my sex life. I once asked Matt if they still think I’m cute when I’m flaky, and they said, “Of course! You know what else is flaky? Croissants. And everyone loves those.” It was a funny joke, but nonetheless, I cried when I heard it, because no one had ever said anything positive to me about my psoriasis before. I stopped instinctively tensing up when they would kiss close to my ears or hairline; I stopped needing to keep my underwear on during spankings. I just… let them see my body. Let them see me.

Around this time, I also began reading the writer Clementine Morrigan’s musings on her own psoriasis. She wrote about her own feelings of shame and worthlessness, and the ways to chose to combat them, including by incorporating her psoriasis into sex. She describes watching a partner kiss her reddened skin, and hearing another partner gasp, “Your psoriasis! It’s beautiful!” I was, and am, grateful as ever to people who share the stories of their struggles in an effort to make others feel less alone. That’s what I’m trying to do right here, right now.

I haven’t yet figured out how to make my psoriasis sexy for myself, the way Clementine has. But I’m luxuriating in the love I feel from my partner whether I’m flaring up or fleetingly flakeless. While I don’t believe in the concept of “unconditional love” – you are allowed to have conditions, to set boundaries, to maintain standards! – this is the closest I’ve ever come to feeling that from a romantic partner. I know now that when they flip me over and see my scaly skin, they’re not going to leave me – they’re just going to love me harder.

You’re Someone’s Favorite Flavor

Kate Sloan
Eating cinnamon/coconut gelato in Malta

While I’m a strong proponent of the fact that we’re all different and have unique perspectives and experiences, the subjectivity of attraction has always been hard for me to wrap my mind around. I’ve told countless friends and readers who felt unattractive, “There are people out there who would be so into you; you just have to find them!” but it’s often been tough for me to believe that about myself.

On free adult dating sites and apps, it can seem like we’re being reduced to how we look – and this can be discouraging for those of us who feel like our appearance is subpar in some way. I’ve thought of myself for so long as someone whose Tinder bio you have to read to truly understand my charm. This self-perception was so ingrained, I didn’t even believe my partner when he recently told me he thought I was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, the first time he laid eyes on me.

So it seemed like a good time to revisit a lesson I often impart on friends and readers when they just can’t comprehend or accept their own attractiveness. I call it “the ice cream metaphor,” and it goes like this:

Imagine you go out for ice cream with a friend. “I’m gonna get my favorite flavor,” they announce excitedly, rubbing their hands together.

“What flavor is that?” you ask.

And then they name a flavor you find absolutely vile. Cotton candy, butter pecan, rum raisin, whatever it may be… A flavor you can’t imagine anyone eats, let alone enjoys.

But you look at their big grin, and the spring in their step as they march up to the counter at the ice cream parlor, and the expression of total bliss on their face when their tongue first touches their treat. And you realize then that while you don’t agree with them that it’s a good flavor, you believe them when they say it’s their favorite.

This is how attraction works, too. You don’t have to agree with everyone who thinks you’re hot. In fact, when they compliment you, you may feel a full-body reaction of doubt and dismissal, because what you see when you look in the mirror certainly doesn’t register as “hot” to you. But you should still do your best to say “Thank you” and to believe what they’re saying. Their perceptions and tastes are different from yours. This happens in every area where humans can have preferences, from ice cream to music to, yes, people. Suspend your disbelief and allow yourself to accept that you are hot to somebody, even if you’re not hot to you.

You may be a flavor you personally wouldn’t eat if there was no other ice cream left on earth, but there are people who could lick you all day long and still want more. Know what I’m sayin’?

You’re someone’s favorite flavor. Don’t forget it.

 

This post was sponsored. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

Am I Sexy?: An Ugly Duckling’s Lament

Kate Sloan
Baby Kate trying to be sexy, circa 2006.

I have clear memories of all my milestone compliments. The first time someone called me “pretty,” and then, “beautiful.” The first time someone specifically said they loved my nose, my hips, my labia. All the suitors who’ve called me “cute” and all the different tones in which they’ve said it. These memories form a patchwork tapestry of my self-esteem – a guilty admission for me to make, in this world which tells us you’re not allowed to be loved by others until you love yourself first. It hasn’t really worked that way for me.

But all those words represent a nonsexual admiration – if not strictly chaste, then at least wholesome. I remember experiencing different feelings entirely the first time someone called me “sexy.”

He was an older boy at my high school, not a romantic interest of mine but on my horizons nonetheless, because his crush on me was unignorable. I don’t remember why he said it – what specifically he was referring to, and when – but I remember how I felt. I felt confused.

See, I grew up an ugly duckling. This is a fairly common experience, one with which you’re probably familiar, so I won’t go too much into the pain of believing for your entire childhood and adolescence that you are unattractive and that therefore your life will lack something fundamental. I hated my big nose, my chubby curves, my dull skin, double chin, irrefutable plainness. I wanted to be an exotic, unmissable stunner – like my best friend at the time, who got compliments all day every day on her model-pretty face and model-sexy body. (It did not occur to me then that maybe she didn’t like this type of attention, or that maybe she would’ve preferred to receive the more substantive compliments I received all the time on things like my intellect, humor, and writing. The grass is always greener, am I right?)

So to be told that I was sexy activated some deeply-rooted cognitive dissonance in me. I knew what “sexy” looked like in our culture – I’d absorbed it through magazines and movies and television and general discourse, like we all do – and I knew I did not look like that image. It didn’t occur to me that there could be a spectrum of sexy, not just an acceptable window of sexiness you might happen to fall into but indeed a wide-ranging, almost infinite array of qualities some might consider sexy. I know this now, having spent years writing and reading sex media where folks eroticize everything from chubby bellies to big noses to hairy toes to sharp-toothed giantesses and beyond. But I did not know it then.

So “sexy” was a word that did not apply to me, at least not comfortably. I laughed when the word came out of that boy’s mouth directed at me. He must have been mistaken. He must not have spent much time looking at me. He must not know what “sexy” even meant. How else could this word ever be used to describe me?

Ten years have passed and I am still mildly uncomfortable when described as sexy, hot, arousing, erotic, a turn-on. I can accept that my work is sometimes sexy – that someone’s pants might get tight as they read a flowery description of sex I’ve had. I can accept that certain qualities of mine might be sexy – that someone might fetishize my hips or my feet or my lips, focusing in on those parts to the exclusion of all others. I can accept that someone might want to have sex with me – because they like my brain, they want intimacy and closeness with me, or they simply want to get their rocks off. But it still vexes me to imagine that I, as a whole person, in my totality and weirdness and unconventionality, could be sexy.

It worries me that this is true, because if I feel this way – I, a woman who writes about sex on the internet, and is therefore inundated day in and day out with messages from horny, enamored suitors of various degrees of appropriateness – then, truly, anyone could feel this way. My cognitive behavioral therapist is always asking me to look for evidence of the core beliefs that bring me down – like that I’m not sexy – and though I’m faced with an onslaught of daily evidence to the contrary, I still can’t seem to shake this odd belief. That makes me worry on behalf of everyone who doesn’t feel sexy – which I’d guess is most of you. Not everyone has the (debatable) privilege of constant validation that I do. There are countless incredibly sexy people out there who never get to hear just how sexy they are. And that is tragic.

So I’m here to remind you that you are sexy, by virtue of the fact that any and every quality in existence is sexy to someone. I’ve swooned over bald-headed men who longed daily for their hair back. I’ve fantasized about tugging someone to me by the chubby hips I knew they hated. I’ve obsessed over the beauty of “imperfections”: crooked teeth, asymmetrical moles, big noses, gnarled hands, scarred skin.

And in doing so, I’ve learned to believe – intellectually if not emotionally – that I can be sexy, too. Just like pistachio isn’t my favorite ice cream flavor but I believe you if you tell me it’s yours, I can accept that I might be sexy to someone, even if, when I look at myself in a mirror, “sexy” is the farthest word from my mind.

“Sexy,” as a concept, is subjective, flexible, accommodating. One person’s “ugly duckling” is another person’s “scintillatingly hot.” I hope you’ll remember that, even if it takes you a while to actually believe it.

Heartsick & Miserable? Ask Yourself This One Question…

Kate Sloan

I read something recently that blew my mind, and if I may, I’d like to blow yours too.

In Lisa A. Phillips’ book Unrequited, she writes – having studied unreturned romantic obsessions, including her own, for ages in order to write the book – that it is important to ponder what an unrequited love is trying to tell you about your life.

When you are painfully obsessed with someone who doesn’t love you back, Phillips writes, you’re not really obsessed with that person – you’re obsessed with what is missing from your life, which this person has somehow come to represent in your mind.

I read this simple insight while flying back from D.C. to Toronto and actually gasped aloud on the plane, drawing stares from nearby seatmates. I couldn’t help it. It felt like Lisa A. Phillips had just shined a spotlight directly into my soul. I felt simultaneously called out and cleansed. Halle-fuckin’-lujah.

I thought back to the worst unrequited love of my life so far – an innocent-crush-turned-crushing-heartbreak centering on a person I met in 2015 and tortured myself over throughout 2016. While he’s indisputably charming, smart, funny, and lovely, so are a lot of people I meet. The question had haunted me for a while: why did I fall in love with him? What enabled him to get inside my head and absolutely break me? What made him feel so vital to my happiness on a basal, gut level?

I think it has a lot to do with when I met him, and what kind of person I was then. At that time, I had been single for nearly a year, having broken up with my long-term partner in 2014 – and I hadn’t dated anyone or had sex with anyone during that entire year. I was cripplingly insecure, uncertain, and shy. I worried constantly that no one would ever love me or want me again. That anxiety kept me from going out and socializing, which, in turn, kept me from meeting people who might want me or eventually love me. It was a self-perpetuating cycle of self-loathing.

And then along came this boy, dazzling and bright. He swept into my life with all the loud self-assuredness I’d later come to love about him. We went on two not-explicitly-romantic dates and I was immediately smitten: it had been a long time since I’d met someone this funny, confident, and effervescently charismatic. He made me laugh harder than I had in ages, with seemingly no effort. I felt glued to his words. He activated a lightness in me I didn’t know I could still feel.

On top of all that, he made me feel entirely focused upon. His attention was a laser, and when he focused it on me, I suddenly felt important and desirable – two feelings I’d lost sight of in my year of loneliness and celibacy.

As we became friends-with-benefits and then actual friends over the following year, I noticed myself falling into an unhealthy emotional cycle. It mirrored – and often triggered – the ups and downs I experience as part of my bipolar disorder. When I was around him, I felt starry-eyed, ecstatic, elated, like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong and I’d be happy forever. Nothing could touch me. But when we said goodbye – whether it was for a few days or a few months – I crashed, hard. The light he brought into my life had been extinguished, and I didn’t know how to reignite it myself. It felt like he contained all the humor and happiness I’d ever experienced, and I wouldn’t be able to get any of it back unless he was there with me.

And the trouble was, he didn’t always want to be there with me. He didn’t love me. He valued our friendship, but that’s all it was to him. I wasn’t angry at him for not loving me back, because I understood that he couldn’t help it – but I was profoundly sad, because it felt like he owned the key to my happiness and he would only lend it to me on a limited, conditional basis.

What I wish I had pondered more deeply is this: what was missing from my life? And how could I give that to myself instead of relying on him?

I think this concept was what eventually enabled my healing process to begin, though I wasn’t consciously aware of it at the time. My crush made me laugh more than anyone else I knew, so I started spending more time with funny friends, upping my comedy podcast intake, and cultivating my own sense of humor even further. My crush made me feel focused on and valued, so I sought more friends who made me feel that way, and also chose to focus on and value myself by amping up my self-care regimen. My crush made me feel sexy and desirable, so I started flirting with people more and going on more Tinder dates to generate more of those feelings (and got comfortable cutting ties with people who didn’t meet my standards in this way). The sex with my crush had been devastatingly good, so I tried to get better at asking for what I wanted with other partners so my sex life would improve overall – and I mixed up my masturbation routine to make it more fulfilling. Basically, I looked for holes my crush could no longer fill for me, and I filled them my damn self (vagina joke only partly intended).

It wasn’t until I started seeing my last boyfriend that I felt entirely divested of that old unrequited love, but I think the work I’d done on myself had laid the groundwork for me to meet such a wonderful person and accept him into my life. If I’d still been stuck on my old crush, I don’t think I would’ve been able to open myself up to someone new. It would’ve felt pointless, because how could someone new possibly be better than the person I’d been stuck on for over a year? But by divorcing that person from the joys he brought me, I became able to see that other people could make me happy, too, if I let them.

I wish I could go back in time and explain this revelation to my past self. Maybe it would save her a lot of heartache. But I think it’s more likely she wouldn’t even listen to me. That’s the nature of unrequited love: other people can spout lessons and truisms at you ad nauseum, and you won’t believe them; you have to learn these things for yourself, experientially. You’re always convinced your world is ending until it isn’t anymore.

What do you wish someone had told you about unrequited love when you were going through it?