When I Sub, It's More Than Just Sex

I don’t sub often. That’s why you’d be hard-pressed to find me taking orders in bed. Most of the time when I’m engaging in kink/BDSM-type sexual encounters, (which to be frank, actually isn’t too often) I identify more as a dom. I like to give the pain. Not receive. I like to be called sir. Not boy.

I’ve psychoanalyzed myself plenty, trying to figure out why I prefer being dominant as opposed to submissive. In the past, I’ve thought it was connected to my personality. See, while I’m loud and confident, often bordering on obnoxious, I avoid any form of confrontation like the plague. And while my friends surely describe me as “too much,” you’ll never hear them describe me as, “aggressive.” That’s simply not how I behave in my day to day life. In fact, I’m actually working on standing up for myself more. I want to be more assertive. I think there is large potential for personal growth in this area of my life.

Therefore, I concluded that BDSM was an outlet for me to be more aggressive and dominant. To take control of the feelings I often bottle down. In high school, water polo was my aggressive outlet. In the pool, I was encouraged to beat the living shit out of guys, as well as get the living shit kicked out of me. Mind you, this was all done while wearing skimpy Speedos. My sexually confused self could not have asked the gods for a more fabulous sport.

I lived for it.

Now that I’m no longer in high school, my extracurricular activities have evolved. I don’t play water polo. I have sex (since God knows I really wasn’t getting laid in high school).

I’ve also stopped speculating why I prefer to be more dominant in the bedroom. My psychoanalysis could be spot on, but at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter why I like to do what I do sexually. What matters is knowing that I like doing these things as well as engaging in these activities safely and consensually. I feel like I do that pretty damn well.

Now once in the bluest of moons, I act as a submissive for a dominant. And when I say “subbed” in this context, I mean seriously subbed. Not just a few whips or paddles to the ass. I mean taking orders for an hour, being tied up, beaten hard. Bruises the next day.

You get the picture.

I can easily count the times I have subbed on one hand: three.

Each time I’ve subbed, I cried, or rather, bawled. Each time I felt a cathartic release followed by mental clarity that stayed with me for days following the experience.

Subbing for me is a far more powerful experience than being dominant. It’s also far more intense and requires more trust, which is why I don’t sub often.

Now like every single millennial in existence, I struggle with anxiety. Far less than I used to, thanks to therapy and meds. But still, my anxiety does rear his ugly head from time to time. And when he does, I can’t speak to him rationally. I can’t simply calm down, or tell myself, “Everything is going to be okay.” If I could, then I wouldn’t have anxiety.

No, no. My anxiety is all-consuming. And nothing I do – no amount of weed – TV – “self-care” – or (regular) sex can help.

It was during one of these anxious times, that my (now) ex recommended I sub.

“It’ll take your mind off of everything.”

Boy, did I need something to help me stop thinking.

“Sure,” I thought to myself, “Why the hell not?”

So we put on the nipple clamps, and these bad boys were not for the faint of heart. Industrial strength. I also had one of my nipples pierced at the time, and that nipple, in particular, sent shooting sensations up and down my body when clamped.

Over the course of the hour, I was bent over. She choked me. (She was 6 feet and stronger than I was.) She whipped me. She gave me order after order. Each time, I obeyed, like a good little sub.

Towards the end, she increased the tightness of the nipple clamps. That’s when the tears started to flow. My body was going into overdrive, and my face went numb.

She licked the tears from my face, telling me how sweet they tasted.

Finally, we were done. After she untied me and took the clamps off, she held me naked for what felt like forever. She was engaging in all the right self-care techniques.

Let me tell you something.

All of those problems that were consuming my mind seemed a hell of a lot less significant after I subbed. I don’t know if it’s the rush of adrenaline or endorphins. I don’t know if it’s the fact that there is a part of me that inevitably thinks while subbing, “Holy shit, I don’t know if I’m going to make it out of this alive.” I don’t know if it’s something else entire.

Whatever it the reason is, I am not complaining.

Subbing for me calms the insidious, cyclical pattern of thoughts that plagues me when I’m anxious. It helps put me, my life, and my worries into perspective. It gets me to cry in front of others, something I don’t do often.

That’s why subbing isn’t just fun for me, it’s the ultimate form of therapy.