Be silent, be still…

I’ve had a couple of conversations over the last few days that made me think it was time to write this post. The first of them started with a question:

“So what is it that turns you on about being dominated by a woman?”

It’s something that I suspect male switches (and submissives) get asked more frequently than their female counterparts. Aided in no small measure by FSOG, female submission is seen as a profoundly ‘natural’ urge, and one that requires explanation only in terms of how it’s expressed; a woman who voices her desire to be dominated by a man may face challenges and questions around its more extreme manifestations, but is likely to have fewer people trying to understand the root cause of the desire itself.

That is in itself problematic. The assumption that women are sexually submissive by nature is lazy and sexist, and feeds into all sorts of other unpleasant notions about gender roles in the bedroom. However, it also means that when people find out that as well as taking charge, I really enjoy being controlled and dominated in bed, their first question – rather than ‘how?’ – is generally ‘why?’

I’ve written quite a lot about the how. I’ve written about orgasm denial, and how hot it is when someone tells me not to come. I’ve written about strap-on play, and how much I love being bent over and fucked by a woman who wants to use my arse. I’ve written about being restrained, and about face-sitting, and about women who want me to strip for them while they watch: all things that turn me into a whimpering puddle of lust whenever I allow myself to spend time thinking about them.

I’ve also written about how that submissive streak ties in with other areas of my sexuality (the subject of this week’s second conversation). How when I think about being with other guys, it’s always within the context of female pleasure and control: I’m not just sucking someone’s cock, I’m sucking it because she tells me to, or because it gets her wet to watch me do it. When I fantasise about threesomes, and about being fucked, I’m never the one directing events. Instead, I’m spread out on all fours with his big dick in my arse, while she holds my face between her legs; or while she looks me in the eye and touches herself, aroused by the sight of me taking it like that – taking it for her.

What I’ve never really stopped to explain here is why those things turn me on. I think that’s generally a good thing: the reason why I don’t feel the need to analyse or scrutinise the submissive side of my sexual personality is that it’s something with which I’m both happy and comfortable. I don’t worry about it, and I certainly don’t feel ashamed of having those tendencies: if anything, I’m frustrated that I don’t get more opportunities to explore and enjoy them.

Still, when I was asked that question the other day (and not for the first time this year), I forced myself to think about it in a bit more depth. What does turn me on about submission? What do all of those ‘hows’ have in common? Is there a way to join the dots that can explain why I like to be tied up, and teased, and used, and – yes – maybe humiliated just a little bit?

The answer is that of course there is, because when it comes right down to it, male submission is no more complex or special or out there than its female equivalent. I submit because it brings me an inner peace and calm that empties my mind and allows me to truly experience the things that I’m doing…or that are being done to me. I’m not a masochist – actually, anything beyond mild pain is an active turn-off – but I am a man who enjoys surrendering control to someone I know will not only wield it responsibly and imaginatively, but will derive genuine pleasure from using that power. The last thing I want to do when I submit is to top from the bottom; I want to set limits and discuss turn-ons in advance, then to trust the person I’m with to guide our play, rather than prompting or pushing them to do things a certain way.

I always shy away from describing myself as a control freak, but it’s certainly fair to say that in most situations I like to have at least some influence over what goes on in and around my life. I don’t enjoy feeling helpless, or at the mercy of things that are demonstrably outside my control. It’s an exhausting – and often confusing – way to engage with the world, especially on the occasions when I’m reminded just how flimsy and insubstantial my grip on events can be.

Sex, on the other hand, is a safe space for me in that respect. I can give up all of that control, all of that power, and know that I’m not going to be hurt or damaged as a result. It’s an incredibly relaxing, satisfying experience, and one that leaves me feeling healthier mentally. Even if it only lasts for an afternoon, or a night, the inner calm associated with sexual submission is a cleansing force: a five-star holiday for my body and my brain.

Submission both forces me and gives me license to be silent; to be still. That then becomes the foundation for everything else it enables. I don’t have to think about what I’m doing: I can give myself up to physical pleasure, both mine and that of the person I’m with. I can allow that person to guide me through my own desire, and to shape and sharpen my focus on hers, in whatever form that might take. It cuts through the chaos and makes life suddenly, tremendously simple. There are instructions that I have to follow. There are things that will be done to – or by – me, over which I have no control. Whatever I want at that time, whether it’s my own orgasm or something else, will depend not on my choices, but on the agenda and desire of my partner; regardless of how much I crave it, or beg for it, I won’t be the one who decides when (or even if) it happens.

I have neither the discipline nor the desire to be a ‘lifestyle sub’. I’m a switch, whose submission will always be situational and, at times, opportunistic. I need it less often than I need to have that sexual control, and certainly less often than I need sex generally. I still need it though. I need it in the same way I need to escape London sometimes and go walking in the hills; the way I need a weekend at my parents, or to completely lose myself in a good book. It strips everything in life down to the basics, and for that I will always value what it gives me.

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For those who are curious, I took the title for this post from a scene in She’s All That, for reasons that should be fairly clear to anyone who’s watched the film. I wear my love of cheesy Hollywood teen movies on my sleeve, and make no apology for it!