Dirty Submissive Fantasy

I have this fantasy…

When I was in high school, a girl and several guys got suspended for a blow job party. I don’t know what else to call it. They snuck into the school theater, and the guys all sat in a row of seats and the girl — I actually knew her pretty well — just blew all of them. One at a time, moving down the row, sucking somebody’s cock until they came, then moving on to the next. Apparently, they got caught or the administration got wind of it because somebody bragged or ratted, and they all caught time off. (I don’t want to think what would have happened in the ’90s or nowadays with a case like that.) I talked to a few of the guys afterwards, and they were universally dismissive of the girl. She wasn’t that hot they told me, wasn’t that smart, and as far as they were concerned, she was just a way to get off.

And I remember hearing that, and thinking, “Oh, man…why do I envy her…?”

That scenario, with the genders reversed, became a fantasy of mine. Me, on my knees, rolling from girl to girl, their pants down around their ankles or off on the floor. The girl I’m going down on props her legs up over my shoulders or rests her feet on my back, occasionally pushing my head down. They talk shit about me while I do it, joking about my technique or asking when it’ll be their turn. The girls don’t love me, they don’t care about me, and as each one gets off, I move to the next. Eventually, I’ve gotten them all off and I just slouch there, on the ground at their feet kissing somebody’s leg as she plays with my hair, until one of them gets the urge again and pulls on my hair and drags me over to her again. By the end, I’m sticky and sweaty and uncomfortable and I haven’t gotten off, but it doesn’t matter — they’re pleased with me. Maybe they’ll call me again when they’re bored or horny.

What’s interesting to me is that I never thought of myself at the time I first had that fantasy as submissive, despite the fact that it’s such a clearly submissive fantasy. I just knew I wanted — hoped for — that kind of sex. I had all these submissive thoughts and fantasies, but I probably didn’t have a label for what it signified — for what I was — until I was 17, and then I spent years in denial.

But those old fantasies still get me off. That fantasy of being nothing but a, whatever the male equivalent of a blow job slut is, that’s stayed with me. One of my wife’s favorite games now in a scene is for her to just use me to get off, watching porn or something while I’m covered up, distant from her, just a source of pleasure, and that scenario was born out of the time I spent fantasizing about going down on a row of girls. Tonight, dizzy with need and loneliness, I told my wife about that fantasy from way back when, the urge I had to just be used, to be nothing but an object.

I need that kind of…I don’t want to say humiliation. Maybe distance? I need that distance from the person I’m servicing sometimes. It’s one of the paradoxes of the submissive instinct inside me — I want to please, but I want to be treated with a certain amount of disdain. I want to be a slut. (Slut seems like such a weird word — there’s no real male equivalent for that kind of sexual objectification, which says something about society that is better left for another entry.) It’s probably one reason why I get off on erotica and stories about women just letting go and taking all comers — not because I get off on the woman as object, like a lot of guys do with gangbang porn, but because I imagine myself in her place, the-man-as-object, just this beast put out to stud. I switch the genders around in my head when I read and it’s me, just being abused by my wife and her work friends, or these women I work with, or [fill in slutty porn scenario here.]

If there was a way to do a gangbang with a bunch of women instead of men, and one man getting objectified and exploited, I would sign up immediately. Extra points if they talk shit about me as they fuck me.

It seems to me that BDSM is made up of all of these impossible paradoxes that we’re constantly working around. I mean, submissives — or a lot of them — want to be slaves. We want to be owned. But we don’t really want to be slaves. I mean, I know all about the history of American and classical slavery, and the last thing I want is to be treated like that, the last thing I want is to even liken my condition when being dominated to that. Even the 24/7 couples I read about don’t come anywhere near the reality of real slavery. But still — that condition is the archetype, the paradox is we want it and we don’t want it. And so the Submissive Male As Whore, as Nameless Toy — I don’t really want to be treated like that. The poor girl from high school had major problems before she pulled her blow job train, and more afterwards. The reality of that kind of exploitation is kind of awful. But the ideal…the ideal informs my dreams. I want that scenario. I want that experience. I want to be objectified and dehumanized and exploited, but only within the constraints of safe BDSM scenery.

Or, to put it another way: if there was a way for a woman to give a man a facial, if there was some kind of gender-reversed money-shot that had the same unspoken symbolism that the classic porn scene ending has, I’d want it every fucking time. It’s probably one reason why my wife and I close out so many scenes with a golden shower — that dismissive marking, that desecration, the weaker party covered in filthy fluids that they have to lick or scrub off.

I remember my wife forcing me to go down on her strap-on during our second scene ever, and I was drunk with lust as she forced my head down, I was gagging on her cock, licking it all over. And I pulled my mouth away and looked up to her and just unashamedly blurted out, “I wish more than anything right now that you could just come on my face.” And her eyes got a little wide, and I think it was one of those milestones where she realized just how deep my submission runs, because I had always, always, always disdained facials in porn and when we had sex. I found them tasteless and dehumanizing and not sexy at all. My wife and I tried me giving her a facial once during our vanilla days, and she and I both just hated it.

But if she could do it to me? Oh, baby.

BDSM for me is a paradox, because I want praise, I want to please, I want to be loved by my wife as she dominates me. But I also want disdain, humiliation, objectification. I think it’s out of that paradox, out of that conflict, out of that dynamic of love and cruelty that makes BDSM so fucking hot for us. It’s in the tidal push-and-pull of love and pain that gets my wife and I high.