For the most part, I have found the phenomena surrounding the book and film “50 Shades of Grey” to swerve between the laughable and the alarming. Laughable - because the world of BDSM as depicted in 50 Shades has nothing to do with the reality. 50 Shades descended from the pop-market romance books aimed as frustrated and naive middle-class housewives; it has merely twisted the endless tableaus of the virginal woman ritually initiated into sex by various fantastical pirates, Vikings, or knights, usually through force - that somehow turns into pleasure, into something far kinkier with the ability to shock the sheltered and the juvenile. Like those books, it is a pornographic daydream, yet, 50 Shades draws on a more contemporary world, that of modern sado-masochism, than the historical dime-store novels of the past. And, herein lays the danger. For, the dark world of BDSM is all too real; for the most part - it is populated by a realm of sick and psychotic people; the first big lie - as depicted in the book - no one ever submits to bondage slavery, as the girl did in 50 Shades, the first time out. It usually begins with an exposure to bondage porn; the soft-core stuff: light whipping by a loving couple, tying each other to the bedposts, handcuffs. Later, there is sometimes sicker forms of experimentation; if one is so inclined - generally because of past sexual trauma: incest, child abuse, rape, the fractured seek to resolve the shock through reenactment. For instance, when I was a small boy, an older teenage girl urinated on me - beyond my understanding - I also went back to that same scenario. And, as an adult, when I allowed those things to happen to me: it wast sexy, it didn’t turn me on, it didn’t solve anything - except, it made me feel like a little boy again, and maybe, just maybe, it helped me to believe that I wasn’t the only one. Because, I didn’t want to be the only one.
An excerpt from my book “Swallowed by Satan” - this the real world of BDSM:
otherwise oddly unharmed. When your conscious moral self is reduced
to a mere speck, nothing much disturbs you. For this reason, I fell back
into the leather S&M universe. But instead of being the abuser, I now
wished to only be the abused. With this in mind, I found that most gay
men as they age tend towards either becoming “daddy” types, who other
young and naive gay men must pass through and be instructed by, in
order to enter the realm of male on male sex, or a salivating troll that
hits on anything with a penis. There are rarely shades of gray between
the two extremes.
Now, I was quickly nearing thirty, and my days as the hot and
impressionable young stud were long over. Since gay culture and pornography
developed simultaneously, they share many of the same attributes.
As the gay man ages and passes into servitude, porn stars also wear out
their usefulness, and slip silently out of the business, or they surrender
completely and accept whatever second chance, no matter how
degrading, they are offered. When hearing about a proposed live pornographic
art piece, that was really just a grandiose excuse for exhibitionism,
being acted out at a local leather sex club, I made it well-known
that I was definitely interested. But this time, I did not wear the SS
uniform, but a collar and leash.
A group of us got together on the given night at the club. We
changed in the locker-room area and then proceeded to the so-called
dungeons. Since I was one of the passive men, I spent most of the
evening on my knees or on all fours. One man kept holding the chain
which was linked to the collar around my neck. From time to time, he
would tug on it and my entire upper body jerked to the side. Through
the wall of bodies, I saw something being forced into the anus of another
man. At first, I looked away and went back to focusing on what I was
doing. Then I saw the object again. What was that? Abruptly, the chain
pulled me back to my master. I disobeyed, and looked again. It appeared
out of the ordinary to me, but I could not see clearly. Then I recognized
what it was: a crucifix. Although, I disregarded Jesus years ago, I was still
horrified. But I did nothing. I just went back to my own task. I knew the
real crazies in the punishment and leather scenes hated most forms of
organized religion, but especially Catholicism for its strident stance
against homosexual behavior. Strangely, I found out that most of these
guys were ex-Catholics. For this reason, they always had a perverse
predisposition for including some sort of religious desecration in their
more elaborate sexual routines.
To begin with, I knew the main theme of the display would be
“watersports.” As a younger man I saw this activity and frequently
participated, but I always found it semi-revolting. The first time I ever
took part in watersports was at one of the notorious Folsom Street Fairs
held every September in San Francisco. I remember during one of my
first Summers, after starting college, a group of us went to Folsom with
the intent of just gawking at the freaks and not with any desire to join
in. When we arrived, at first, I thought the atmosphere was comically
routine, with bare-bottomed men being paddled and hairy bears walking
about in tight thongs. Then, I was pleasantly surprised to find some of
the revelers having sex in the nearby portable toilets. One eager looking
and anemically thin newbie beckoned me to follow him into one of the
plastic outhouses. We started having sex, but soon an impatient
onlooker opened the door allowing several people outside to take a peek
and capture some quickly focused snap-shots. Afterward, the guy asked
me to urinate on him, which I happily obliged. This was the ultimate
power trip, to use someone, wipe yourself off on them, and then walk
away.
Now, I was the one being used. After years of sexual indiscretion, all
that was left within myself was hate: hate for other men, hate for my life,
and hate for the world. When all you have is hate, the only thing that
can satisfy you is the pure sickness of evil. When there is no God in your
heart, good becomes repulsive. Here, I wanted to authentically follow
Crowley by embracing the gruesome and the hideous. Then, over time,
I would come to love all that once nauseated me. I knew that what I
would be drinking upon was the darkness of hell. That night, I thought
I could quench every thirst. All I could hear in my head was the hypnotized
man saying, “Hhheeellllll.”
The dominant men, put the three passive guys, including myself, in
a line and then took turns relieving themselves in our mouths. One of
them said to me, open-wide. My face stung. Years before, I never thought
I could have fallen this low. But I didn’t have a choice. Once, I headed
down the slopping road of damnation, I could not stop, or even slow
down the onrushing velocity. They had prepared my walking remains for
the final immolation. I was on the altar, the knife was raised, and I was
ready to go.