I write stories of power, of coercion, of helplessness and surrender.
They’re not useful, practical, how-to guides, such as how to practice BDSM with safety, consent, and understanding the difference between fantasy and reality.
So why write them?
It is true that some people like my stories. Not necessarily all of them. Someone might like one of my stories.
I’m glad if someone likes one of my stories.
But that’s not why I write them.
After I write a story I have a choice. I don’t have to publish a story I’ve written. I could keep it locked away, or destroy the only copy. No one ever needs to see them.
Publishing a story carries some risk, after all. I publicly reveal to the world that I have thoughts of domination and control, of coercion and force.
Some might disapprove. Look, they might say, at what a horrible twisted person I am, to have such thoughts. Or to reveal having such thoughts. Evil bad people have evil bad thoughts, so I shouldn’t have such thoughts if I don’t want to be an evil bad person, or to be mistaken for one.
In my experience though, the kind of person who disapproves of stories tends to be the kind of person who likes finding something to disapprove of. They’re going to disapprove of me anyway, so I’m not actually risking much to publish my stories.
Someone else in different circumstances might perhaps need courage to publish such stories, might face risk in doing so. But I don’t, not really.
So why do I write?
In Jungian psychology there’s the concept of the “shadow”, the dark side of our personality. Our instinct is to repress our shadow, but in Jungian psychology our challenge is to integrate our shadow. If we don’t, our shadow can leak out sideways, affecting our behavior in negative ways. We avoid noticing how our behavior is being affected, because if we did, we’d be confronting our shadow.
I think this may be why I write. A thought bubbles up in my mind. A desire. It may not be a very nice desire. It may not be in accord with my values. It could well be an evil thought, if I were to do it in actuality.
And then I have a choice. I can ignore this desire. Or I can let it out.
Writing it down is a way of letting it out.
I find it useful to be unapologetic. The desire isn’t me. It simply bubbled up from the turmoil of my subconscious.
And then I feel a little bit emptier, a little bit calmer, a little bit more at peace. I’ve released the desire.
I still have the desire. But I have thousands of desires. More desires than I could act on in a lifetime. I’m no longer holding on to the desire, I’m not possessed by the desire.
And if perhaps I would like to act on the desire? Well, that’s what the framework of BDSM is for. The desire doesn’t care about safety or consent or things like that, but I do. And, if I want to, I can fulfill that desire within a positive framework. Or not, if there’s something else I’d rather do more.
I find it useful in another way.
I can notice when other people appear not to be confronting their own shadows.
For example, there are those who say they want to help people by criminalizing their jobs, denying them an education, and by burning down their neighborhoods. I think, “Huh, that’s odd.” This sacrifice is supposed to create a better future, but how exactly can be left rather vague. And those who advocate such policies rarely seem to want to criminalize their own jobs, to deny themselves an education, to burn down their own homes.
“Oh,” I think. “That could be a shadow manifestation, perhaps. An unacknowledged desire for destruction, dressed up in a claim of doing good.”
I could be wrong of course! It’s just a hypothesis. I don’t know the underlying psychological motivations.
Though it does suggest that perhaps the world could be a better place if more people wrote BDSM stories 😄
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