Canberra, It’s a Wonderful Place

Canberra is just like Las Vegas, except that it’s colder, more boring, has less casinos, zero Elvis-themed 24 hour wedding chapels, and no one likes going there. But apart from that, they’re like, totally the same.

But really, it’s unfair of me to bag Canberra, because I’ve only ever had awesome weekends there (disregarding all the lame school excursions and the times my parents might have taken us to Our Nation’s Capital under the pretence of ‘family fun’). It’s far enough from Sydney to create the illusion of being quasi-exotic (if your idea of ‘exotic’ is really wide roads and a lot of boxy apartment blocks), and for this reason it gives you an excuse to behave outrageously.

Not that I need an excuse.

I went down last weekend for a fetish party that was being organised by the Canberra Under 30s group. (Yes, kink is alive and kicking in Canberra – who knew?). Initially, just me and Whipslave were going to go, but in the end our group snowballed into a posse of six. Four of whom had never been to a kink event before, let alone fully considered this side of themselves. Apparently, I’ve become the ‘bad influence friend’. Ha.

A while back I blogged about how there’s not really such a thing as ‘vanilla’ – that perversion is best represented by a sliding scale. I believe that all human relationships contain elements of dominance and submission – after all, BDSM doesn’t come from nowhere. And as part of that particular rant, I asserted that people who only socialise within the kink community are cutting themselves off from the possibility of being surprised.

That theory was proven when my presumably vanilla friends not only jumped at the opportunity of attending a fetish party, but came prepared with their own handcuffs and floggers.

It’s what Marauder describes as ‘kink-dar’. That sixth sense for pervy freaks – when you find yourself drawn to particular people, for seemingly unknown reasons. This is your subconscious at work, hinting to you that the friendly young man with the eyebrow piercing has it in him to one day pulverise your arse with a cane.

Still, as I was entering the party, I became flooded with anxiety – worried that I’d led my friends to a place that would be awkward and uncomfortable for them. Since ‘anxious’ is my default setting, I poured myself a glass of wine, and tried my best to ignore it.

The venue was really cool. It was at a property about thirty minutes outside Canberra – on a farm, pretty much. The owners of the house are a pair of doms who have lovingly converted the spare rooms of their home into dungeon spaces. Not only were the spaces fully equipped (with more floggers, canes, needles, hoods, and other assorted sexual implements than you can point a pointed stick at, boom tish), but they also had a great energy. The main dungeon area had a padded leather wall, a leather spanking bench, and a soft black mini-hammock-type-thing, which was suspended from the ceiling by chains, and which had soft little stirrups for feet. (No one got fucked in the chair that night, but it did serve as an excellent ‘spaced-out subbie seat’).

The other room was decorated to look like a medical space – with white walls, a bright overhanging lamp, and a gurney. This was of course my favourite, and it was in this room that most of our night unfolded.

When we first arrived, I couldn’t see myself playing that night. I was feeling shy because I wasn’t familiar with the crowd (who were all friendly and welcoming, but yeah I’m a freak), and I didn’t see myself initiating anything. Whipslave and I have been wanting to play for a while – we’re both subs who are curious about topping. But the idea of topping and actually topping are two very different things – and I was almost certain that I was going to lose my nerve.

(Funny, isn’t it, the way I get terrified at the idea of topping – that kind of psyched-out ‘no I just can’t do it!’ kind of fear, when logically that would be a normal reaction for someone about to get hit.)

Fortunately, it was Whipslave who took the initiative and got the ball rolling by offering to cane me. It really took a lot of convincing, but eventually, he twisted my arm. (For the more thorough, and probably more accurate version of this story, I suggest you read his version).

He was very good with the cane. In the same way that you’ll always get a better meal out of a cook who loves eating, receiving a caning from someone who also loves receiving a caning tends to make it extra good. Knowing how to build it up, how to bring you to the edge, when to push it further, when to pause.

I got lost so quickly. I was lying face down, and my hands were handcuffed behind me. This was an interesting caning, because I went to so many places. At first it was sensual, sleepy, dreamy. Then it was erotic – the sort of caning that makes me writhe and groan and smile and gasp. After that it got harder – heavier strokes from a heavier cane (my favourite sort. I adore the thick heavy canes – even though they look more intimidating, they are far easier to take than those little whippy ones, which sting like a mofo). This broke the dam of euphoria in me, and despite the pain, I hardly felt it. I became still, and went deep, deep inside myself, to a place of silence.

Only to be pushed out of it again, as I was hit quickly, relentlessly; many hands upon my body; all male. The spell was broken and I came out cranky, like a child woken from a nap. I was petulant then, shrieking, wriggling, trying to get away. I didn’t care about composure anymore, didn’t care about appearing to be brave – I ‘did not want’, and yet down it came, again, again.

Somewhere in it, a voice: “stop it”. I was defiant, non-compliant. I scrunched my face,  not allowing the welled up tears their release. Raging, growling, spitting curses through clenched teeth.

When freedom was granted, I emerged as if from battle, woozy with too-much relief.

Then came The Shakes. The Shakes is a physical reaction to trauma – the fight or flight response. I love The Shakes. It’s sort of like being possessed, speaking in tongues, as your body does one thing while your lips try to articulate what is intangible, inexpressible.

I was so fucking high.

After enough of an intermission to regain control of my hands, I was totally g’ed up to cane Whipslave. He lay on the gurney, shirtless, bum bared.

I started off by flogging his back. For the first time, I feel like I truly found my rhythm. I didn’t doubt, didn’t fret. Just let it whack, felt the music in the act, the art. The performer in me suddenly sparked, and I was on.

Now I get it. Finally, I get it. How fun it is, how freeing. I’ve always known this, that BDSM comes from elements of your own personality – you don’t need to put anything on. So, I could be the cute, bubbly, giggly person I so frequently am, but in a dominant role. It’s a matter of working with what you’ve got, and channelling it outwards, deliberately, unapologetically.

(A trick I learned on the night was to keep my left index finger pressed to my lips – which was an effective way of stopping me from trying to say “sorry” when I hit a bit hard).

After the flogging, I moved on to the cane. This too, was fun. There’s something completely mesmerising about it – for the all the time I was caning Whipslave, I wasn’t thinking about all the meaningless crud which usually cycles through my head. Which is exactly why I love submitting – it’s one of the only things that makes my head SHUT THE FUCK UP.

It was also really nice to play with someone I knew trusted me, and who can take a lot of pain. This gave me the freedom to stop worrying, and to just go with it. Instead of flicking my eyes to his face after every stroke, I relaxed and allowed myself to sense what he was feeling. This is far more enjoyable, and a far more accurate way of reading a person. You don’t need to look, and you don’t need to ask. You just need to trust.

It was a very sexy way to feel. I revelled in it, to the point where I ended up caning three more people before the night was out. Taking delight in the way they trembled and flinched.

Who would have thought?

(By the way, I still walked away with the most bruised arse out of everyone who was there. Amazingly bruised. The whole thing is purple, still).

As the night was winding down, Whipslave gave me a lovely foot massage as we lay on the couch, watching the football. (This was kind of like torture for me – football is a hard limit! Those Canberrans really are a bunch of twisted sickos, I tell you).

In recent years I’ve been slowly coming around the concept of accepting kindness. I’m still not very comfortable with it, but I’m getting better. Normally when someone gives me a massage, I lie there feeling guilty for making them work while I receive all the pleasure. But to know that it brings the other person pleasure to give me pleasure makes it possible for me to enjoy it.

Which is a good thing. I think I’m making progress.

Now that I’ve conquered Canberra, I’m plotting my next escapade. Brisbane, perhaps?