In October 1994 I wrote my experience with consent play, in a notebook.
With the intention of publishing it one day.
I never finished it, as explained in the previous episode.
This is what I wrote about my consent play and my affair or relationship with Bear.
contains erotic elements
NSFW, not suitable for work
Monday 21- Tuesday October 22 1994
I don’t know how many words will go into this journal before it’s full. How many pages before this ballpoint is empty. How many stories I need to tell before I have said what I ve come here to say. But I do know the limited resources will work in my advantage.
On top of the boundaries set by the material, there is the slowness of it.
The thoughts that just drip onto the paper word for word.
A little pause at the end of every sentence.
And I ve set myself a time limit.
Not because I m in a hurry finishing or publishing it. But because I believe this unspoken confession is what is blocking the pathway to what it is I desire.
All of them. The men.
But above all else: Not writing this out is blocking my way to becoming the person I would be in their presence.
The lover who calls herself, yes, what?
What is it, this unnamed role? Both “girlfriend” and “submissive” are equally misplaced. Neither one is what I want to be and at heart already am.
Just without words so far.
How do you name a woman who desires to be in a constant game for her consent?
Not just in the obvious, the play rape.
I did think that for a while.
That the most defining characteristic of my sexual preference was to be dominated during sex.
But now I know this consent is always played for, and withheld unless I feel I have his full attention.
And then we play.
Then I surrender.
Then he can dominate me.
But that my desire for power play is weaved into the bigger picture of two lovers only seeing each other for sex.
Or for a date of some sort.
My sexual preference cannot “just” be defined as power play or rough sex, because that would imply that you could be married and have this type of sex at night and then discuss whose turn it is to stock the fridge.
That is not how consent play works- let’s call it that for now.
Consent play would ask: What fridge?
There is only the now.
It is like a perpetual tango. A game of attraction, where you hope you ll dance again.
There are multiple men I would like to tango with. But currently I m dating none of them.
I don’t have to answer to anyone right now. I m alone with my thoughts and with my desires. Between what was and what can become, who I can become.
And when I do the right man will come.
Tuesday 22- Wednesday October 23 1994
Create the Truth
I tick off the things I want to do each day.
Cuddle enough with both cats.
Some things are harder than others.
Writing in this journal is also on there and it’s one of the things I don’t want to skip. Not even if it’s after midnight before I start.
The reason I want to do this is because this activity is called “create the truth”. I know that by writing I want a dominant lover, I will create him.
I need to feel like I am the perfect match and then next to me, like magic, a vacuum will be created that will draw the right man and only the right man, in.
This man will automatically, when we make love, force me down, pin me down, restrict me, push me, command me, open me, enter me, hurt me, fill me, and it will be under that weight that I lean in and let go.
And that I am home.
Wednesday 23 – Thursday 24 October 1994
On days like this it’s so good to have this diary to come back to.
I didn’t do yoga, didn’t see friends or a movie. The only thing I did, which was good for my sexuality (or maybe it’s more a prerequisite than an aphrodisiac) is deep cleanse my house.
I feel thrilled by this.
I intend to do yoga AM! The PM thing is not working for me. I hope that a sexy yoga session every morning will keep my spirits up for the rest of the day.
That I ll keep identifying with my sexual ambitions, of who I need to be.
Right now I keep forgetting it until suddenly I remember after midnight, when I pick up this journal.
I need to start doing a hell of a lot more to straighten this out, than writing this book.
Wednesday October 30 1994
A League of their own
First day working from home, and immediately I take this journal and go to the cafe instead of spending the day behind my desk.
I ll make it up.
It’s just that I ve been in such a dark place that I m thrilled my desire to journal has returned.
The story has returned.
And it’s not the story I thought it was.
Maybe they were related: The story of consent play and my meltdown.
Consent play is a lot more complex than just a variation to SM.
And I am a lot more complex than just a college grad stuck in her first job.
I might have needed the meltdown in order to do justice to the story, as well as to myself.
Over the past week I ve discovered a really big chunk in my identity that didn’t seem to have a purpose.
Except as a place of strength.
Yesterday I was talking about this part to a friend and she said:
“Oh my God, you’re sitting just like her.”
She was referring to Catherine Tramell, Basic Instinct. A movie I ve seen more than any other.
Just this summer they played it at the discount theater and I added 4 to the list.
And I m thinking of getting a VHS.
What I mean with my identification with her being this big piece of a puzzle or chunk of my identity that I didn’t know where to put is well… literally that!
Where do I behave or feel like Catherine Tramell, if I m submissive in bed?
If I make myself as grey as possible at work? Not that I ve been very successful at that and I m glad I can start working from home but nevertheless.
I didn’t recognize myself.
I think cutting my personality in half was the biggest cause of me having suicidal thoughts over the weekend.
Not as an act of despair but as a happy thought. A comforting one. One I d rather thought of than how I was going to solve this.
But the signs that life was slipping though my fingers, had been earlier.
In no longer masturbating. No longer writing.
Quit eating sugar, which was the first moment death entered my thoughts. I wanted to lose weight because I wanted to bring my body back to its pre-college thinness before I died.
And there it was there: The thought of suicide.
I felt dead on the inside already and felt it needed to stay that way not to disturb the others around me. The only one who didn’t require me to be half-dead already, was Bear.
I have not heard from him in weeks, if not months. But I ran into him and he invited me over or suggested we should see each other soon.
But I rejected.
If he doesn’t want to see me, I don’t want him to feel pressured to invite me. I really believe he has someone else right now.
And the idea that we would meet up at my all-time low was out of the question.
On my way home I kept wondering why I had been so determined to reject him helping me. He had literally offered: “Maybe it helps to talk.”
Yet I knew that the moment I accepted this, it would not only ruin what we had-
but that it was also dangerous. Because I would become dependent on him.
I would be meeting him from a place of needing him when I want him to want me, not to pity me.
And suddenly I snapped out of it.
I saw why I felt suicidal, why I was so happy with my love life and could even bare the thought of him having someone else.
And where that giant chunk went!
I saw why I had seen Basic Instinct so many times, and why I should be buying a VHS.
And most importantly: I saw why my submission during sex was rooted in strength.
My relationship with Bear has been the only place, in all those years, where I have been able to show myself as a badass Catherine Tramell.
He never blinked.
Not when I asked him to become my lover and deflower me.
Not when I asked for anal sex.
Not when I asked for play rape.
Applauded him for staying sexually active with other women.
Watched him with great love, appreciation and understanding as others around him crashed into his stubbornness.
I saw that we had something that we couldn’t have with others because they needed it to have rules, form, agreement.
When we had none of those things.
We had a deep understanding and appreciation of each other’s strength and independence.
We saw each other as solitary beings.
Not as half of a couple in need of amalgamation.
My relationship with Bear had been my Catherine Tramell Sanctuary.
And the reason I had been starving myself, denying myself, creatively cutting myself off and ultimately the reason why I wanted to kill myself:
Because in all other aspects of my life I had not been Catherine Tramell.
Sunday November 17, 1994
I just typed out these notes on consent play, and I was right.
This really was, and is, all I can say about it.
Sometimes I think my depression and the current trouble we are going through are the effects of leaving university, and both of us trying to find our place in this world.
I m convinced we’ll stay in touch, over the course of our lives.
But right now I need to start implementing what I learned about who I want to be.
It’s almost 5 years ago that we started our affair. We were both still in high school when we met.
I have become an adult and stepped into my power, but only in my relationship with him. So therefor it was very limited.
You could say I m only half adult.
Or a part-time adult.
The rest of the time my own power scares me. Or the response I get from people is starting to scare me. Now more than ever, it seems.
My studies were filled with male friends, but at the publisher’s it’s mostly women.
I have definitely not been coping well with that. And I avoid their company, mostly.
With Bear out of sight, the only place where I ve felt good in my own skin, disappeared.
No wonder I feel I m losing my strength.
Growing up is like shedding skin, isn’t it?
You can’t enjoy your new identity, if you keep paying attention to everything that has fallen off.
My old life, my student life, is over.
And maybe my relationship with the boy who grew into a man, at my side, is over too. Maybe our affair is part of the dead skin.
But maybe it’s part of the strong, vibrant beings that we became. And maybe we’ll always keep reinventing ourselves, together.
It reminds me of the final scene of Basic Instinct.
Nick and Catherine just had sex, and Catherine is unsure how they’re going to have a normal relationship. She seems terrified and confused, but you can’t see if she’s having relationship skitters because she’s so used to killing the people she loves. Or if she’s scared because everybody she loves ends up being killed.
After playing a game with the viewer, where you think she’s going to kill him, the movie seems to end in a passionate kiss, indicating she was never the killer.
After a fade out, Nick and Catherine come into focus once more but this time the camera moves under the bed, where you see an ice pick. Indicating she did intend to kill him, and she’s the killer after all.
I always thought that last shot was cheap and I didn’t buy it.
Not even the first time I saw it.
I didn’t buy it that Nick and Catherine would not stay together, since they were a match made in heaven.
No one was playing at their level, and they both had enough experience to know that no one ever would.
Things like that don’t end.
An unexamined life is not worth living
Subscribe to this blog (subscription button somewhere on this page – most likely on the right) for the next episode of 1994.
You can read episode 1 to 5 here:
A letter from a stranger | “1994” fanfic inspired erotica episode 1
Mutuals | “1994”: fanfic inspired erotica episode 2
Think about you | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 3
Out ta get me | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 4
Rocket Queen |”1994″: fanfic inspired story episode 5
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Anything goes, Unfinished book on Consent Play | “1994” episode 6
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7-figure Rock Star Writer part 6: “1994”: Consent play
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