Bex Talks Sex Starting the Conversation
Leap day 2016, New York City. Somewhere right about in the middle of the intersection of 59th and 3rd.
That was the first time someone called me pup. I’ve since forgotten what the rest of the text message read, but that word stood out to me, it stopped me dead in my tracks. I giggled nervously on the crowded street and squealed back “you just called me pup!” as if he had somehow typed it on accident, before quickly adding “I like it” to make it clear that yes, he should absolutely do that again, please.
This wasn’t the first subby honorific this person had given me, we’d made our way through a number of different ones in the weeks prior, trying them on for size. Some felt cliched and overused, others made me feel filthy and objectified in all the right ways, and still others didn’t feel like much of anything. Pup was different though, pup felt right, pup felt like me.
***
My submission comes from a place of service, I like to show my value in how well I care for people and how adeptly I can complete tasks. I like to feel owned and objectified.
… But I am not a slave.
For me, the word slave invokes the idea of a person who performs service because they have to, not because they want to. A person who is owned, but not cherished.1 Meanwhile, a pup serves their owner because nothing in the universe brings them more joy than to see them happy, because they can be consumed by nothing but the desire to please one person. Anything it takes to be called a “good boy” and get those hard earned pats on the head, or maybe even a treat.
I like sadists. When someone hurts me I want it to be because they want to see me in pain. I want them to enjoy developing the most creative tortures and tasks for me. I want to see them smile cruelly as they tell me I need to just take a little bit more for them, that they want to see me bruise just a little bit more, that I look so cute when I whimper and flinch. I like to be objectified and gifted to other tops. I like to be shown off. I like feeling like an object, like a toy.
… But I damn well better be your favorite toy.
Humiliation and degradation has never been a part of my kink. Call me a slut, and a whore, and a filthy little fucktoy because I am and I find no shame in that, but don’t tell me I’m worthless. Don’t casually tell me I’m a disappointment, or a failure, or that I’m barely worth your time. Punish me when I’ve done wrong but don’t tell me that I am wrong. It will crush my service-y little heart and I’ll slink off to the corner with my tail between my legs to lick my wounds.
When I’m subby I like to feel less than, like my Dom is inherently more powerful than me. I like to feel like they are in charge because they know more than me. I like to feel like they’re taking care of me and nurturing me as much as they are torturing and using me. I like punishments to be for my own good and tasks to be for my growth as much as they are for my Dom’s benefit.
… But ageplay dynamics aren’t quite right either.
There are definitely parts of it that are appealing, but there’s a helplessness to that kind of submission that doesn’t work for me. Leave a pup alone in the middle of the woods and it will survive, a child not so much. Pups are joyous, raucous and childlike in their demeanor, they are subservient to their owner, but they are still independent, strong, and intelligent on their own. They are cared for by their owner and they care for their owner in exchange.
I am a pup.
When I’m in a pup headspace everything I feel is huge and all consuming and comfortingly simple at the same time. I can be overwhelmed with joy because someone I liked walked into the room, or I was told I was a good boy, or this restaurant has mac and cheese and I’m about to eat it. When I’m sad or scared, sitting at someones feet with my head in their lap and getting pets feels like the solution to all of my problems. When I do something impressive I grin from ear to ear and wiggle excitedly as if to say “look at me! Aren’t I great? Aren’t you so proud of me?”
***
It’s two months after I stumbled upon my puppy play kink. I’m sitting in a cafe in Minneapolis with my best friends eating our last brunch there before the long journey home and telling weird stories about our childhood. “When I was about eight I spent a year or so pretending I was a cat” I said offhandedly.
“Wait…” one friend turned meaningfully to me, abandoning his breakfast. “You, what?”
“Yea, I had ears and a tail I’d wear, I ate pasta out of a dog bowl on the floor, one time I meowed at a priest and refused to talk to him… I still stand by that last one.” I said casually, between bites of hashbrowns.
“… And the puppy play thing was a surprise to you?” He finished, looking dumbfounded.
“Oh! Yea, I guess” I said thoughtfully, realizing that maybe I should have put those things together sooner. But ya know? Sometimes these things take a little while, okay?
- And of course this doesn’t even touch on about the racial and historical weight of Master/slave roleplay, something I, as a white person, don’t feel comfortable playing with. [↩]