findom

I recently wrote an essay on humiliation as play. Which is one of my favorite ways to think of it—as a way to go back to our essential selves and be free of the constraints society puts on us as adults.

But, of course, that’s not the only way to think about it. And another that I think about often is this:

Humiliation as exposure therapy.

If you aren’t familiar with exposure therapy, the idea is this: Therapists will take a client who has high anxiety, fear, or triggers around a specific thing and safely expose them to the thing in order to reduce the intensity or negativity of those feelings (which also often come with things like compulsions, physical symptoms, and real-life consequences).

For example, someone with OCD might have intrusive thoughts anytime they walk across a bridge. Terrifying, debilitating thoughts of “what if I threw myself off?” One of the ways therapists deal with this is by safely exposing that person to the bridge to teach their nervous system that it isn’t real.

No, you won’t actually throw yourself off.

Yes, you are really, truly safe.

I think for some, humiliation and degradation in BDSM operate in a similar way. They are a safe place to face down anxiety, discomfort, fear.

What happens if she laughs at me? What happens if she sees me as just a wallet? What happens if I’m only a footstool? If I don’t matter?

What if I am rejected?

Isn’t that what it sometimes comes down to? A sort of immunization against rejection. Against being laughed at. Against the fear of not being enough.

In this space, I can see you and make fun of you and tell you you’re a total loser and wtf did you just do…and then I can exit the scene and ask how you feel. And I can show up again next time, telling your psyche that actually yes, you are safe. To be the weirdest or stupidest or grossest version of yourself.

It’s kink. It’s sexy. It’s a craving for a feeling society doesn’t think is pleasant. And sometimes that is about play, connection, making another person laugh. Sometimes you haven’t thought that deeply about it—all you know is it makes your pulse race. And sometimes, I think, it’s about this. Inoculating yourself against rejection. Teaching your body and mind that they can be brave, they can be seen, they can do the stupidest things that pop into their head, show the hard versions of themselves, and walk out relieved instead of destroyed. Seen instead of invisible.

A day or two ago, I played a game with a man who loves a little public humiliation.

I sent him a photo of myself in a challenging pose: on my knees, feet toward the camera, hand on hip, a slight twist in my body. All feet and curves and tights with hearts of them.

“Duplicate it,” I told him. “Try to take your own photo with a pose like this.”

His first attempt earned him a second attempt. And then with his second photo in hand, I told him I wanted to take it to a vote. I’d post the photo in our Discord server and we’d let the group decide who did it better.

The game was very obviously rigged. For my win and our mutual pleasure.

The dommes did not disappoint. He was teased mercilessly. Fondly. Publicly. Laughing emojis and laughing people. The atmosphere: jovial. His heart: racing.

Everyone’s day was a little better because of kitten’s kink and courage.

(Very much including his day.)

When I think about humiliation, this is one of the things I think about.

Joy. Laughter. Play.

I think about the ways that teasing can make a person feel seen. How making others laugh can make them feel they belong. They matter. Their silliest, most vulnerable parts are a gift.

I think about how so many of the things we do on the “silly” side of humiliation are simply giving permission to play. To make animal noises. Cosplay a ballerina. Wear something that makes us feel goofy or vulnerable. Be silly–all things that are off the societal script for adults, but that I think many of our souls truly need.

This isn’t the only way to play with humiliation in BDSM, of course. But it’s one I love because what I find in it is an expansiveness. A way for someone to step off those scripts for a moment and play. Stop performing at adulting or masculinity or seriousness and just be themselves.

And that play can feed their joy as well as their arousal.

I think that’s fucking beautiful.

As a confident, traditionally attractive woman, my whole life I’ve gotten attention everywhere I went—most of it unwanted.

Men lick their lips when I walk past them on the street. They make excuses to talk to me when I’m trying to mind my business. They find my phone number in group threads and text me without consent.

More extreme, they stalk me. They block my path so that I cannot leave. They touch me without permission.

And they force me, in those moments, to put them in their place. To assert my boundaries, often firmly. To – in short – expend energy I did not agree to expend.

The power systems out in the world are entirely in their favor. And reversing that power in every interaction takes energy, time, and space from my life.

I do it and I will continue to do it, but it is not something I choose. It is something the world demands from me. To become their villain by asserting boundaries, by refusing to stay silent, by standing in my power.

Which is part of why femdom and findom are so centering, powerful, and delicious to me.

Not because they are the only places I assert my power but because they are where I choose to assert it and it is appreciated instead of demonized.

My power in this space is begged for. It’s sought after. It’s valued. It’s recognized. It’s rewarded.

Not as something handed to me. But as something I built, I maintain, I wield.

Outside this space, I wield it like a weapon. Inside this space, I bestow it like a gift. I use it not to harm but to hold.

To hold your submission. Your truths. Your fantasies. Your secrets. Your darkness and mine.

Here, my power is fully mine, fully realized. My beauty, too.

Here, it is not yours to demand; it’s mine to give – or more usually, to withhold.

You will not touch me. You cannot touch me. I do not have to stop you. I do not have to place you underneath my boot.

You climb under and beg for the pressure. For the pleasure or pain I choose to give you.

Outside, I put men in their place because they force me to. Like a mosquito in my ear.

But not here.

Here, when I expend energy or give attention, it is because I want to. Because you have submitted, exchanged some of the power society handed you, acknowledged that that power never should have been yours in the first place, submitted to the power I have cultivated despite all of society’s efforts to crush it.

That is the power you long for. The one that comes from love, not hate. The one that comes from acting, not reacting.

The one that pulls you in like moth to flame, lets you know you can trust the boot you place your face under. It will only crush you as much as you want to be crushed. It will only push you as much as you need to be pushed.

Every time I see a nervous sub who is worried about finding a findomme who is in it for the power, for the kink, for the fun of it—I think of Ted Lasso.

If you’ve seen the show, maybe you already know what scene I’m thinking of. (And if you haven’t seen the show, this goddess commands it. Run, don’t walk.)

In that scene, Ted has recently told off his therapist. He basically implies that she can’t care about him for real because she’s getting paid to be with him. Now, he’s back in her office after leaving their last session on that note.

She asks if she can be honest with him. And then she tells him he offended her—and she asks a fantastic question:

Would you coach football for free?

Yes, he says. The answer is yes.

Then she hits him with the kicker: “but do you?”

The conclusion is clear: just because you’re getting paid for something doesn’t mean you don’t fucking love it. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave you breathless.

Sometimes we do things just for money. Sometimes we do them because we fucking love them. Sometimes we’re lucky enough to fucking love something and make money doing it.

I’m not saying there are no people out there taking advantage of this space to just make a living or even scam people. But I am saying just because someone gets paid doesn’t mean they don’t care.

Therapists. Coaches. Findommes.

It’s not different.

Now, if you haven’t seen Ted Lasso, go do that.

One of the fantasies I’ve been daydreaming about lately starts in a bar.

It’s a regular night. I’m probably with friends. I’m dressed to kill (I’m always dressed to kill). And a man approaches me (par for the course).

Instead of engaging or sending him away, I turn to him with that sly smile that says this is about to be fun.

A game is coming.

This is not a vanilla interaction.

“I normally charge men to speak to me,” I say with eyebrows raised. “You’re cute, so I’ll give you a discount. 5 euros per sentence. Pay up front and you can ask a question.”

He pays. We talk. I calculate and hold my hand out for more each time he reaches his pre-paid threshold. He begs for my contact. I give it. He knows the drill and sends before he DMs.

It’s the beginning of a long-term engagement. It sets the tone. For teasing and short answers and mystery. So much mystery.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

Last weekend, a kitten was screaming outside my window. Crying into the night for her mother. Calling endlessly.

I (along with many neighbors) attempted to coax her out of the car undercarriage where she was hiding, terrified. But there were too many people; too many car noises.

And so I came back at 5 a.m. No people, few cars. Just me laying on the pavement with a bowl of shredded chicken and a phone loaded up with kitten noises.

She stepped gingerly down. She eventually took some chicken from my fingers. And after some patience, I caught her. Took her home. Got rid of the fleas. The car gunk. The intestinal parasites.

Each day, she attempts to suckle on the inside of my elbow, comforted by the idea that I’m her mom.

Each day, I watch her put weight onto her underfed frame and I coax her into bravery.

Each day, she borrows that courage from me, follows me to a new room, explores a new thing, and then falls asleep in my lap where she can feel safe.

I cannot help but compare our connection to my journeys into polyamory and domination.

Polyamory because just like my partners, this kitten is free. She can sleep anywhere she chooses, but she chooses my lap. And I’m happy for her when she gets the courage to choose a spot beside the dog or another lap.

I do not try to own her. I do not have to force my will. I simply offer my courage, my support, my strength, and she turns toward the comfort of it.

It’s the same way I approach D/s dynamics. I am not giving orders; my presence is the control. My courage, my strength, are what draws them in. I am an owner, a mistress, a goddess because my pets, my subs, my worshippers choose me. And they choose me daily. There are other laps. Other deities. Other mistresses. Other lovers.

And I make no effort to keep my subs, my foster kitten, my partners from those things.

You are here because you want to be here. I am here because I want to be here.

To me, that is true connection, true power. You do not stay because you have to. Because of a contract or a commitment or having only one option.

You stay because you want. To make me proud. To make me smile. To rest in my capable hands. To become better. To connect.