I’ve never liked “she likes to watch”; it’s reductive, and forces me to contend with preconceptions of voyeurism and passivity that don’t speak to my needs.
But bars are loud, and “she likes to be restrained and kept in a chastity device during group sex because being momentarily reduced to a non-equal participant without promise of reciprocation affirms her self esteem and gets her out of her head” is a lot of words.
I’m a cuckquean. As in: come fuck my girlfriend. As in: come fuck my sweetheart. As in: come fuck this girl I see casually but only because we’re just both very busy. Make me “warm you up”. Choke and slap me while I give myself a ruined orgasm. Fellate me through my chastity device until I weep with the agony of a dozen people spending their first Valentine’s Day alone.
I’m down for what-the-fuck-ever. And after one too many times of not having enough clean mugs for the whole fucking Spanish Inquisition when I’ve brought this kink up with friends and partners, I kinda sorta understand why.
It’s perhaps not unfounded to presume that I’m punishing myself, or letting my partner/s emotionally punish me. Even tender cuckolding porn between loving couples is racist, homophobic, and misogynist when the whim suits it (which is about 2 of every 3 tumblr posts).
Though cuckqueaning, as a genre of blogging and pornographic content, is slightly more emotionally accommodating—thinking specifically on the ways in which the cuckquean and cuckcake are encouraged/implied/suggested to have a relationship, whereas as cuckolds and bulls often aren’t—the majority of it is likewise rooted in competitiveness and inadequacy; the younger, thinner woman punishes the older, fatter woman for letting herself go by stealing her husband.
But! When we wring our hands about whether women are “respecting themselves” through their sexual proclivities, we pointedly turn our backs to the ways that society punishes them for their bodies, every minute of every day, whether or not they love their bodies, whether or not they’re sexually active.
I’m not even trying to tread on that “patriarchal marketing is infecting your brain” ground. It’s catcalls, it’s the availability of clothes and makeup that flatter you, it’s how some selfies go viral and some get a few polite likes. Every interaction with society comes with the possibility of leaving with an emotional suggestion box filled to the slot with ways you aren’t pretty enough, aren’t thin enough, not available enough to the gaze.
If there’s beauty in the resistance to that psychic death, if enduring this makes you empowered or fierce, then why can’t taking ownership of this suffering and making it gratify or even fulfill you be some measure of strength and self-actualization?
Basically: it feels bogus that in a time where it’s acceptable to tweet “DADDY” at pictures of men on twitter, those of us who may have internalized patriarchal, cisheteronormative attitudes in our sexual proclivities in unapproved ways have to “work on our self-confidence”.
I’m fat, awkward. I flail and scream and cry when I enjoy something and quietly “go with the flow” when I really don’t like what’s being done to me. My genitals don’t always respond to stimulation in the way I or my partners would wish. Queaning isn’t a compromise or some minor league of sexuality that I’ve been demoted to—it makes space for my idioms and nervosa to, not just be accounted for, but actively engaged. As in: clumsily caressed by my lover while she’s getting fucked by another partner. The hammer is my penis.
I experience desire as disarming, a show-of-the-throat. I know when I like-like someone when I feel inferior to them—not in a “I will throw myself on this pit of spikes so you can safely cross” sorta way, just in a “let me make your bed so I can watch you pleasure yourself in it—thank yous aren’t necessary; service and being useful is it’s own reward” sort of way.
I’ve tried in the past to subvert this by negotiating for power within relationships. And I’m a pretty good Domme, when asked nicely—but I find myself gratified more by the idea I provide my partner something they need. After a hot and heavy whipping, I just want to cuddle and be told I did a good job. That I, despite the flaws and insecurities, earned my keep.
I’ve dated/hooked up with people who were cis, thinner than me, femmer than me, taller and more passable; this connection of desire to inferiority and a need to prove my utility to partners is innate and not something I’m going to resolve with long walks and a pinterest board of things I like.
I’m hitting you with a lot of critique and rhetoric here; try, if you can, not to revise an active sex life with multiple conscientious partners who encourage and enjoy my kinks into a tragic narrative of a woman forced into fetish out of starvation of attention.
All that I’m starved of is cuckcake pussy. Or cock. Or whatever! I don’t care if you have the burger phone from Juno. Just fuck my partner with it while she lays on top of me and I feel every moan compress and overrun me. If you’re stone, that’s cool. These sorts of nonstandard sexual relationships enable us to think outside the bun.
I’d like to see our attitudes and stories around these kinks change to allow room for watching your partner get railed while you soak through your panties to be an exchange of trust, acknowledgement, and inclusion. I mean, failure is hot. Humiliation is hot. It’s hot to burn through an afternoon shaving my legs and doing my hair and picking out nice underwear to bring my partner some coffee or wine to go with her dessert. If you know what I mean.
So much of femme grooming/self-care is rooted in the presentation to the other. By eroticizing the sidelines, I'm able to make it more about me. As in: I didn't spend all this time picking out a lipstick that matched this rope and the padlocks on my bondage for you.
And yeah, with kinks that deal with such intense emotions, it can be hard to convince people without a shadow of a doubt that I’m not doing this because I think deep down, I’m ugly and fat and don’t deserve “real sex” with my partner.
But when I catch myself in the mirror, blushing, straining beneath underwear desperate to be torn off (but also equally desperate to not be), emitting that glow of serene filth that comes with having your sickest desires met by people who care for you, I meet the fulfilled and self-respecting woman people assumed I’d be if I pursued other, more respectable kinks.
In my audience participation, I'm hot. I'm empowered.
One might say: I'm a looker.