A submissive in a wheelchair, his story
Kink and its discovery later on in life for a submissive in a wheelchair, his story
There is science. There are conceptual models, forecasts and predictions. And then there is real life.
I can study the great theorists, rationalise the impetus and the opposing aspects of sadism and masochism, highlight capitalism, ascertain the blueness of the sex industry and quantify the vast quantum leap we have taken in the last century of human sexuality. But increasingly, I realise all I must do is give real-life evidence.
I am on course to write about experiences and the expenditure of those experiences.
I will always be interested in neuroplasticity, the control we think we have vs. the control our brains have, and the battle for our perceived ownership. I am always biting at the heel of a psychological enquiry and behind every encounter, there’s a part of me that analyses the sanity, definition and fluidity of what I’ve just experienced.
Sometimes kink surprises me. Its sources aren’t always the places that first spring to mind. Sometimes it percolates up as an adult with no previous kink history of which to speak.
I met recently with a submissive, with quite an urgency.
He told me on the phone that he was in a wheelchair and hadn’t walked for 20 years. He’d been the victim of an industrial accident at the steelmill where he worked. After a terrible explosion a tonne of weight crushed him down and he went unconscious for a split second, he said, ‘I felt wicked pain, I remember all the sirens going off’. I confess at this stage, I wondered if it were explosions or sirens with which he’d developed a psycho-sexual relationship.
He was completely immobilised in hospital. He had broken his back. They could operate to put plates in and straighten it, but he was told he would never walk again. Weeks passed and a most insistent and strict nurse decided he should have his hair cut. He couldn’t move and told the nurse that he didn’t want to have it cut. They took no notice and he was in no position to argue and so they put a blanket over him, and she cut it regardless of his protest and simply walked away.
He said ‘I felt out of control, I had something done that I didn’t even ask for. But I liked it in a way, as I saw the hair falling onto the blanket, I really had no say in the matter’.
This stayed with him, that moment. It lingered on indefinitely.
Sometime after, he was sitting at home watching POW movies. He started to feel a deep satiation when the prisoners were taken to German concentration camps - their hair being cut off straight away, shackled and chained. Before he had this accident he would watch these films with nonchalance but afterwards, upon viewing them, he simply said ‘wow’.
He had found a connection. A way back and yet forward.
What particularly excited him was the sound of the scissors, the razor, the raw sound of the blade of the scissors, gliding up and down on one another, just a breath away.
Due to the challenges his wheelchair presented it was difficult to find a suitable venue to both interview him and dominate him. Somehow, we ended up at a garden centre!
After we settled down with refreshment and my roast dinner with all the trimmings (only allowing him to sip on tap water) he laid bare that his fetish was scissors. If I, as his dominatrix, could walk around with scissors in my hands he would be mortally overjoyed. My mind flashed to watching Edward Scissorhands twenty years ago - another story that uses blades as a metaphor for isolation.
His payoff had left him with enough money to buy whatever he wanted. But, of course, the one thing he wanted was never going to be within reach. He felt like he had everything and yet nothing. Nothing he truly desired. And so here I was, a momentary counterweight to the emotional blow life had dealt him.
‘I am spoilt’, he explained, ‘and I need to be corrected, I’ve got no boss, nobody telling me what to do, and nobody controlling me’.
Now he gets a mistresses of his choosing to bind him up, strap him down, let him struggle in his chair with a tight collar on and a bar for his hands being tied behind his back, and they clip away, mercilessly. He is married and said if he were to outlive his wife, he would pay for a dominatrix full time to subdue him, ration him with life, to make him feel again. His wife doesn’t control him, she doesn’t seem interested in controlling him and he, in turn, has no interest in controlling her.
Sitting there, watching him sip on his glass of water, I asked him what BDSM had given him.
‘Something to look forward to in life. If I can please somebody like yourself, I know I am going be thrashed, shaved, locked up and I will look forward to it every night. My heart will be pounding.'
He was previously a runner and loved the outdoors. He could do a marathon with ease. He felt he wasn’t payed off enough by his company for the accident and then said a price couldn’t be put on his legs, never being able to walk again. ‘My legs are priceless, I would give everything back today, all the houses, holiday home, flashy cars. If I could, I would give it all back. I’d walk into the woods with a tent on my back. And start from scratch’
The mind is a puzzling and elusive thing, nobody knows what the mind is, or how the brain creates it, how does 3 pounds of gelatinous pudding give us thought and consciousness even.
We can retrace steps, we can create new pathways but when something is so hardwired, those connections fuse hard for many years and many men don’t want to feel any other way than they normally do, because a pleasure has been born in the conscious and unconscious.
A quote from a Buddhist
‘Sometimes you come face to face with the sudden and shocking realization you are completely crazy. Your mind is shrieking, gibbering madhouse of wheels barrelling pell-mell down the hill, utterly out of control and helpless. No problem. You are not crazier than you were yesterday, it has always been this way and you have never noticed’
It’s settling to know that everyone has a monkey filled mind, hazardous, playful, sketchy, hazy, dusty but joyous, full of everything and yet nothing.
I know the addictive nature of many things sexual and I am researching this also, hopefully in a future next blog. I could not ascertain if a strong addictive canal was lain in this mans brain. I heard the side he wanted me to hear. I am always aware of that. I am unaware if he received any counselling from his trauma and perhaps this combined with the right mistress could work, or possibly they would cancel each other out.
Overwhelmingly this shows evidence of the fragility of our minds, trauma, and the brains coping mechanism, but what I am trying to highlight most, is it's vulnerability