Archive for category: BDSM sessions

Previously published in Spirit of Desire edited by Lee Harrington.

Managing Psychic Waste: Transcendence Through Humiliation

You say I hold the key and perhaps I do.
I hang people for a living.
Listening to their stories of respectability and convention.
I cleanse their darkest psyches and make them feel whole again.
I help them orgasm too.
I struggle to know what I already know
and die a little death every day.

Watch me taking handfuls of red leaf lettuce, carrot scraps, coffee grounds, and other sundry waste I have recently disposed of, and see how gingerly I place them into my submissive’s mouth while gently cajoling, “chew” and “swallow”. The eyes are wide open, bulging a bit, horrified and amazed at the ability to eat my garbage in an erotically charged environment. I feel myself gagging internally without stopping, even hesitating, as I cram in more and more remnants of last night’s dinner, this morning’s breakfast, and perhaps a well placed treat or two. My subject suspended in air, rocking gently back and forth as I thrust my pelvis into the groin, pushing deeper, my hand in throat, my hips between legs. His erection is enormous and I am not even touching him there. Not physically at least. Just as I feel the energy expanding, I begin to vomit on the body that was once a high-powered corporate lawyer. My subject explodes wildly: vomit, cum, sweat shooting through the air, cascading into a cavalcade of erotic ecstasy and primal bliss. For a moment, both of us are transported to the space of being and nothingness, at once together, and then no more. Afterwards, he is glowing, radiant and shiny, all the dark clouds peeled away. I am pleased then, knowing that the feeling will last a while; even if he doesn’t realize it, he feels it. It’s why he came to see me in the first place.
I am a Psychic Waste Manager. That is my calling. It is a spiritual quest that brought me to realizing my path over ten years ago. I simply wanted to “do” what I do well in this world, to have it matter in a way that would make my life meaningful, and to help others along they way. I knew I would teach, but academia stifled my creativity and my libido, (well, except masturbating between the stacks at the library). I never thought I would be known as a Dominatrix, but I knew from the beginning of my BDSM explorations that it was bigger, deeper, and more powerful than any mainstream representation could replicate. The view of the Dominatrix being the care-free catsuit clad vixen about to unleash her sadism on any victims, willing or not, is completely mythological. The complexity, the aching, the rawness of my work astounds me sometimes. The beauty in having the conditioned self stripped away so that the primal sexual self becomes revealed, if only for a moment, is nothing less than a stunning achievement. And it takes energetic exchange with another(s) to reveal the primal force. Stripping away conditioning, social mores, the voices of ancestors is what I do best, yet I am only a catalyst, a conduit for reconditioning, an outlet for repressed energy.
Intention is everything in the arts of healing and magic. You can strip away someone’s ego, but if you do it half assed, without clarity of vision, you could not only ruin a good scene, you could also defragment a soul. Every day in life our souls are battered. Each time we confront our bosses, our kids, our partners, we run the risk of losing bits of our selves, or even worse, forming solid ideas of what the self is, thinking that we can actually explain away our desires and fears with logic and reason. Can you imagine explaining how shooting your wad into the air while eating a woman’s garbage as she vomits on you is transcendent and worthy of discourse? Who would listen to this without judgment that you are a deviant, (and surely you are) or fear that you may sully their little world of comfort and respectability? Better yet, how do you explain what you do when this is what you do, every day of your life, whether it’s with a client, a loved one, or an acquaintance who really needs a sexual psychic cleanse?
I recently had an incident occur that left me reeling with debris, a non erotic experience in humiliation wherein I transcended but only through detachment, not through connection. Therein lies the rub.
Speaking of rubbing, what humiliation does is peels back the layers of civility. If you keep rubbing, you will find the rawness underneath. That rawness is where you find the goodness. Perhaps I am a bit of an excavator also, a trash picker, if you will. I pick out the extraneous matter, the layers of conventionality and civility, and give you back your id.
Clarifying how I’m using my terms will be helpful. Humiliation sits within a spectrum of the psyche beginning with embarrassment leading to humiliation leading to degradation. It can be physical or verbal and often both. It is subjective, contingent, and incredibly powerful, compelling. The act of being embarrassed flushes our face and consequently genitalia. It can be exciting and lead to turn on but is not necessarily humiliation in and of itself. Embarrassment occurs usually when bringing attention to something about the person – which is why objectification is so useful in embarrassment play. For example, if I wish to embarrass someone just enough to start the turn on I might say, “ooh, look how tight your pants are” or if more familiar “I bet you suck great cock”. I’m simply making an observation, perhaps an assertion, but I am not excavating a deeper part of their sense of self or their identity.
Humiliation rips away what is superfluous in some ways, but is also necessary for survival in other ways, (clothes are not necessary in temperate climate, but mandated by social mores). It generally requires tapping into the sense of self, utilizing observation to begin the process perhaps, but also bumping up against a deeper truth: “Oh look at the way you suck my cock. You are a positively perfect cocksucker!”. This example also bumps up against a more. Generally speaking, no one is supposed to be proud or pleased to be a good cocksucker. They’re not even supposed to say the word!
Degradation tramples something that they hold near and dear to their hearts, a core value, or something that the person is particularly proud of, especially if it feels intrinsic to their being. For example intelligence, saying “you are stupid” could challenge self identity in an non-erotic way. Conversely, if the person actually embodies or at least feels as though they carry said traits negatively, (eg. you are fat), then you are perpetuating low self esteem. Degradation tramples on the worthiness of the subject. Saying “You’re the worst cock sucker I’ve ever met” to a person with an incredibly challenging gag reflex potentially supports their notions of lack of worth for not being able to perform oral sex well. Of course, if it’s an amazing porn star with deep throating capabilities, it may be a huge turn on to be critiqued on their cock sucking skills.
It’s not what you do it’s how you do it. I love making bottoms squirm, beg, fearful, and desperate. Scraping away all their gender codifications and turning them into the little sex kittens they crave to be turns me on to now end. The thing about humiliation is that when done well, it always gives back. Imagine now with me a large, hairy masculine construction worker dressed in fishnet stockings, super high patent leather heels, ruffled crotchless panties, butt plug in his ass, 9” dildo in his heavily rouged lips being beaten with a whip and told what an incredible slut he is. I love watching his gestures transform into the sultry slut he knows he is. As I stroke my cock telling him how he’s gonna take it, and all my friends too, I relish the discards of societal contempt and I hold this experience for both of us to reclaim. I can reclaim the fact that of the few options given to me from my fucked up childhood, I still found a way to help and recharge. I can also see him basking in the glory of the dream that he was never allowed: to be the best slut he can. Of course no gender is exempt from this equation. We all have our psychic waste.
I like to say that the sacred and profane are flip sides to the same coin. My point being that they are no less different than they are alike. Its like one person’s trash is another’s treasure. If I slap your face repeatedly with pure contempt or indifference, I am not there with you I am merely performing a function. If however, I slap your face hard and repeatedly while staring directly in your eyes, periodically having you open your mouth for a an opulent pearl of spit from my mouth and telling you all the things I’m going to do to you if you do not swallow, (or if you do, depending on the person), can transform a rather dry pornographic act into a deeper more meaningful exchange.
No matter what, reassurance or acceptance is imperative post scene: it’s the maintenance after. If I have excavated your matter, flung it around, then given it back, regardless of shiny, there will be a mess. Taking the time to cool my subject off, or get them warm, offer water, hot shower, a hug or all of the above keeps the scene clean. Nothing is sterile in this world, just ask a surgeon. Cleaning up after yourself is the best you can do as a Psychic Waste Manager. Having someone dress up like a dog, crawl around on all fours, bark etc, can be an embarrassment to some, humiliation to others, and downright degrading to the rest. That is why it’s imperative to know your subject, listen to them while you are asking questions, preparing the scene, keep those boundaries in mind while playing, and clean up your mess.
Honestly, I think that the clients I work with oftentimes do not even realize what it is that happens to them. I remember when I used to rent the space from a friend of mine. She would sometimes sit outside just before the session was over, waiting for my text to enter. Oftentimes, she would not have to see the text because she would see a person departing from the space, glowing, grinning, walking with much more pep in their step. The experience of having sexual psychic waste excavated, recycled, and given back all shiny and loved makes another person’s trash this person’s treasure.

Eve Minax 2011