The End of Submission

I don't think I'm going to even try to submit this to lit journals. It's too much like a scrapbook entry. Too much of me bitching. But I hope it's an entertaining bitch.



The End of Submission


Present day thoughts:


There are very few things that tell me I've grown up. My skin, my height, the size of my waist and feet. If I were to close my eyes, I couldn't tell you the last time any of these were different. Even in memory, I recall blond hair and four limbs of appropriate length.

When I think back then to how I felt when I was ten, I remember being scared. I'm scared now. When I was fifteen it was fear that I might never feel, and sometimes that I'd feel too much. Today I ask myself if there is evidence of change. Am I a different person because of age?


An experience:


Four years ago, I was paid to feel pain. I was paid for pleasure too, and maybe the difference is a mute point. But I was glad to crawl on my hands and knees and beg for punishment, because it was something I needed to learn.

Perhaps I wouldn't take that class for free. I certainly wouldn't pay for it. I've never been the type to solicit what I can get for nothing, or for looking or acting the way I do. The day of my first fight, my black eye was a gift. I never dropped a cent on that shirtless, skinhead child.

But there are things I never knew before the ropes and collars and full-bodied suspensions. Before the financed slaps to my face, ass, and thighs, I never thought I'd want more.

It always hurt. But from a nineteen-year-old boy's perspective, these were my thoughts: “You know how to tie me up, you know how to whip me, and you know how to make me cum. Therefore, you know more than I do. If I'm going to grow, or change, or get better, I need to know what this feels like.”

Also: there was a reward called sex. “You think your pathetic, worthless cock deserves my beautiful cunt?” I always nodded and spoke the magic words: “Yes, mistress.”

Because it was a job, the sex was inevitable. I liked knowing that. It gave me a sort of power. I could always tell the future.

Also: there was money and desire. The cashed checks made the greater pains bearable. And the fact that someone out there loved the look of my face when I was fucked from behind; it made me feel beautiful in the only way that matters. Praise without vulnerability just seemed too unreal. Anyone could pose and hide their flaws. I joined the ranks of those worshiped with ass spread open and hands tied. I couldn't pretend if I wanted to. That's the way I looked when I was about to cry.


Years passed. I sucked dick, fucked pussy, and became a true whore. People paid me to feel only pleasure. That seemed like a mark of success.

But I still worked for pain. I still remembered my roots.

New creatures filtered through the ranks of directors and talent and other positions of pornographic esteem. One of them took control of the website I had come to know as toppedboundboys.com. Her name was M.


I met M in the green room at Fetisynth Studios in San Francisco. She was auditioning for her job. The woman was cute, friendly, and a potential employer. So I acted kind enough to warrant a future hire.

At the end of the day, M and I shared a cab to the Oakland airport. We complained together about rank-smelling pussy and unattractive men. There was laughter. And then the story of her past.

All she really gave up were bits of her life as a “sex worker.” She talked about becoming a dominatrix, which required nothing more than acting as one. The next step was a website where she abused one or two good-looking guys, but never had sex with them. They were allowed to masturbate in front of her. Sometimes she refused them climax. “The members really get off on it,” she told me. “The orgasm-denial stuff.”


An experience:


M hired me for a shoot. She said, “I'm trying to change this site around. Make it sexier. It will be less about punishment, and more about the girls.”

At the time, it sounded great. I'd always enjoyed the rewards more than the punishments. But even then, I was a proponent of process.

So imagine my surprise when I learned the middle-aged woman I was to work with had never dominated in her life. She was given lessons on how to hold a whip only thirty minutes before we met.

M bound my arms and legs so that I was forced to walk on my knees and elbows. She called it a “stress position” because no one was meant to stay like that for long.

Aside from the uncomfortable bondage, I was collared and told to bark like a dog while the older woman fucked my ass with a dildo. “The members love this puppy play stuff,” she said.

The older woman was out of breath two minutes into the sex position. I was asked to fuck her, but submissively.

“I guess I'll let you cum today,” said M. “Yeah, some of the members will probably like that.”

Afterwards, I asked M if she had ever been a sub.

“No,” she said. “I'm not really into it.”


M booked me once more and I told her it would be my last time. To this, she said it would be special. “You're going to be working with Athena Heart. And me.”

“I'm not a fan of corporal punishment,” I told her. “At least not for the sake of getting beat.”

She didn't reply to that. But she told me, “One other thing. You'll only fuck Athena. I have this idea for the website where my pussy is like the holy grail. No one can touch it. I think the members will like that.”

When the scene started I was tied down to a table. My arms were behind my back. An apple was stuck between my teeth. I was like one of those pigs at a Hawaiian feast.

M and Athena walked around me, called me names, made out with each other, and then beat me. They focused mostly on the things I told M I didn't like. For example, slapping the bottoms of my feet with a wooden stick.

Then it came time for me to get hard. I laid back on the table, arms and legs strapped down. The camera was off so I was aloud to say, “I need some help. It doesn't work by itself.”

M approached me and held my limp cock in her hands. She looked the opposite direction while mechanically moving her fist up and down. “Like this?”

I wondered if the members liked that M couldn't suck a dick. I wondered if they appreciated her lack of knowledge. For every position, an assistant had to retie the knots. M's bondage was piss poor and didn't hold long enough to shoot video. Or it would dig into my skin and cut off circulation. I wondered if the members loved that M put her models at risk for nerve damage.

The rest of the shoot went like this: Athena strapped a dildo to her crotch and fucked me in the ass. M continued the beatings. When she slapped my back with a cane, I grabbed it with my bound hands and spit the gag from my mouth. I told her, “I'll fucking kill you if you do that again.” Her eyes grew wide and she stepped back. But Athena worked me over a bit more. “You hate me, don't you? You want to call me a bitch?” I nodded, so she fucked me harder than before. I almost head-butted that girl in the face. When M placed her foot on my head, I couldn't move. So I began to cry.

I couldn't fuck Athena for more than a minute at a time. M would touch me, or speak, or do something I'd catch in the corner of my eye. My cock would go limp and I would say something beneath the ball gag that sounded like, “Mwhoahoamm.” What I meant was, “You're a piece of shit and I have nothing to learn from you. Sure, I didn't know what I was doing when I started all of this, but I didn't direct the movies. I just took the abuse. But now that I'm paid to choke a bitch out and make her like it, I'm fairly confident I could do the same to you. Except you would never like it. I'd make sure of that. Your esophagus would break. Because you're a fragile, worthless cunt and you've never even been a real whore.”

When M walked around beside my head, I was able to see her ass. It sagged like a deflated balloon. In three years time, I'm sure even the members wouldn't pay to see her.

“We'll just make this an orgasm denial scene,” said M. I guess she still held the power. Because M could never make me cum.


Present day thoughts:


In four years time, I've put on weight, grown out my hair, and added a few more fillings to my teeth. There's photographic evidence that I've changed size, shape, and subjective appeal.

But I've rarely felt true difference. At least not from one day to the next.

The only real changes are these subtle epiphanies. They play themselves out in minutes, hours, or at most, several days. And they often come from the things I do the most, the things I feel I'm best at.

Other than eating, shitting, doing my laundry, reading, and watching movies, I could say: I've played a lot of guitar. I've been in school most my life. The longest career I've had is in porn. I'm not the best at any of these things, but I could say I'm better than most. But that's only because most people don't do them at all.

It's only natural for sex to inspire change for a professional slut. The point is it could have been any other job. Perhaps it would be a lesser state of catharsis to give up control in the back of an office cubicle. But it would be just as much fun to take it back.

Like any shitty boss, M will continue to work at pretending she does something useful. The proof I have of growing up is that I've stopped pretending. I know my work serves no greater purpose than for someone to get off.

The difference between M and I is this: I will get off too.

But I will never again crawl in front of a camera and tell some frigid bitch she's a goddess. Because spreading your legs somewhere comfortable and dark only makes you a civilian. And civilians don't give orders. They only die when things go wrong.