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I nodded and whispered, “yes Sir,” my heart beating rapidly while I made a mental note to work on my deltoids and traps.As he corrected my posture he walked around me, letting his hands graze my skin lightly, seductively. He explained to me that when I assumed this position, I was to drop all my concerns, forget my worries and give my strength, my power to him.But I did it anyway because this was an experience that I’d chosen. On our first date, I’d asked Jay about writing “kinky” on his dating profile.He talked about his experience with dominance and submission, telling me that he was a “switch” – someone who could and would serve as both dominant and submissive.Neither of us had extensive history in that area, and I’ve always thought of shared culture as necessary to a good relationship.But on our first date, he’d referred to a young, annoying white girl as “Becky,” so he got a pass.I didn’t grow up a feminist, but I became one in college, declaring Women’s Studies as a second major.My early feminism was grounded in the second wave and its belief that the personal is political, and that institutions like marriage, childbirth and sex should be examined for their inherent misogyny.
Slavery was so bad that we fought a war to end it, yet here I was, signing up to be possessed and, eventually, spanked and bitten by a white man.d associated being naked with being vulnerable, with being open to exploitation and judgement.So when he asked me to stand before him naked, I had a flicker of doubt and fear. The white man who controlled my Black body and its pleasure.We both carried the wounds of past relationships, so we decided to take our affair slowly and mindfully, not having sex right away.Our sexual energy, however, didn’t care for the slow and mindful approach.