I adore Tumblr. It’s a way to connect effortlessly with people who share a part of my life so few know about. I’ve been able to learn and explore things that would otherwise have been difficult to come across. But Tumblr has done it’s fair share of harm too. It’s easy to get lost in the glamorous images and sexy stories posted, and before long the grass looks a whole lot greener on the neighbor’s side of the fence.
It’s a constant effort to remind myself that these are snapshots of people’s lives, not complete images. And they’re photo-shopped, carefully chosen, edited ones at that. I have to be vigilant to be sure I’m not fooled into believing everything I see. I need to constantly remind myself that what I see isn’t necessarily a reflection of what exists.
Not every woman practicing BDSM is a size 0.
D/s couples disagree. Sometimes they fight.
The people in those pictures suffer from depression, PTSD, and anxiety.
Not every sub is female, and not every Dom is male.
Sometimes shit happens. (Quite literally, if you enjoy anal play.) Sometimes a position hurts, heads bang together, legs give out, or you end up roaring with laughter and not release.
Bondage doesn’t just happen. There’s preparation, and safety precautions, and chaffing. Those don’t show in pictures.
Not every sub can deepthroat a 9 inch cock.
For that matter not every man has a 9 inch cock. (Shocking, I know.)
People have bad days. Doms cry. Subs forget and act out.
Whether or not you enjoy anal, or humiliation, or bruising isn’t what defines you…on either side of the slash.
There’s nothing wrong with being a Top, or a bottom, and not wanting that dynamic to leave the bedroom.
And, on that note, Dominance and submission are not about kinky sex. You can fuck in the dark in the missionary position, or not at all for that matter, and still be in a power exchange relationship.
So I try to step back. I look at the photo of the woman, with the perfect hair and flat stomach, kneeling before a man with a pristine suit and a three thousand dollar watch on his wrist, and try to remind myself that the reality is better. The messy tearful days, the laughter over a queef at the wrong moment, the note left behind on a busy morning, and the run in a stocking on a soft chubby thigh… those things are perfect too.
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