Zach and the City: Being a Sub
I am 6’4” and 185 pounds (which is 1.93 meters and 84 kilograms, for those of you who prefer to fantasize in the metric system); I think it is fair to say that most people assume I am going to be dominant in bed. And I am — though I couldn’t tell you if this tendency is innate or simply a response to expectations. Either way, I enjoy it, and I’d like to think I’m fairly good at it. Still, lately I’ve been wondering about how the other half lives.
It all began one Valentine’s Day when I agreed to perform a kinky forced-femme scene at the New Society for Wellness’ (NSFW) Horney Hearts Ball, which was held just south of Times Square at ZeroSpace, a place that describes itself as “an immersive art experience in NYC.” Stepping outside my comfort zone, I was blindfolded, tasered, and flogged. I realize the words “life-changing” are thrown around too often, but considering the evening’s adrenaline-pumping fear by not seeing, the stinging lashes, and the swollen bruises, I think this nearly qualifies. At the very least, it got me thinking: Might sexual submission be just what I need?
Before I get further into my experience being chained to a podium completely naked in front of 100 onlookers on the most romantic day of the year, I should probably explain how I got there. I don’t just mean detailing the route my Uber driver took from my apartment into Manhattan. I mean taking it way back to my very first subbing experience.
I came out as bisexual in 2014, which was three years before I moved to Brooklyn. Promptly after coming out, I met and fell in love with Jenny (not her real name). Jenny was the first partner with whom I experienced romantic love as a fully out person, and with her, I felt safe. I could be the real me without worrying about whether or not I was coming off too effeminate or “gay”. She also opened me up to the world of BDSM, something in which I had only dabbled before. With her, I took it to the extreme.
Jenny had a Grinch-like grin the moment I told her I wanted to receive sexual pain as a submissive. Apparently, she had been waiting for this day. That night, she whipped me, called me names (mainly “bitch boy” and “slave”), and I called her “Madam”. She spanked me, and made me finger her and eat her out. All the while, I was wearing heavy-duty nipple clamps (my nipple piercings were gauged to a size 10 at the time, so they were extremely sensitive). Eventually, my body went into physiological overload, and I couldn’t move my face. When she told me to kiss her, I couldn’t, since I had no control over my lips. So, she punished me with a paddle for not being able to fulfill her command. When the scene ended, she held me as I lay there naked, with tears streaming down my face. It was one of the best experiences of my life.
Before that night, I had been living with severe anxiety, the type that becomes so deeply ingrained that only when it starts subsiding do you truly realize how unhealthy things had been. I had been taking 100 milligrams of Zoloft a day, just as much Trazodone at night, and was in regular therapy, but none of it was helping. In that hour spent as Jenny’s submissive, however, I wasn’t anxious and I wasn’t thinking. I was completely focused on what she was doing to me and what I was doing to her. The 72 hours following the scene, I felt a calmness wash over me, a foreign feeling at the time.
Despite this incredible experience, Jenny and I never did anything like it again. I think she was probably waiting for me to bring it up, and I don’t know why, but I didn’t. Maybe I was scared. I was still figuring out key elements of my sexuality and was unsure what role I wanted BDSM to play in my life.
But on Valentine’s Day 2020, I found myself in a very different space. A pro dominatrix friend of mine, whom I had met at a previous party in SoHo, asked me to step in as her sub after her scheduled performer backed out of the gig at the last minute. Because she was a friend, I said yes. Plus, it sounded like a hell of an opportunity.
She opened the scene by dragging me out by my tie and sitting me down in a chair. She straddled me and ripped off my suit, revealing pink mesh and lace underneath. She “mummified” my face with pink gauze, so I couldn’t see. After which she stood me up, chained me to the podium, and cut off the rest of my clothing so I was butt-ass naked. She put clothespins that were tied together by a string on my body before flogging and zapping me with a Taser. The scene ended with her ripping off the clothespins in one fell swoop. After the scene, I felt high — my endorphins were through the roof! I didn’t experience the calmness I had after my scene with Jenny, but I believe this was partly due to the scene being less intense and partly because I didn’t need the calmness the way I did back then. Still, the experience was, without a doubt, better than sex. It also lasted longer. My mood was elevated the few days following the scene, and I felt more motivated to create. For a couple of weeks prior, I had been struggling to break my creative lull. No longer! Getting flogged was exactly what I needed to break me out of my rut.
For so long, I misunderstood the appeal of being submissive and experiencing pain in the bedroom. Maybe, because people don’t explain it correctly. People aren’t getting off on the pain itself (well, maybe some people are, but not me). For me, the pain is a means to an end. The beauty of subbing is the mental clarity it brings. It gives me what I need: calmness in times of stress and movement in a time of stagnancy. It’s so much more than sexual release. That is why I have decided it is time to switch up my sexual repertoire. It is time to let the tears flow and the opiates rush. It is time for me to take it in the bedroom, so I can give it my all everywhere else.
Published Jul 1, 2020
Updated Jan 6, 2023
