"I thought you were delicious."
That was one of the first lines emailed to me in 2011 by SadistFaction, who would later become my play partner, then my boyfriend, then my Daddy, and finally my best friend. We met at a workshop – my first kink event – and I saw those baby blues (come on, if you've met him, you've noticed them) and I swooned. When we left, my friend teased me that I had spent most of the talk "undressing that silver fox with your eyes" (Guilty.)
Don't get me wrong – I know it's a line, and S has the charm to pull it off. But that particular phrase – that I was delicious – not cute, not sexy, not beautiful – brought me to my knees in an unexpected way.
Delicious. I lived a significant part of my life in abject terror of being called out as a consumer. From severely anorexic to overweight and binging in secret, I never stopped wondering how people viewed my consumption, how much they judged how much I took in from the world around me, whether it was more than I deserved. I was obsessed with tasting the world, and doubly obsessed that no one should notice my gluttony. I was too big (even when I was too small), and everything I took in reinforced my fear that I was just naturally a greedy person. Every pleasure I experienced, from food to orgasms to sleeping in on a Sunday morning – felt unearned.
Suddenly, though, I was delicious. I was *consumable*. *I* was the thing worth devouring.
From a feminist standpoint, there are some pretty fucking dodgy places to go with this analysis, but for once in my life I'm going to suppress my inner critic and just breathe. Women as a product, as a commodity – that's a painful and problematic concept. But for me, personally? It was the most affirming thing I'd ever heard.
Almost universally, my relationships with men to that point in my life had involved me as a receptacle – a location in which they could experience and deposit their pleasure, then leave me to clean up the metaphorical and literal messes. I was more or less superfluous to the exchange. More recently, I've fetishized this type of play – the careless use of my body with its irrelevant needs – but it's a power exchange on equal footing, one that begins harshly but ends in intimacy. Then, though, it was not a consensual usage of my body for mutual enjoyment, but rather one that I thought was simply the best I deserved.
But delicious… I mattered in that exchange. I wasn't just an interchangeable girl, with the requisite parts for an adequate sexual experience. A partner wanted to take *me* in, to taste me, to experience me.
As a little kid, I had this very strange fantasy about a friendly giant who liked me so much, he swallowed me whole. His insides were bare, stark rooms with white walls, and he kept me there and kept me safe. He cared for me so much he wanted me to become a part of him. It was that feeling of security I felt when I first read S' words.
Since then, I've learned about other sorts of sex, other sorts of kink, other sorts of relationships, and other sorts of love. Ones where no one needs to be consumed.
But I will never stop feeling thrilled to have been delicious.
With great love,