#power-dynamics

Content Note: This piece explores themes of degradation kink, erotic shame, trauma recovery, and emotional complexity in submission. Mentions of objectification, self-abandonment, and survivor patterns. Please read with care.

There are cravings I still hesitate to name. Not the sweet ones. Not the ones about surrender or touch or even pain. I mean the ones that live deeper—coiled tight with shame. The ones that whisper, I want you to hate me. I want you to ruin me. I want you to spit in my mouth and call me a thing, not a person. And I want to come undone from it.

Sometimes I want to be stripped of power, pressed into silence, and treated like a toy. Not just used—but discarded. It turns me on in a way I don’t entirely understand. And sometimes it terrifies me.

In recovery, I’ve been taught to listen to the signal behind the craving. To slow down and ask: Is this coming from a place of need—or from a place of pain? And the truth is, sometimes I’m not sure. Sometimes it feels like both.

For context: What I’m describing is often called a degradation kink—a form of consensual play where being insulted, humiliated, or stripped of dignity becomes part of the turn-on. It can look like name-calling, being objectified, spit on, ignored, mocked, broken down emotionally or physically. It’s intense. It’s taboo. And it’s far more common than most people admit. Psychologist and kink researcher Dr. Brad Sagarin notes that “degradation and humiliation kinks often allow individuals to explore deep emotional vulnerabilities in a structured, consensual context.”

But what if that vulnerability isn't just roleplay? What if part of me believes I deserve to be hated? That’s where the shame creeps in. And it’s where I start to question: is this just a new language for an old wound?

Before I ever called myself submissive, I was already performing for men. I let them treat me however they wanted, because I thought love looked like endurance. I thought being wanted meant being small. Being silent. Being good.

Now, I give permission. Now, I ask for things. I tell men I want to be degraded, made powerless, called a slut or a thing. Sometimes I even mean it literally: “Use me like a toy. I want to be nothing but function.” And I do feel powerful, in a twisted way, when I orchestrate that. When I control my own objectification. When I say, “Ruin me,” and I don’t flinch.

But I still wonder: am I healing—or am I reenacting the same self-hatred, just with better lighting?

Author and trauma educator Melissa Febos writes in Girlhood that “erotic desire is shaped by shame as much as it is by pleasure—and often, the two become indistinguishable.” That line haunts me. Because it makes sense. The same part of me that learned to be desirable through self-abandonment is now scripting scenes where that abandonment becomes sexy. Empowering, even. But does that mean it’s safe?

When I hand someone the script—Call me a whore. Spit on me. Don’t ask me if I’m okay until it’s over—that feels like agency. That feels like I’m in control of the degradation. I choose it. I orchestrate it. But not always. Sometimes I get off because I don’t have to make a decision. Because being hated is easier than being loved. Because it quiets the part of me that’s always trying to be good. And that’s when I start to feel scared. Because the part of me that gets off on being hated doesn’t always care if I feel okay afterward.

As trauma therapist Dr. Jamie Marich puts it, “Survivors often return to what is familiar. Sometimes, that includes being treated in ways that replicate harm—not because they like it, but because the nervous system confuses it with home.”

So I check in with myself: Am I choosing this now, or am I being pulled into a pattern I haven’t healed yet? Do I feel seen afterward—or just used? Can I talk about the scene with my partner—or do I feel embarrassed, ashamed, afraid it’ll make them stop wanting me?

The truth is, there’s no clear answer. Sometimes I crave degradation because it brings me into my body. Sometimes it helps me rewrite old scripts. And sometimes I just like it—and that’s okay too. But I keep asking the questions. I keep grounding myself in partners who can handle the weight of what I’m asking for. I talk. I write. I don’t just chase the craving—I try to listen to it.

And maybe that’s the most honest thing I can do.

Some people are given softness freely. I am not one of them. For me, softness has always come with conditions—something I had to earn. I don’t trust it when it arrives too easily. I brace. I analyze. I wait for the part where I have to pay for it. But when I do trust it? When I finally let myself lean into it? That’s when I collapse. That’s when I feel the weight of how long I’ve been holding myself up.

Since childhood, I’ve been chasing softness like a reward. Praise, affection, even basic warmth—none of it felt guaranteed. So I learned to work for it. To shape myself around what people wanted. To earn my place in the room. And in kink, that pattern plays out in sharp relief. I like pain for what it does to me. I like it for what it offers my Dominant. But when someone praises me for taking it—really sees me in it—that’s when I light up. That’s when something in me quiets down. Like I’ve finally done enough to deserve being held.

I remember one time it didn’t come. The scene itself was intense—physical, demanding, the kind of play that should’ve ended with care. But instead, when it was over, everything turned clinical. We disinfected the toys. We chatted. He handed me wipes. I found out afterward that his other submissive was coming over later that day. He hadn’t told me before. And that moment—the casualness, the transition from intensity to sterilized small talk—felt like a door slamming shut. My body was still humming, still open, still aching. But he had already moved on. That was the aftercare. Not touch. Not praise. Not being held. Just cleanup and conversation, like we’d checked a box. Like I hadn’t just offered him every inch of me.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t even get angry. I just folded it into the part of me that already believed softness was optional—something extra, something you got if you didn’t make things complicated. I wiped down the toys like it was normal. Like it was fine. But inside, my body was still waiting. Still hoping for a touch, a word, something that said I see what this cost you. And when it didn’t come, I turned the ache inward. I told myself I shouldn’t have needed anything. That needing was the mistake. That it was my fault for forgetting my place, for wanting more than what was offered. And it wasn’t new. It was just familiar—another quiet confirmation that if I wanted to be held, I had to be easy to hold.

The Valedictory of Justice: Wealth’s Unfair Advantage

TL;DR: Wealthy individuals have a structural advantage in legal battles, using resources to manipulate outcomes in their favor.

Justice isn’t blind. It’s bought.

In a world where wealth often dictates the outcome of legal battles, the scales of justice are tipped heavily in favor of those with deep pockets. The recent scandal involving a high-profile tech mogul, accused of misconduct, highlights this disparity. With access to top-tier legal teams, PR firms, and the ability to exert influence through back channels, the wealthy can often evade accountability in ways that ordinary citizens cannot.

Consider this:

Legal Firepower: Wealthy individuals can afford the best lawyers, who are adept at navigating complex legal systems and finding loopholes.

Public Relations Spin: With money comes the ability to control the narrative, hiring PR firms to shape public perception and mitigate damage.

Influence and Pressure: Wealth allows for subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) pressure on key players in the justice system, from judges to prosecutors.

These advantages create a system where justice is not equally accessible. While the average person may struggle to afford basic legal representation, the wealthy can deploy an arsenal of resources to protect their interests. This isn’t just about money; it’s about power and the ability to manipulate outcomes.

Critics might argue that everyone is entitled to a fair defense, and that’s true. But when the playing field is so uneven, can we really call it fair? The concentration of power and wealth means that some start with a massive head start, leaving others to fight an uphill battle.

So, what can we do? We need to advocate for systemic changes that level the playing field. This includes:

Legal Aid Expansion: Increasing funding for public defenders and legal aid services to ensure everyone has access to competent representation.

Transparency in Justice: Implementing measures to make legal proceedings more transparent and less susceptible to influence.

Campaign Finance Reform: Reducing the influence of money in politics to prevent the wealthy from buying favorable outcomes.

As we reflect on these issues, let’s ask ourselves: How can we create a justice system that truly serves everyone equally? It’s time to demand change and hold those in power accountable. Let’s work towards a society where justice isn’t a privilege reserved for the wealthy but a right accessible to all.

The Power of Ingratiation: How Wealth Shields the Guilty

TL;DR: Wealthy individuals often escape accountability due to their ability to leverage money and influence, creating an uneven playing field.

Money talks. And when it does, it whispers sweet nothings into the ears of power. The rich and powerful have a knack for ingratiating themselves with those who can protect them, creating a safety net woven from influence, wealth, and privilege.

In the world of the elite, accusations of wrongdoing are often met not with accountability but with a well-oiled machine of defense. This machine is fueled by money, and it operates in ways that most of us can only imagine. Consider the following:

Legal Armies: Wealthy individuals can afford top-tier legal teams, often comprising dozens of lawyers who specialize in delaying, deflecting, and dismantling accusations. These legal teams are adept at exploiting every loophole and technicality, ensuring that justice is not only blind but also bound and gagged.

Public Relations Spin: With vast resources at their disposal, the rich can hire PR firms to manage their public image. These firms craft narratives that paint their clients as victims of circumstance or targets of envy, shifting public perception and muddying the waters of truth.

Back-Channel Influence: Money buys access, and access buys influence. Wealthy individuals often have connections in high places, allowing them to exert pressure behind the scenes. This can mean anything from quiet conversations with influential figures to outright lobbying for favorable outcomes.

The recent headlines about corporate greed and political corruption only serve to highlight these disparities. When a billionaire is accused of misconduct, the response is often a masterclass in damage control, rather than a genuine attempt at accountability. It’s a stark reminder of the structural advantages that wealth provides.

Critics might argue that everyone is entitled to a defense, and they’re right. But when the scales of justice are tipped so heavily in favor of those with deep pockets, it raises questions about fairness and equality. The system is designed to protect the innocent, yet it often ends up shielding the guilty—provided they can pay the price.

So, what can be done? For starters, we need to demand greater transparency and accountability from those in power. We must push for reforms that level the playing field, ensuring that justice is not a commodity to be bought and sold. And we must remain vigilant, calling out abuses of power whenever and wherever they occur.

"You already decided.”

Most people don’t analyze age-gap relationships.

They react to them.

They see the number. They form a judgment. Then they build a justification.

That’s not analysis.

That’s instinct.

So before you decide what you think about ours—

Ask yourself:

Did you think it through?

“The quiet truth.”

Here’s something people don’t like saying:

Some younger women are genuinely attracted to older men.

Not for money. Not for status. Not for rescue.

For presence. For stability. For how they carry themselves.

That doesn’t mean every situation is healthy.

But pretending it never happens honestly?

That’s just denial.

So be honest: