Contrast and the hunt for contrast dominate my life. I seek contrast in everything from food flavours and textures to clothing to partners to sounds to ‘That’s what she said’ jokes (the more bizarre the conjured ‘she’ scene the better). I wear odd-coloured socks every day, something that began as impatience at the tyranny of pairing, which has escalated to vague anxiety at accidentally pulling out a pair from the drawer: No no no, let’s put that one back and find a nice mismatch.
It hadn’t dawned on me how fiercely I forage for contrast until the pandemic, when, like a lot of women, I was diagnosed with ADHD.
One of the common traits of ADHD is a craving for novelty. New things are a rich seam of dopamine, which is something bodies like mine are not great at making. But shiny, exciting new things get old very quickly. Low impulse control means we will binge on something voraciously before suddenly shoving it aside. It’s the mental equivalent of nuking your clitoris with a magic wand several nights in a row until it no longer responds at all. At this point you need to switch toys completely to get any fulfilment.
I seek little flashes of contrast everywhere, in textures, colours, conversations, humour etc., and each one is a delicious snack of novelty: Here is one thing and here is something different but related that recasts the original thing in a new light.
That’s the crucial thing, and that’s how I tie this into my kink experience. My love of contrast is not satisfied with total non-sequiturs. The best dopamine hit comes from necklacing (not that kind): where one thing links to a second thing in a set-up + punchline rhythm, before linking to a third thing one step further removed from the first, that takes the joke in an even stranger direction, one you’ll go with because you’re enjoying the ride.
In a kink scene with my partner, I want to be taken down. Sometimes literally (there have been some fun wrestling-to-lose matches) but always psychologically, at a pace I don’t usually get to determine. I want my character to enter the room feeling powerful, defiant, tough or unwilling: a tight knot of resistance that my partner has to unpick, in order to retie me in a hideously pretty bow.
I never choose to play a sexy vixen or a giggly little girl because a) neither of those come naturally to me and b) neither character offers much challenge to my partner; there’s no conflict or tantalising friction. These hyperfeminine characters are in some way amenable to, or encouraging of, the top’s attention. Instead, I opt for stubbornness, reticence or bargaining, depending on the dynamic between us. Fiercely resisting the embarrassment in store only makes the ultimate humiliation more intense as the dominant character breaks my girl down – enjoys breaking her down, usually – and reshapes her to their liking against her will.
This is why my stories never show the humiliated girl meekly accepting her fate. The happiest relationship in my smut catalogue is that of Ben and Mindy, who genuinely care about each other, but even then, Mindy rails against being treated like a baby, even as she grudgingly admits it might have helped her finish an essay or focus more. She never gives into the ‘happy little’ mode that many true babygirls enjoy, because what I find hot is her outrage, which can be so easily framed as a toddler tantrum. She has to hang onto the hope of getting back her adult clothes, even as Ben plans her next humiliating regression.
Everyone loves a Before and After photo, or a reveal, or a makeover. Once the character has been spanked or shamed into her new belittled or regressed form, the mortification is compounded by referring back to the original state in which she entered the room (cocky tomboy, defiant prisoner, stubborn schoolgirl etc.). I love to be walked to the mirror and shown what I’ve been turned into, or to hear a top mock my original boast that I was “too old for these clothes” or “tough enough to hold out against the cane” or “never going to be your little slut”.
There are definitely moments during play where the thrill of it all takes over. After a certain point you go over the waterfall and can no longer pretend you’re not incredibly turned on. But that’s the happy little death of the scene right there. Even during scenes in which my girl gets wet despite herself (to the amusement of the top), I like to prolong the humiliation by struggling, refusing to obey instructions, shaking my head, protesting and whining. The more pathetic the denial, the clearer it becomes that I’ve lost the game, and the bigger the rush I end up banking for the climax of the scene.
Once I’ve clearly come or admitted I’m enjoying it, the dive is already coming to an end. I’m drifting toward the surface and back to the real world, where my partner and I are equals once again. At which point, after all that cruelty and degradation, there’s one more contrast snack waiting: a tight, cosy hug.