Rules I Break, Scripts I Rewrite
Queer Pleasure as Rebellion: December Challenge
There are certain rules I didn’t choose but learned anyway; absorbed from the air and inherited without consent. Rules about what I was supposed to want, how I was supposed to sound, what kind of body I was supposed to occupy, and how small that body should become to keep the peace.
Rules dictated how a woman should move and how I should display my womanhood to be acceptable. Even the idea that the only sexual orientation that mattered was heterosexuality was reinforced.
Growing up Afro-Caribbean and in a Baptist church, I was scolded for even imagining a life that didn’t fit the traditional roles of children, a husband, and housework. I was told that my femininity and worth were tied to these things. I was expected to be a wife, mother, and housekeeper. I rejected those ideas at a very young age; however, that didn’t stop me from being ostracized early on by family, community, and “positive” role models.
From a young age, I knew my path would be different. I never imagined it would lead to the life I live today. But honestly? I wouldn’t change it for anything. I am a childless, queer, nonmonogamous, nonbinary person who also identifies as a pleasure-centered Domme and is also neurodiverse AF. I believe my inner child is proud of me for standing up for what I truly believe in. As a kid, I didn’t see myself fitting into the roles I was expected to, because it just didn’t feel right. I loved being a tomboy. I preferred being more masculine than feminine. I hated wearing dresses, and I didn’t like the typical things little girls usually enjoyed. I was eclectic. I was…ME. Everyone around me wanted me to be someone I wasn’t, to fit their ideas. It’s funny how straight people always say that gay people have an agenda, but I’ve never met a group with more of one! Just saying.
I was taught to think desire was something you earned only after proving yourself palatable. If you were soft enough, quiet enough, grateful enough, then maybe you deserved to want something.
That was the first rule:
Want gently. Don’t take up space. Don’t interrupt the script.
But it never fucking fit me.
Even when I didn’t have the words “Domme” or “kink” or “queer”, my body knew what it was doing. My fantasies never arrived as touches; they arrived as scenes. As power. As tension. As the quiet thrill of someone giving in before I even laid a hand on them. Psychological kink was my first dialect of wanting, long before I could say it out loud.
Maybe it’s because I’m a Gemini Venus and Mercury, but psychological kink hits differently than anything else I’ve experienced kink-wise. Of course, I love inflicting pain through impact play; after all, I am a sensual sadist. But psychological kink... it just hits different. Stimulate my mind if you want me to fuck you.
Psychological kink was my first arousal.
Mental seduction was my first erotic language.
But that’s the kind of truth we were trained to hide. We were taught to be well-behaved, well-contained, and well-restrained.
We’re told to follow the rules. Smile. Be agreeable. Don’t push. Don’t disrupt. Don’t want anything that might reveal who you actually are.
I learned to play small to make others feel big.
I learned to soften my edges so I wouldn’t intimidate anyone.
I learned to separate wanting from deserving.
And in that, I became good at pretending.
I hid the part of me that wanted to command, to lead, to orchestrate desire with precision. I hid the part that enjoyed the tension of being wanted; how it coils around my spine like that. I hid the part that finds power in the psychological kink, the way a mind opens before a body does.
But here’s the thing about pretending:
There is always a moment when the performance cracks and the truth spills out.
For me, it wasn’t dramatic. It was slow, subtle, and then suddenly undeniable.
I started wanting too loudly. I started craving honesty more than safety. I started noticing that the rules I inherited didn’t protect me; they restrained me. They kept me small. They kept me dimmed. And the more I tried to obey them, the more dishonorable I became with myself.
Breaking the rules wasn’t a decision. It was an unraveling.
I stopped pretending I wanted the “appropriate” things. I stopped trying to dilute my queerness into something heterosexual people could comfortably applaud. I stopped hiding the psychological hunger that shapes how I love, dominate, create tension, and move through intimacy.
My truth leaked out in moments; an unguarded tone, a lingering look, the way someone’s breath would stutter when I spoke a little too low, a little too intentional. The way people reacted before I ever touched them, and how they would submit before they truly understood why.
That’s when I realized:
My desire wasn’t the problem. The rules are.
So I started breaking them.
Not all at once.
Not loudly.
Just enough to feel the pulse of something real moving through me again.
The rule I break most often now is the rule that says desire must behave.
My desire is feral in its honesty.
It’s precise, but never tame.
It asks questions that unravel people.
It exposes my truth without apology.
It makes me rewrite the script of who I thought I should be.
And that rewriting isn’t theoretical. It’s visceral.
Where I was taught to be agreeable, I choose to be intentional.
Where I was taught to be digestible, I choose to be undeniable.
Where I was taught not to want too much, I want with the force of someone who finally recognizes their own power.
My kink now is as much psychological as it is erotic; mental seduction, intellectual tension, and the choreography of surrender. It’s the moment someone realizes I see them more clearly than they see themselves. It’s the quiet gasp when they understand I’m not performing dominance, I’m built for it.
Rewriting the script means letting the truth stand without shrinking, softening, or apologizing.
It means knowing that my desire is not a disruption, it’s a revelation.
Because my eroticism isn’t in touch first, it’s in knowing.
In the way I can read someone’s longing before they dare to name it.
In how their body softens just from the possibility of my command.
In how they feel seen, not superficially, but stripped.
I’ve learned that for some people, the hottest moment isn’t the kiss, or the hand, or the tie around their wrists. It’s the second they realize I’ve already decided how I want them.
That’s the psychological kink I stopped hiding.
That’s the script I refused to obey.
And now?
My desire moves unapologetically.
It pushes, pulls, shapes, and directs.
It enjoys the tension of “almost” as much as the surrender of “yes”.
It demands honesty.
It demands depth.
It demands that anyone who steps into my orbit bring their whole desire with them.
Breaking the rules doesn’t make me dangerous. Rewriting the script did.
Because now my desire is not quiet. It is not polite. It is not designed to make anyone comfortable.
It is deliberate.
It is erotic.
It is sovereign.
And it is mine.
And honestly?
It feels like rebellion in its purest form.
Closing Reflection for You
Before you leave this page, linger with this:
What rules were you taught about your desire? Not the ones you pretend to follow, but the ones that live in your body, shaping what you allow yourself to want.
Who benefits from those rules?
Who stays comfortable when you stay small?
And what happens in your body, right now, while reading this…when you imagine breaking one?
Not all of them.
Just one.
The one that makes your breath hitch.
The one that makes you blush.
The one you aren’t ready to admit out loud.
The one that arouses you because it scares you a little.
Let it surface.
Let it name itself.
Let it tell you what it wants from you.
And ask yourself with honesty, with heat, and without apology:
If you rewrote the script of your desire, who would you become?