My Stalking Kink, Part 2: The Paradox

Stock photograph of a cracked egg on a shiny black surface, its shell in two halves either side of the yolk and the beater of an electric whisk in the background. It is a vague allusion to the "chicken vs egg" conundrum and also was one of the first results when I searched a stock image site for "mess".

Last week, I finally wrote about my stalking kink, after turning it over in my mind for months. It’s tricky to effectively communicate exactly what it is in practice, but I did my best to communicate the principles of it: namely, that I want to be obsessed over by someone who utterly, unreasonably adores me.

The problem with a fantasy like this one is that you can’t actually fulfil it.  Much like rape fantasies, you can kinda-sorta role play it in a way that juuust about scratches the itch, with negotiated limits, safewords and aftercare. (I once knew someone who negotiated a rape role play scene with somebody she’d never met, who burst into the hotel room she’d told him she was staying at and played his part brilliantly. She had a brilliant time, but I can’t reasonably say I endorse this as the safest way to satisfy a rape/consensual non-consent kink.) The trouble is that if you’ve requested it, negotiated it and put safety measures in place for it, no matter how good you and your partner(s) are at pretending, you will never capture the essence of the fantasy you have. You’ll have a really fucking hot scene, and that might well be enough for you, but in my experience, at least, you will never quite reach the place you want to go, because you can’t without it becoming unsafe and quite possibly unpleasant.

With my stalker fantasy, the paradox is thus:

  1. I want someone to stalk me because it will make me feel desired.
  2. If someone does stalk me in real life, the chances of me actually enjoying it, rather than being terrified and feeling violated, are slim as hell.
  3. If someone I know and trust stalks me in real life upon my request, it would feel hollow, since they aren’t driven by their obsession with or adoration of me.

So what can be done?

Role play doesn’t cut it. It would be super hot, of course, to have someone I definitely trust and fancy pretend-follow me home and for me to pretend I don’t know who they are or how they know all the things they know about me, but knowing in real life that they have all this information because I gave it to them sucks the scene dry of any real conviction that the “stalker” is truly, ridiculously obsessed with me.

I’ve even thought to myself, “Surely the amount of time and communication and effort it would take to set up my perfect stalking scene would be proof positive that the other party really, really likes me, right?” but have always concluded that it’s not the same kind of liking. I don’t want someone to like me… collaboratively. I don’t want them to like me in part because I like them back and I show them affection. I don’t want them to like me in any part because of how I behave towards them. I want this liking to be wholly unearned – I want to know that they like me enough to break into my home based only on my social media profiles, my browsing history, my blog and my selfies. I want that to be the starting point.

And then I want to be so kind and patient towards them that it only gets worse.

To some extent, it’s a power thing – but not like the one-way power exchanges I usually play with. I want a stalker who is so unreasonably attached to me that they might stab me and keep my body frozen in their garage if they lose control of themselves, which would indicate the power existing in their hands, but then I want them to be so unreasonably attached to me that I would only need to say the words and they’d kill for me, or worse – so then the power is in mine. This fantasy revolves around an odd back-and-forth power dynamic with high stakes and an incredibly precarious balance. It is, at its core, a fantasy about danger.

There are other ways I can feel enormously wanted (rape role plays, pouting and asking for compliments, that time that somebody sent me a bunch of money through my Ko-Fi after I retweeted something with the sentiment, “If you’ve jerked off to my pics you owe me a Christmas present” attached to it) and there are other ways I can experience danger (suspension bondage, needle play, choking…) that don’t involve this frustrating, paradoxical fantasy. And I do those things. A lot.

But I keep coming back to this.

I know exactly where it comes from, of course, but that’s next week’s topic. This week, I just wanted to air my frustrations at the paradoxical nature of fantasies that have an element of non-consent to them, because it’s a frustration that isn’t often talked about. I don’t mean to diminish the fun and importance of consensual non-consent role play scenes, of course, which are usually the recommendation for frustrated rape fantasists, as they are for my niche kink. It’s just that role play, by design, has limits, and we don’t actually want what we think we want – or, at least, we have no safe way to find out whether what we want is truly to have our consent disregarded, because people who disregard our actual, real-life consent won’t stop where your fantasy stops (and also deserve to be eaten by worms, but that’s by-the-by).

I’m not sure if any of what I’ve said makes sense because it’s paradoxical and recursive and being written in the midst of assessment season at uni, but I hope it resonates, and I hope y’all will join me next week in unpacking where this kink came from and whether or not that matters.

Bratty Bottoms and Me

Image is of two brown, horned mammals (possibly goats) butting heads, both their gazes directed at the ground. The background is just beige dirt.

I used to identify as ‘mostly dominant’.

This probably comes as a shock to anyone who has known me or known of me (in real life or online) for longer than about 20 minutes. I’m collared. I’m in a 24/7 power exchange dynamic wherein I’m the submissive one. I’m very often cruisin’ for a consensual bruisin’ and I love bottoming in humiliation scenes. Nowadays, I identify as ‘a sub-leaning switch’, but the things I actually do paint me as a sub with an occasional willingness to do some service topping.

What happened?

Well, for one, I actually tried submission. When I was insisting that I was the Dommiest Dom™, it was on a purely theoretical basis – I’d not yet done any kink except some weird (and sometimes ethically dubious) text-based roleplay. I picked out the label of ‘dominant’ when I was fifteen or sixteen, absolutely bubbling over with teenage angst alongside my fascination with kink. When I started playing in real life, I gave submission a go “for science” and fell in love with it instantly.

I didn’t lose my love of topping and domming, though. When my first serious relationship became non-monogamous I almost immediately sought out cute subby humans to flirt and sext with. When that relationship fell apart, I ended up in my first triad, dating two other switches.

It was a disaster.

The thing is, some of the play was awesome. I did more impact topping, power exchange, butt stuff topping and humiliation topping than I’d ever done before, and some of it was amazing – hot, exciting, addictive. But some of it wasn’t.

The girl from that triad I’m no longer seeing was the person I beat up more often, spat on more often and more often demanded she call me ‘Sir’ (and, on occasion, ‘Mummy’ – but that’s another post altogether). This was partly a matter of logistics; our other partner (whom I’m still dating) was living a couple hundred miles away, whereas we were often within an hour or two of one another. It was also because she initiated play a great deal more often, in person and over messages, which eventually turned into pressuring me & our girlfriend into things… which is, again, another matter altogether.

She was my first sub, though that power dynamic wasn’t 24/7. She was also the person I’d impact topped most intensely, the first person I’d topped in a CG/l scene and the first brat I’d ever tried to top. The emphasis is on “tried”, because I wasn’t very successful.

I’m a Slytherin and a Leo. I don’t know how to process being unsuccessful. It’s something I’m working on, but if I’m unsuccessful at a non-essential activity or skill (like bowling, swimming or domming), I’ll usually drop it and conserve my energy and resilience for being unsuccessful at things it is essential I master – like referencing in MHRA format or crossing roads safely. When faced with a bratty sub, who was resistant to punishments and obsessed with backchatting me, I felt unsuccessful – especially since this was my first real-life experience of power exchange and topping. So, for quite a long time, I dropped it.

The problem is not with bratty subs. I love bratty subs – I love watching them interact with their dominants in play spaces, I love their energy, I love the idea of them challenging a dominant partner and helping that dominant grow. My personal style of submission leans away from brattiness, but I wouldn’t have a problem with topping or domming a bratty sub – except in a situation where the brattiness was unexpected. The above-mentioned girl I was playing with would sometimes be impeccably obedient and eager to please, and then, with no warning or negotiation or indication of why, she’d switch to brat mode and I’d get overwhelmed. The problem was one part me (a baby dominant, insecure at the best of times and very often riddled with Top Impostor Syndrome, struggling to understand brattiness from a sub’s perspective) and three parts lack of communication. If she had conveyed to me what she liked about being bratty, that I was doing everything ‘right’ and/or that she still respected me as a top, a Dom and a partner, I would almost certainly have relished topping/domming her in Brat Mode as much as I did in Obedient Mode. As it stood, scenes would end with me confused and frustrated, unable to understand what had gone ‘wrong’ and why I couldn’t get her back into Obedient Mode, and I didn’t feel able to voice any of it. I thought I was just a bad Dom.

So now I’m a little scared of topping or domming. I still love it as an idea, but I’m worried about having that same sense that I’ve done it ‘wrong’, leaving scenes hurt and insecure instead of happy and uplifted. It sucks to feel that you’re not good enough in any context, and topping/dominance is a particularly vulnerable context to feel that in. I’m especially intimidated by the thought of topping brattier bottoms, even though I’ve seen firsthand how much fun they can be, because I’ve somehow conflated brattiness with a lack of negotiation and even a disregard for my consent – just because the first and only bratty bottom I’ve played with was being bratty without my consent (and violated my consent in plenty of other ways to boot). That’s a whole bunch of My Problem, of course, and I recognise how illogical and unfair it is that I have this unease around bratty bottoms – but I wanted to write about it, in case any other tops out there had played with bottoms who were unexpectedly bratty and/or behaved non-consensually, and who felt or feel the same way I do. It’s pretty normal to mis-attribute feelings of unease, insecurity and hurt, but I know from hanging out with them that there are plenty of bratty bottoms who are good communicators, consent-conscious and respectful.

At least, they’re respectful outside of a scene. 😉

Why I Don’t Review Sex Toys (Yet)

Image is of a white hand (Morgan's) holding a box with a picture of the blue Fun Factory Stronic self-thrusting dildo on it.

Content note: this post refers briefly to my experience of being sexually groomed and the subsequent dissociation and trauma I experience. If that’s a bit heavy for you, join me next week for some thoughts on eye contact during sex, and take care of yourself in the meantime ♥


You might have noticed that I tackle a fairly broad range of sex- and kink-related topics on this li’l blog of mine, including detailed discussions of the things I’m into and the reasons I’m into them. You might also have noticed that I am a big user of sex toys, since they feature in a lot of my Smut Saturdays pieces and in some of my other essays too. Surely, then, the next logical step would be to write in-depth pieces on my enjoyment (or dislike) of specific sex toys, right?

Well, much like any other question that starts with, “Why do you…” or, “Why don’t you…”, the answer to this one is twofold: it’s the trauma, and the good ol’ autism.

Let’s get the trauma bit out of the way first. I don’t wank much. My first experiences of enjoyable masturbation were in a grooming context, wherein I was being instructed by someone a lot older than me on technique and fantasies. Six years on, I still find my own arousal unsettling when it isn’t “justified” by a partner’s presence and arousal of matching intensity, and trying to get off without anybody’s permission feels dangerous and unfamiliar. Even with awesome porn, if I’m touching myself while I’m alone, I feel unbearably self-conscious and will often dissociate. As you can imagine, this does not make for very good dildo data.

I could, of course, circumvent this by only testing toys in the presence of a partner – which would also yield more data in terms of how a toy can be used by two or more people. However, I’m depressed and anxious, and both of my partners are busy people, so I don’t want to put pressure on the sexual encounters we do manage to have by making them into research projects; nor do I want to put pressure on my partners themselves by bestowing upon them a responsibility to get sexy with me for the sake of my blog when we’d rather be watching Masterchef or snuggling in silence after a busy, hard day.

The only viable solution to this problem, in my eyes, is continued therapy, gentle experimentation, and lots and lots of time to keep recovering. If I ever do manage to produce a review of a toy, y’all should know it’ll be the product of a huge amount of psychological labour, support on my partners’ parts and way more time testing than the average reviewer probably spends.

With that out of the way, here’s my next point: the autism. Being autistic doesn’t automatically preclude a person from reviewing sex toys by any means, and it might even be an advantage to some, since autism can involve, among other things, heightened sensory experiences and a meticulousness that your neurotypical friends will envy during Deadline Week at uni. Unfortunately, my autism also involves a lack of cognitive empathy.

“But Morgan!” you cry, probably gripping your laptop or tablet screen in dismay. “You’re super empathetic! What are you talking about?!”

You’d be right, my dear fictional and overreacting reader. I have buckets of affective empathy, which is the one that makes you cry at videos of raccoons dissolving their own candy floss or bitterly despise your friends’ trash exes – in slightly more technical terms, affective empathy is the type of empathy that causes you to experience the same emotions that people around you are experiencing, and it’s the type I have way too much of.

Cognitive empathy, though, is the kind of empathy that helps you to understand how other people are feeling in the first instance – and I fucking suck at it. Once someone has very clearly signalled their emotions to me, I’m balls-deep in those emotions with them, but they have to be very, very clear signals. As a default, I assume that everybody is fundamentally like me, so I’m surprised to learn that people are straight, or that they like pasta, because I’m a pasta-hating double queer. In terms of sex toy stuff, I’m surprised to learn that some people like very direct clitoral stimulation or that they might dislike intense A-spot stim – and I tend to forget that information even once I’ve learned it. I worry that my lack of cognitive empathy would make my reviews effectively useless to anyone whose preferences didn’t align exactly with my own.

I also worry that my heightened sensory experiences would skew my reviews in a distinctly unhelpful way. Not only do I enjoy things more intensely than some neurotypical folk might, I also find some things unbearable that barely register for allistic folk. I am intensely bothered by certain textures, so I might slate a toy or a lube for a texture that 99% of the population would enjoy (or be neutral on). I’m also sensitive to noise, so my perception of the noise levels produced by a particular vibe might be wildly inaccurate and totally useless to somebody living in a block of flats with very thin walls.

I know that a lot of these problems could be mitigated by understanding and making clear to my readership that my reactions to stimuli aren’t representative and that I’m just describing my own experiences, but I’d hate to lead someone astray with my autistic fussiness and turn them away from a toy that they otherwise might have loved. I suppose, in a sense, this isn’t so much a problem with my autism as it is a problem with my own confidence in my writing; hopefully, over time, I’ll develop enough nuance to accurately and honestly review toys in a way that’s helpful for autistic and allistic folks alike.

Oh, and one final point: I’m broke as shit. Sex toys can be expensive, especially if you limit yourself to only reviewing body-safe ones, and I’m living off my student loan and the Amazon gift cards my uni sometimes gives me for participating in surveys. If any manufacturers or brands want to help mitigate that factor, since it’s the easiest one to contend with, you can reach me at kinkyautistic@gmail.com – which is also one of the many places you can reach me if you’re a reader and you want to share your thoughts on the art of reviewing toys.