hash, who hated Nixon and who, to his credit, was under the mistaken assumption that I was seventeen until my deflowering was well underway. I hadn’t lied and said I was anything but thirteen; my age simply hadn’t come up. When it did, I refused to allow him to back out. Real sex with a grown man lived up to all my fantastical expectations.

 

 

 

 

When I was fifteen, to my further elation, I finally had sex with a girl; real lesbian sex, not just kissing or cuddling, but cunnilingus, orgasms, and fingers exploring one another’s cunts. From then on, I remained actively bisexual, preferring sex with girls or with older men, over sex with boys my own age whenever possible. Yet that masochistic and incestuous world in my head where my biological dad was my raison d’etre persisted; in fact, it became more pronounced.

Regardless of how sadomasochistic it was, that secret world where I was unconditionally loved by my real father became necessary for my very survival; as my home life deteriorated enough to cause me to attempt suicide, twice, I escaped deeper into that world in my head.

As I made my way into adulthood, moving to Manhattan at age twenty, I took my imaginary world along with me. In each deplorable apartment I lived in, in every disheveled bed I slept in, just beyond any tangible qualities of time and space, was that home I shared with my phantom father who bound and sodomised me, who beat me with a leather strap, who told me repeatedly

 

 

 

 

how much he cherished me; who, in short, kept me psychologically protected from the ravages of an all too real world: the cold and mean streets of New York in the early ’80s, when I was young and poor.

It was in New York that I found men who were willing to pretend to be “my dad” minus any familial affection whatsoever; or men who were willing to hit and berate me, to force a cock up my ass while I was pinned down and screaming, “Don’t – you’re hurting me”. I also found women who were willing to surpass my fantasies of erotic discipline – restraining me with rope or handcuffs, spanking me severely while demanding I piss myself, all in the anonymity of cheap motel rooms while the liquor flowed. Over time, I had learned to embrace the BDSM lifestyle

and I willingly, eagerly, submitted to the power exchange. My submissive nature, however, caused me to submit to everything without discriminating between what I actually craved (the dominance) and what, in fact, appalled me (the degradation).

As a strong-willed and career-driven woman, it took me several decades to become psychologically comfortable with my innate submissive nature. Emotionally, however, I have never been at ease with my sexual masochism. At best, I have been tolerant of my desires, accepted them as part of the mystery of being me, and did my best to make my intimate relationships with both men and women “work.”

In the spring of 2010, the year I turned fifty, an online friend introduced me to the Code d’Odalisque and it turned my understanding of myself upside down.

If you Google the word “odalisque”
you will find the strict definition of the term (a female slave in an Ottoman seraglio; beneath a concubine in status), along with examples of many erotic Orientalist paintings. The Code d’Odalisque, however, is a nonviolent, cock-worshipping fetish sub-culture of BDSM that celebrates contemporary pleasure slaves – being the slaves as well as owning the slaves. And the emphasis is on pleasure. For some, as in the broader BDSM lifestyle, the ownership of the (female) pleasure slave is real.

SDk Interview with Marilyn Jaye Lewis

Badass: Columbus, Ohio, 1972, aged 12.

/ As I made my way

into adulthood,

moving to Manhattan

at age twenty, I took

my imaginary world

along with me. /

/ As a strong-willed and career-driven woman, it took me several decades to become psychologically comfortable with my innate submissive nature. /

nonfiction
nonfiction
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