English Version | Only 50 shades, Grey? Rookie!

Yes, that's right. Mr. Grey was a rookie. Doesn’t really fit in here. It’s quite sad, actually, that the world has awakened to the charm of domination as a form of sexual intercourse with such anemic misadventures. The BDSM planet is fascinating because it's libertarian. And that's why it moves in the twilight. 

© Apollonia Saintclair
© Apollonia Saintclair

Dogmas only exist, even in the most progressive societies (which are often, and paradoxically, the most dogmatic) because freedom is an illusion. To grant humans full freedom, that is, to give them free will at all levels, is to condemn Humanity. It is asking for anarchy, where the weakest will perish, not through natural selection (as in the animal kingdom), but at the hands of men themselves. It was not one or two philosophical currents that addressed this theme. Which is shocking. But obvious. Take, for example, that place where we spend most of our lives: work. Forget all the conventions that, after the Industrial Revolution, were instilled in us in such a way that, today, they are already part of our DNA. Done? Now, ask yourself: why the hell do we have to work? People shouldn't have to. They must want to work. Share not only the construction but also the maintenance of a society because its existence benefits all its members. It should never be forced. Something we have to do so we don't die. Imagine a society where survival did not depend on a job. Imagine that we could leave our job at any time, without fear of losing our only source of income. Imagine the power of a worker in such a society. Employers would have to treat you in the palm of their hands, make your job offer much more attractive than the rest, make people really want to participate in that “service”. And yes, of course there would always be those who would take advantage of this situation. They are already taking advantage of this economy, anyway. Just think of the 1% of rich people who get richer and richer while the others have to have two or three jobs to support their children. Why do they do it? Because they can. Because the remaining 99% are so afraid of losing their jobs. What if there was no such fear? If despair didn't dominate our days? If the terror of dismissal were replaced by free creativity? Imagine the children you could raise, the elderly you could care for, the inventions you would produce. Now imagine that, knowing all this, the overwhelming majority thinks: “no, I don't want any of this because it would benefit classes, ethnic minorities, races and beliefs I don't like”. This is the thinking of modern conservatives. A cancer, actually. 

What can we say, then, about sex? The thing we all wish to be a constant in life, that makes the world go round, that our livers (as a good mood reference) depend on, that lends us a smile on our lips when it fills us completely, as well as it makes us bitter when it is sufferable. A mere example: are we truly understanding of the LGBT cause? How many of us put ourselves in the role of a gay man who can't come out of the closet because he lives in a remote village or, quite the opposite, plays a huge role in a company where the CEO is ultra-conservative? How many of us have come out defending that aunt who, at age sixty, with her children raised, decides to confess she is a lesbian and now lives with the lady from the haberdashery down the street who, it is now known, she loved her whole life? How many of us will continue to be amazed when a certain actor/singer decides to come out? And as for BDSM practices… When will we be free enough to scream from the top of our lungs that we get pleasure from it? That there are women who love nipple springs? That many have, for the rest of their lives, longing for the partner they trusted to the point of allowing him to have an entire fist inside their vagina? With whom the longing was such that it allowed anal penetration without much preparation? That even today they reach orgasm more quickly if, when they are possessed “on all fours”, they are firmly slapped on the buttocks? That these do not need permission because it is in this relationship between the two that the liberation of so many dogmas and invisible barriers of centuries lies? How much longer will BDSM practices be considered a fetish? A deviation. Sadomasochism is absolute liberation. Of those who like to dominate and of those who, often, need to deprive themselves of the ego to be dominated. Why hide it in dungeons that no longer make sense in the 21st century?

If Puritanism is rife in the 21st century (yes, there's no denying it), what about those who had the courage, in truly obscure times, to publish works based on their experiences and fantasies related to BDSM? First, we have the “godfathers” of the term sadomasochism: Marquis de Sade and Leopold Ritter von Sacher-Masoch, both nobles. Donatien Alphonse François de Sade, born in Paris in 1740 (at the height of the Enlightenment period), was an avowed libertine. Politician (quite revolutionary), philosopher and, of course, writer, he was the author of some erotic classics quite peculiar and advanced for his time, with extensive philosophical dialogues of the characters while, for example, they sodomized Justine (or The Misfortunes of Virtue, a novel – or a philosophical treatise? – in the course of which the poor girl, whose innocence is the cause of the systematic abuse she suffers, insists on not opting for evil for the simple reason that it is not in her nature). But the novel that gave rise to “sadism” was 120 Days of Sodom, a (perhaps not so far-fetched) story of four friends who decide to live four months of their life doing orgies with forty-six people . The descriptions are so violent and cruel that reading them is not at all advisable for the most sensitive. There is incest, cannibalism, bestiality and bard murders. At that time, that could only be produced by a mad mind. And Sade was involved in countless scandals, moving in and out of prisons and hospices, until finally he was arrested, already old, obese and almost blind in an asylum, where he died at the age of 74. Leopold Ritter von Sacher-Masoch, born almost a century later (1836) in Leópolis, the present-day Ukraine (then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire), was, above all, a journalist. Although he had studied law, history and mathematics and had previously embraced a teaching career. He published several fiction and non-fiction stories where he debited utopian ideals, such as socialism and humanism, always with the daily life in Galicia and Lodomera, his homeland, as a setting, carefully analyzing all the people who lived there and their idiosyncrasies. If his writing overflowed with misogyny, his private life proved otherwise. In 1869, Masoch and his mistress, Baroness Fanny Pistor, signed a contract under which he became her slave for six months. It specified that the baroness would have to wear furs often, especially on days when she felt particularly cruel. Sacher-Masoch dubbed himself Gregor, a stereotypical name for servants, and disguised himself as the baroness' servant during an entire train journey to Italy, staying in a third-class carriage, whilst she was traveling in first. This is the plot of Venus in Furs, an obviously autobiographical novel, which gave rise to the term “masochism”. A few years before her death, Pauline Réage edited, in 1954, Story of O, her masterpiece. This is not just a sadomasochistic novel, even though it cures about a Parisian fashion photographer who is blindfolded, chained, whipped, branded, and instructed to always be available for oral, vaginal, and anal sex. It is a treatise on the ties of women in a society that is more than sexist, misogynistic. An absolutely feminist essay. At first, O is just a sex slave. But the more she resists torture, the more she likes to be dominated. It is the empowerment of women who, without fear of social criticism, take control of their sexual desires, thus not allowing anyone to make choices for them. If O begins to be humiliated and forced to be possessed by several men at the same time, thinking that she is doing it for the love of the one who commands her, she finally realizes that she is doing it because she feels pleasure. She finds that, finally, she loves herself, which until then had never happened. References to these great classics of erotic literature are compelling as only literature can simplify the seemingly complex exercise of hypothesizing BDSM practices to be pure liberation. From moorings that have been around for centuries. And that insist on not breaking. Only when these (and other) practices are not the target of prejudice can they leave the underground where they have always been situated. Even if one has the childish belief that it is precisely because they have to be surrounded by so much secrecy that they are exciting. Believe me. That's not the reason.

Side note: the following account is (or perhaps not) fictionalized. As such, the names are (or perhaps not) fictitious. And certainly, it never took place on a cold winter night in the Portuguese capital: I let out a deep, long sigh, I admit. Only then did I press the bell button on that ground floor in one of the noblest areas of Lisbon. The latch opened without a word on the intercom, and the entire atrium of the building drowned in the red light that came from the apartment, beyond the elevator. A broad and luminous smile in the center of the most beautiful features that crowned a figure from another time, a thin body, but with shapes creased by the lingerie, stockings and garter belt included, which the transparent black nightshirt did not interfere. She leaned over the small balcony at the entrance and, as the door closed behind me, asked in a very sweet voice: “First time? Let me introduce you.” I left my coat in a cloakroom and she motioned with a forefinger for me to follow her, walking then along a carpeted corridor in a Persian pattern, three doors on each side, all opened. Red walls with some whips, four-poster beds, St. Andrew's crosses, swings suspended from the ceiling and tables on which lay some varieties of whips, handcuffs and dildos. In one of the rooms I saw, at a glance, largely because of my initial shyness, a couple in an advanced state of submission and domination, a “plac” heard a little further on, before entering the room. Full of guests, the leather sofas fully occupied and many people standing, all with a glass in their hand, which they raised, with a friendly smile, in an evidently usual welcoming ritual that contrasted with my most shy ‘good-evening’. “Make yourself comfortable, here you can be whatever you want. Everyone is something else. Do you want a gin and tonic?”, of course I did. I followed Magda (not her real name), a well-known actress in the national arena, to the bar, in the back of the "living room", with ambient music (contemporary alternative pop-rock, a Beck here, a Morphine there, a Tame Impala everywhere), not so loud that it required shouting for altercations or that it even discouraged, in the slightest, conversations between the guests. That was the buzz of the hall. I did my best (or the impossible?) not to stare at the hostess's figure a second longer, imagining she might be annoyed, and turned back to the bare room, no paintings on the walls, just sofas, armchairs, dimly lit by a shaded lamp and where I recognized three more faces from TV, cinema and the theater. A minor detail, and I swear I hadn't had a drink yet, everyone was attractive. The environment was obviously and carefully selected. “Do you want lemon or grapefruit in your gin?” I turned again to find Magda completely naked, except for her socks and garter belt. The creases of the bra on the sides, the whiteness of the bikini print, and my attempt to look into her eyes without nervous-small deviations. She took the hand that was now gripping the glass and almost whispered, “Relax. All these people come here to get away from embarrassment. Where there are no conventions, there are no shames. Here you can be anything you want, including yourself. Chat, dance, walk around the rooms, join whoever you want or just watch. Nobody forces you to do anything like they don't judge you for what you want to do”. The tone was so soothing that I found myself actually dropping my guard. “Well, it's my first time,” I stammered. She smiled: “I can easily tell. But it's sweet. You look like a little boy” and she kissed me. A kiss not fiery and yet with all possibilities in it. She looked me in the eye again and, two fingers away from me, she said: “I'm going to the corner table to see what they want to drink” and she came out from behind the counter. As she passed by me, she took my wrist and, looking at me, brought my hand to the inside of her thighs, so I could see that, after all, the kiss would have had some effect other than the inhibited me, new to these tasks. She winked, biting her tongue, and made her way to the table where she bent down enough to offer me a prodigious view. But I cannot say, at the risk of incurring in a huge lie, that I was excited. It was all fascination for now. But with a lot of nervousness, the puerile kind, in the mix. Then Magda called me to introduce me to some guests: “sit down. When my colleague arrives at the bar, I'll be right back to see you, see if you want to go inside”. And that was that, welcomed with a “wow, you loverboy” and many smiles, that I mingled my way in. Exchanged names and, before you know it, there was talk of cinema, music and travel. Nobody asked me what my job was, whether I was married or not, where I lived or anything that, usually, you just want to know to place someone into a stereotype. Everything was so relaxed, in such careful Portuguese that, at times, I felt like a maenad in any court. The inevitable subject came up. There were couples, yes. But the rings were different. The aim, which had become the rule in those lives, was to give rise to the most unspeakable fantasies: “this is the only place in the world where the term Freedom finally makes sense. Now everything is calm, with an ambience that we can consider normal, though in a little while this room can be a huge orgy, because we don't necessarily have to go to a room to give way to desire. If my partner finds you attractive, I can order her to make you a fellatio and she follows the order, that's her fantasy, would you?” Jorge asked me, to which I replied, awkwardly: “maybe it's still early ”, which elicited a general laugh and a “but when you want it, say it”, from Ana, his partner, who after all was his downstairs neighbor at the time he lived with his parents, always wanted each other and just found out about ir after twenty years of separate lives, in a casual reunion in the supermarket, which later gave way to exchanged messages, until it took off in regular rendez-vous in motels. Ana called Luísa, who was sitting a few meters away, in the large armchair, to confer with another group: "come on, Nuno is ashamed, he's never been here", and Jorge let out a "okay, now you’ve done it”. Luísa, eyes covered by a catwoman-style mask, crimson lips, rose to reveal a latex bodice and walked, slowly, towards our group. She placed, dangerously, the very high heel of her latex boot between my legs on the sofa, placed her hands on that knee and leaned forward until she was a some inches away away from my eyes: "Hello, it's a pleasure to meet you" , just like that. I replied: “the pleasure will be all mine”, to which I immediately added: “which doesn't play anything in my favor, does it?”. She smiled, turned around and, gently placing a buttock on each of my cheeks, asked: “Are you drinking gin? I'll order a whiskey. Do you want one?” All of this was delighting everyone at my table. And on the other table as well. A little later, we were all on our feet, in a pleasant chat. From time to time, coming from one of the rooms, where the atmosphere had already begun to heat up, judging by the howls and moans, a woman moving on all fours appeared, being walked on a leash. On the third or fourth entry into the room, she was ordered to carry out a cunnilingus on Luisa. She complied, without delay, while everyone around her had the “right” to crease her buttocks, already heavily marked with a whip that rotated from hand to hand. The instrument did not reach me (thankfully, because I believe, perhaps innocently, that inflicting pain on someone requires some trust between the aggressor and the victim - except in traffic, of course), because Magda hugged me from behind, whispering: "can I show you the rest of the house?” and she took me by the hand towards the corridor, explaining how the place works. “The house is owned by a collective of members, linked to the arts, who make it available for this type of sociological experience. Each day of the week, there’s a themed party. There are gay, lesbian, swing days and, on Saturday, a free night. You've been invited to the BDSM night. You only enter by invitation and we are the ones who choose the people, who are then obliged to bring a pair. Your case was an exception”. Yes, I know one of the organizers who had challenged me a long time ago. In the first room, a man whose only item of clothing was a vinyl mask was immobilized on the St. Andrew’s cross. Two women kicked him, in turn, in the testicles, with verbal insults. I didn't realize if the howls were for pleasure. My facial expression must have been such that Magda took my hand again. In the next room, a considerable number of voyeurs admired a four-poster bed with as many bodies as the laws of physics allowed. There was no violence of any kind other than verbal and always in tones of defiance or orders given between that amalgamation of people. Some of the voyeurs joined in with little undecipherable gestures at this distance and returned to their partner. We went on until we entered the room where a sort of charriot from which hung a vast fountain of instruments of gentle torture flanked a completely naked woman who was tied, face down, to a kind of easel. The arms and legs, open, were tied to the base of it. Her back, glutes and legs were already quite red. A man, in a very formal suit, black and assertive, wore a kind of leather paddle with which he whipped her, with some vigor, but only after the positive answer to the question: "Do you want more?" and, at the same time, he gave orders to whoever was surrounding another woman who was tied to the bed so that it would serve as a backrest, the same torso, knees on the floor. Blindfolded and gagged, she moaned with pleasure at being possessed by several men. Her date was the man in the suit. “Enjoying yourself?” Magda asked me, with that smile of someone who realizes that I've overcome some obstacles. And we went to a room, much smaller, where Luisa was alone, smoking. “Wouldn't it be wonderful, a world where you were really free? To set yourself free and set others free from the bonds we've had for centuries?” and she sat me on the bed. Then Magda lay down on my legs, begging for spanking. Pleading shortly thereafter. Don't ask me what turns did this carousel of the senses take. All I know is it was morning already. And I had my back covered in melted wax.

Originally translated from Vogue Portugal's Underground issue, published October 2021.Full story and credits on the print issue.