Disclaimer: This post mentions topics involving sexual activity and consensual sexual violence. Not suitable for individuals under eighteen years of age. Reader discretion is advised.
Contains some strong language.
In this relationship, we have an agreement: Once a fortnight, on a Friday, all of the toys come out and on the other, they stay away. In a roundabout way both feel like a date night, but they are a date night in very different ways. On one, my dedcation toward my husband is very subservient on the other, it’s a lot more relaxed and care-free.
Date night, the romantic date night, was my husband’s idea. I’d baulked at the idea at first, not really being one for romance (ahem) until we found the ways and means that work for us. I hated the artificially sweet culture of going out on date night, of dressing up and making a good impression, of putting on something that you wouldn’t normally wear every fourteen days, just to impress someone that you had been with umpteen years. My parents didn’t do it, and I certainly didn’t plan to do it, either. Okay, sure, sometimes it’s good to make an effort, but once every fourteen days was a bit too much. Instead, my effort became on making sure we had homemade desserts for after dinner, it became on making sure we had snacks and knew which movie we wanted to watch, too. Date nights in fancy restaurants got replaced by dinner, soft lights and a movie. For us, just snuggling up on the couch and making some time for one another was a huge improvement in itself.
On date night, we’d always agreed that it would be strictly vanilla. I’d made that agreement so that hopefully, my husband doesn’t feel objectified in any way. I wanted him to feel loved and appreciated, rather than just objectified as my Dominant. I wanted to dedicate some time to making sure he felt loved for who he was, not just for the things he did.
As time has gone on though, the line between romance and kink has become ever blurred.
“Behave, it’s date night” was something that we were so used to uttering to one another by now. “Behave, it’s date night” was a way to say not to encourage anything remotely spicy to happen. No teasing, no submissive poses or suggestive eye contact, nothing. It’s date night, and you behave accordingly.
By now, we’ve slipped even further down the rabbit hole. The line between vanilla and kink is little more than a haze and if a date night movie has a kinky bit in it then frankly, so be it. “Oh noes!” became our mutual, extremely daft way of acknowledging something a little more than what we had intended to see, then we cover our eyes, uncover them again and carry on with the film. It was a part of us, our way of acknowledging that these things may be regarded somewhat as taboo and yet for us, they are also perfectly normal.
“Any movie preferences tonight, Mr S?” I asked. We normally go for a rom-com on date night. Yes, it’s cheesy as heck, but if I have to be forced to endure something far sweeter (and perhaps far cornier) than the popcorn that I’m snacking on, then it at least needs to be funny.
“I don’t mind, Mrs S” Matt replied, “do you have any suggestions?”
“Well, I began, the look of panic spread across Matt’s face instantaneously, “I was talking on the blog the other day about my ‘Fifteen Thoughts On…’ posts, after the ones I did on Fifty Shades Of Grey and 365 DNI. I don’t know if you fancy finding another similar movie of sorts to watch?”. Oh, bad me, very bad me, combining work and pleasure. Still…
So in the name of corrupting my internet search history, I did a search for ‘kinky movies’.
“What about Mr & Mrs Smith?” I suggested. Okay, it’s not strictly a kinky movie, but fuck it, I love that film. It’s incredibly sexy too, and I definitely love playing rough. If your relationship doesn’t make your heart thump, you need to ask yourself why not.
Nope, apparently we’ve seen that film too many times. Sigh.
A lot of the movies were quite old and quite a few of them were psychological thriller/horror types, too. A lot were French, which surprised me. I set my sights upon Tie Me Up, Time Me Down! originally, perhaps the sort of original 365 DNI. Matt wasn’t feeling that one either, so we opted for Duke of Burgundy instead.
“I love you, as long as I’m used” is whispered in the trailer. Oh, hey…
I tried not to make eye contact with him, maybe I licked lips or some other small gesture, but we ignited something that neither of us had had agreed on before.
“You know, if we can’t agree on a movie to watch…” I mumbled, my lips mere centimetres from his own. Of course I wasn’t serious, it was all play, pure and simply. His returning kiss, however, was one of seriousness, intent, desire. Oh hey, part deux.
“Mr S,” I scolded playfully, “we’re doing date night the wrong way around. I thought dinner comes first?”
We woke closer to 10PM again, and dinner consisted only of garlic bread and a plateful of bolognese, followed by a still-pretty-frozen tiramisu. Instead of a movie, Matt put on a documentary about Amy Winehouse, though to be honest, I wasn’t really watching it.
If a girl is allowed an opinion here, then I don’t consider Amy Winehouse to be talented. She was troubled from a young age and she was glorified, even her calls for help were glorified, and that’s nothing to celebrate. She had undeniable skills in writing out her pains but that should have been recognised and listened to, not recorded and exploited. Perhaps, growing up on a council estate, I grew up with a number of young people who could (or would) later go on to consider themselves talented too, and none of them really were. I grew up with children sniffing glue atop electricity boxes and others drinking cider in the streets. I had boys living on my street who could score a goal one after the other and right outside of my gate, but not one of them went on to be considered as rivals for David Beckham or Harry Kane. Amy was a girl in need of help, who we may never have even come to know had she fallen into the right hands instead of the wrong ones.
If I can have another opinion here, then her voice really, really grated on me. When it comes to female voices, I prefer Shakira, Leanne Rimes and Trisha Yearwood (so much Trisha Yearwood!). If we’re talking Amy’s, then give me Amy Studt over Amy Winehouse, any day. For me, “Just A Little Girl” was symbolic and meaningful in my relationship with my mother, of her doubts of me and wants for me. When it came to “Misfit”, it was just in the prime of my secondary school years, and I was very much the misfit back then. Misfit became my song, my anthem, my theme. I learned to own myself, to stand out and be proud of who I am. I learned that it’s okay to be me and to not conform, and that same non-conformity and well-mannered identity was what got me noticed in the end. People wanted to know me, people were interested in what I thought and what I had to say. Slowly and surely, it got me more towards where I wanted to be. When I jump on trends today, it’s typically by accident, rather than by design. It’s because I see its benefits for me, not just because it looks cool. Perhaps paradoxically, when many people at school were listening to Amy Winehouse, I was the misfit listening to Amy Studt. How’s that for a paradigm?
At 2AM, I slinked off back to bed. I couldn’t do any more Amy WInehouse, I couldn’t glorify her and applaud her successes when I didn’t consider her to be successful. She was a victim, and I refused to be complacent in that. Instead, I opted for my earphones and more back-to-back Youtube shorts.
“I thought you’d be asleep by now” Matt said as he came into the bedroom. Why, what time is it?
Holy shit, it’s 4.24AM!
“I am, see?” I replied, sliding my earphones under my pillow and resting my head. When we closed the bedroom lights off, the room was still partially light. We giggled like kids at a sleepover, then finally settled down.
“Is it late, or is it early right now, if we didn’t sleep yet?” I wondered aloud.
“It’s early” he said, matter-of-factly.
“What time to do we give up and decide it’s time to get up? Should I set an alarm for that time?” I continued.
“No, you should go to sleep.”
“Say we don’t sleep?”. By now, I was positively beaming from ear-to-ear.
“Go. To. Sleep!”