Kinky and Squeamish: an uneasy combination

I am possibly one of the most squeamish people you will ever meet. I mean, ridiculously so. My tolerance for the gory and the gross is zero.

I adore animals, but I could never be a pet owner. Why? Because I couldn't handle the icky side of pet ownership -- the poop, the vomit, the pet illnesses, the inevitable wounds.

I can't even stand the sight of blood when it's fake. Wanna torture me? Prop my eyelids open and make me watch The Walking Dead. Or any of the Saw movies. Even one of my all-time favorite shows, Weeds, freaked me out once. There was an episode where a DEA agent was tortured for information with a circular saw. I had nightmares for two nights after seeing that.

Same thing with sophomoric comedies where vomit and scat humor are prevalent. Yeah, I know the vomit is fake. I don't care. I cannot watch it.

So what's my point? It's hard enough getting through day-to-day vanilla life when you're this squeamish and weak-stomached. But when you throw in the world of kink, that's even more of a challenge.

John often says that, in the overall scale of things, most people would consider me an extreme player. I disagree with him. How can anyone with a terror of blood and broken skin be extreme?

I think (no, I know) I sometimes come off as judgmental of harsh scenes. I really don't mean to. It's more a visceral reaction than a cerebral judgment. I can know in my head that the scene is consensual, that the bottom wants exactly what he or she is getting. But my gut freaks out.

This one of the many reasons why I'm a terrible fit for dungeon gatherings and more hardcore BDSM parties. I never know what I'm going to see, and what's going to set me off. And my reactions are considered rude and unwelcome. Example: many years ago, John and I were at a BDSM club party called Proscenium, which was held at a filming studio with two floors and many rooms. While wandering about, I could see that one room off to the side had a large crowd gathered, so I walked in. At the front of the room, an M/M scene was going on (no, that is not the part that upset me). A man was shackled naked to a St. Andrew's cross, and another man was behind him, throwing full-arm whip strokes at him. The man being beaten looked like something you'd see hanging in a slaughterhouse; all I saw was blood.

My reaction was instant -- I screamed, clapped my hands over my mouth and ran from the room. John, who had been behind me, stayed in there and apologized for me. Apparently, people were really pissed off and offended. But I couldn't help it.

So, from then on, the rule at this party with John and a couple of our friends was: "Scope out the rooms first and make sure they're safe for Erica." How embarrassing. The next time we were there, there was a heavy-duty piercing scene happening in one of the downstairs rooms, so I was kept upstairs for most of the evening, and told that if I went downstairs, I should NOT open the closed door that was just off the lobby area.

I did go downstairs later in the evening; I don't remember why. I did stay away from the closed door. But then, the door opened, and a man walked out. He had nothing on but a thong, and his entire torso was awash with blood. I looked over at him, and I must have gone as white as a sheet. I froze to the spot, my hands over my mouth. The man then came over to me. "Are you all right?" Oh, my god. I frantically shook my head, backed away and sat down heavily in a chair. He then came closer and said, "Would you like some water?" Aaaaaggggh! Finally, fighting my gag reflex, I blurted, "No... no thank you... just, please, go away!" He backed off. I know he was trying to be nice. He honestly had no clue how much the sight of him was upsetting me.

Fortunately for me, there is little risk of seeing anything close to this at a spanking party. On a rare occasion, I've seen bottoms with broken skin. When that happens, I need to go elsewhere. The last time I saw it, it was someone I really like, and I was nearly in tears. She, of course, was perfectly fine and happy as could be. I had to keep reminding myself, "She wants it, she wants it, she wants it."

FetLife can also be a minefield for someone like me. Pictures will come across my "feed" and I will fervently wish that I could unsee them. The people who post them are proud of them, and I get that. I'm proud of my photos too. Still, my inner squeamish self is disturbed. Recently, I saw a pic of a woman's bottom that had been beaten with a meat tenderizer hammer. Blood everywhere. Was it consensual? Yup. I don't get to say a word, and I wouldn't. I don't comment on these photos; I know I don't have the right. But they do upset me, purely because of the extent of the skin damage and gore.

Just about a week or so ago, a friend "loved" a photo on Fet and the thumbnail of it looked intriguing. It seemed to be some sort of colorful artwork, a mosaic or something like that. So I clicked on it.

Turned out it was a very artistic piercing, with dozens of syringes that had multi-colored heads on them, creating a pretty design. On the flesh of a woman's back.

Need I mention that I'm scared of needles and sharp objects too? When I was small, blood tests with a finger stick made me scream and cry. But when I had my first blood draw from a vein in my arm, I fainted. Literally passed out cold.

So, when I saw this photo, a part of me could appreciate the intricate artiness of it. However, my stomach still roiled and nausea rose, and my mind screamed "Nononotakeitawaytakeitawaymakeitstop!!!"

Ugh. Like I said, it's not easy being a big squeamish baby in the world of kink.

Sometimes I wish photos came with a warning, like NSFW (Not Safe For Work). In other words, don't look at this when you're on your work computer. Only for me, it would be "Not Safe For Erica." 

Please bear with me, kids. It's not about judgment, it's about my own fears and extreme squeamishness. I don't like being this way, but it's lifelong and I doubt it's going away. So I live with it as best I can. You can tease me about it, it's OK. But please don't get mad at me, because I don't mean it, and it's me, not you. :-)

Do I have any fellow fraidy-cats with weak guts?