On Beauty and the Sublime

CW: mention + images of blood below.

The first time I ever put a man’s head in a plastic bag and watched him struggle for enough air to scream, I felt like I had seen God. I was the player administering the asphyxiation, yet I was the one left breathless. My mind tumbled back in time to the first class on aesthetic theory I had ever taken in college, where the professor described the Nietzschean sublime—an artistic effect productive of the strongest emotion the mind is capable of feeling. Nietzsche writes, “whatever is in any sort terrible or is conversant about terrible objects or operates in a manner analogous to terror is a source of the sublime.”

True beauty is haunting. It is not simply that which is seen. It is an experience, varying in volume from a sweet and gentle tenderness to a distortion that shakes you to your core.

The recent shift into Libra season has me reflecting on how I choose to prioritize beauty in the scenes that I do, both personally and professionally. I have led and been led through incredible rituals that allow all of its participants to forget about their egos and all of their insignificant problems. Some beautification rituals have included making my submissives into sculptures or dolls, molding them and crafting them into versions of themselves they have never seen before. Other submissives have allowed me to cut into them and fingerpaint with their blood, carving out indelible snippets of love letters into their skin in the ultimate act of violent romance. Even the struggle of a wrestling session (how do our bodies fit together, how does the sweat slick across your brow) or the devotional structure of a D/s contract can all be relics of beauty.

There is a scene I have this month that I am particularly excited for, in which another femdom and I will use a man’s body to explore different artistic modes and forms. We ask, “What shape and color will these bruises take? Can we make prints from holding your head under inky water and pressing your face against parchment? Can we engage in frottage in both a sexual and artistic context, pressing paper over your welts and coloring over it in charcoal? Can we take save the imprint of your greased hand in nylon after you have blacked our boots.”

Scenes like this make me weak. To be made breathless again and again would be an honor. To apply to participate in one with me,