On Shattering: Sessions Obervations from an Anthropologist

There’s something about the *crispness* of fall that sends my body swirling back into memory, into nostalgia. Though I haven’t been enrolled in academia in years, I am suddenly attuned to the energetic rush of Back To School season; the sweet and opiate laziness of summer has ended and it’s time to get to Work.

While cleaning out my inbox on September 2nd, I came across some notes from my friend Meredith Talbot, a PhD student who observed select sessions of mine from 2022-2023. The following is a snippet from one of my most intense sessions she had ever observed (and one of the most intense sessions I’ve ever performed):

"When you hide, you're making a choice," she declares. "Think about all the wasted time you spent hiding. A whole decade." With that she lands a firm punch on his chest, and he yelps in shock and pain. She punches again, continues punching. His arms fly up to grab her fists to stop her, but she shirks him off and keeps going. He's gasping for air. "I need a second please!" His breathing is erratic, aggravated, scared. She does not give in, but instead punches him again. "You're angry at women," she insists, evenly. The punch lands.

"I'm angry at situations!" he screams. He is no longer dissociating. He is here, with her. She continues to punch as his body amps up his resistance, his arms flailing to stop her, his whispers of no swelling into desperate, screaming pleas for her to stop. But she keeps her cool, showing no sign of reaction. She is punching rhythmically now. "I know this is intense, but we are going to keep going until something comes out." 

And then, he breaks. 

He starts to sob, and his sobs become wails, his chest heaving, his head violently shaking no. She continues to hit him steadily on his chest. She is planted on him, like a weight stopping a balloon from being swept away into the sky. After a few minutes he starts soothing himself, calming down, and she dares him to keep going. “Do not stop until everything is out,” she instructs. She starts hitting him again and the cries resume, now with even more anguish. 

 "It's been there for a long time," she tells him. He wails in agreement, “so long!” His sobs are desperate, guttural. He starts begging her to stop. “Don't don't don't don't DON’T," he screams, but she keeps punching, seemingly unmoved by his hysterics. He grasps at her wrists firmly, but she shakes them off again, explaining calmly, "I know this is intense, but I have to keep going." She keeps hitting him over and over for so long, too long, until his wails pour out freely. It is only when he starts whistling, gagging, weeping, calling out "Oh God, oh God" does she at last stop and let him cry. He starts to cry like I don’t know if I have ever seen someone cry. For a while, as he cries she sighs with him. Each time he lets out a wail, she sighs just as loud, forcing the air and energy out of her body with him, in sync. As this continues, I realize something perverse is happening. These are not only sighs of empathy but of arousal. She is moaning in pleasure as he weeps, groaning “oh fuck” against backdrop of his descent into self-annihilation. 

Minutes go by, 5 minutes, 7, 10, and she stays on him, clutching his chest and securing his torso with her thighs, protecting him from completely spilling out. I have never seen someone cry this hard for this long, not least of all in front of someone ese. I marvel at Mistress X’s resilience; her refusal to intervene, to placate, to play it safe. 

Eventually she leans down to embrace him, resting her head on his chest as he sobs with a frightening fullness of being. She does not soothe him or ease his pain, but merely waits with a tremendous capacity for risk. The scene is horrifying, like watching a car crash. I am reminded of Mistress X’s fondness for car crashes. 

After more than 15 minutes have passed, his crying slowly starts to soften. She leans down and they’re clutching each other now, hugging, while he cries into her shoulder -- earnestly, though no longer hysterically. She does not shush him or soothe him. She holds space for him, remaining present and open, but firm. Eventually his cries fade and they breathe together for a long time, their bodies heaving up and down in unison. A whisper into his ear. “That’s it, that’s it.” 

I am in awe of how unafraid Mistress X is to be in this with him. To let it affect her. To affect him. To risk it all going so wrong and leading to pain -- for any of us.

His breath slowly – so, so slowly -- returns to normal.

Returning to these notes I am reminded of all the times I have guided someone towards their shattering, a moment of intense release and letting go of Who You Know Yourself To Be. What a gift it is to pull someone towards a cliff, and to dangle with them. I get to be shattered in return.

I am forever grateful for this submissive’s trust. As we barrel towards autumn, I am calling for more sessions that have a resonant intensity. A series of multihour sessions that build slow trust and end with both of us in tears. Physical and emotional sadomasochism at its peak, with a deep love and understanding at the foundation of it all.

If this sounds like you, apply within.