once believed that, apart from Amazon warehouses, I had the most BDSM tools .I ordered two rows of stainless steel shelves for my living room to display my samples and goods, making it look like an adult toy store. The good thing was that my parents no longer invited anyone over; the downside was that the water delivery guys kept changing, as they were reluctant to come back and be in the same room with a “female pervert” like me.
On the shelves, there were six kinds of lubricants, from heating ones to cherry-flavored; over thirty different small toys for women, ranging from sword-shaped to lipstick and high-heel-shaped ones; fifty various candles and a dozen colorings and fragrances; three types of tails – bunny, fox, and dog; and several ten-piece sets that, once unpacked, were like puzzles I couldn’t put back together.
The most thrilling moment came when a factory owner from Guangdong, specializing in realistic silicone dolls, reached out to me, enthusiastically offering me a doll for free despite its high production cost.
He sent me pictures of the production process: these dolls were incredibly detailed, with movable joints and silicone that mimicked the texture of real skin, even custom-made to match photos provided in the orders.
If I accepted the doll, it would not only mean accommodating a 40kg “sister” but also giving her a prominent place in my bedroom, where she would gaze at me gently as I slept.
I shuddered and quickly dismissed the idea.
02
My joy in the Q趣 kingdom came to an abrupt end.
I had to go to the U.S. for school, and I might directly move to a major city after graduation. The tools and toys, displayed like medals of honor, would neither serve my retired parents nor help with their high blood pressure once I left.
Just like when I was about to leave home, my friend handed me ten boxes of condoms that had to be taken off the shelves due to policy changes, I gave away all my latest tools.
Parting with these items was different from parting with other things; it was bittersweet. Whether it hinted at my inability to use up these condoms before their expiration or the lack of opportunity to showcase my skills after moving far away, it all painted a picture of fading enthusiasm.
After that, my luxurious tool collection was completely reset.
I only took a woven bag with four wheels, carrying the most basic essentials, and moved into an apartment in downtown Chicago.
On my first night, I used my down jacket as a mattress and slept on the carpet because there was no furniture.
Americans have a peculiar approach to housing: they equip kitchens with high-end, gleaming, giant appliances, which would be considered luxury in China, but they don’t provide any ceiling lights or furniture, leaving the place bare.
Buying a bed, some tables and chairs, and paying the deposit almost drained all my savings.
To save on shipping time, I ordered the smallest bed frame and mattress from two different platforms, resulting in a 5cm discrepancy. I often found myself crashing to the floor due to the mattress collapsing from my movements.
One night, as I woke up from another fall, a beam of moonlight reflected off the glass facade of a nearby skyscraper, illuminating my empty apartment.
I sat up in the scattered bed frame, almost hallucinating: those two rows of indestructible stainless steel shelves should be here, standing guard with all my pride, shining brightly in the night.
When I checked my phone, I saw news about a Chinese student at the University of Chicago being shot five kilometers away, sending a chill down my spine.
I missed my tools. If I were bound and restrained, I might forget the fear induced by the constant sirens in this unfamiliar world outside the window.
03
In Chicago, walking alone became dangerous.
The danger created by BDSM seemed like a luxurious sweetness compared to real danger.
Someone might cause you pain, but they would stop; your lips might be silenced, but you knew their hold would only last for the night; your eyes might be blindfolded, but removing the mask would bring back the light.
A local guy, hearing about my collapsing bed, decided to drive over and bring some nails to fix it.
After we finished, we sat on the carpet, panting.
I opened my phone and checked what the BDSM community was like overseas.
It seemed everyone was diligently studying and working out, with no boastful displays of hotel rooms filled with tools.
I joked with him: I, the lustful girl, master of tricks, BDSM reviewer, owner of a mountain of tools, now had spent all my savings and could only afford a shaky, narrow single bed. This bed, which kept collapsing, set the limit for my bedroom activities – just turning over while sleeping.
He was excited and asked if I really came from the BDSM community.
I, equally excited, pounded my chest and said: If there were a competition for sexual tricks, with my years of research, I’d definitely take first place! Just because of my professionalism!
Suddenly, I felt a sense of loss. When I wanted to boast about my proudest skills, I had nothing left to prove them. I couldn’t show the four-color gradient candles I made, the cute curve of the ruler I developed, my keen eye for choosing flattering lingerie, or the fact that I had contributed to many popular products.
Sitting on the shabby carpet, I described my once-shining tools to him, as if telling a tall tale.
“Would you believe I’m a skilled, lately more S-leaning switch?”
I couldn’t afford many floor lamps for lighting; only the kitchen’s faint light reached the living room. He watched me, both comical and pitiful, struggling to keep up with my torrent of words, his eyes shining brightly, nodding.
04
In this bare, destitute state, I missed my little tools.
The tool I missed most wasn’t the grand, exquisite leather case with its row of Italian leather whips, but a set of candles I made myself. Although this set of candles had only been tested on my own arm, the feeling of the haze-colored wax peeling off the skin was immensely satisfying.
The grand tool case was too cumbersome to take out, so it remained unused; but that slowly solidifying candle truly belonged to me.
I remembered a viral short video where an S meticulously edited clips of making a full set of flashy tools and a luxurious playroom, gaining some fame.
Everyone thought it was so cool, that a top-tier S should have lots of top-tier tools.
Nice tools are great, but does BDSM become a game only for the rich? To prove oneself as a good S, does one first need to spend a lot on equipment?
But the true definition of an S is a sadist, not a torturer relying on instruments. If a person’s entire aura depends on external items, their essence remains thin and barren.
Without the aid of whips, candles, and shackles, what truly internalized skills support us in continuing to be a good S?
My favorite two plays were inspired by daily life:
One is using a lipstick match to write a stroke on the body with each spank, until gathering five “福” characters.
Another is a makeshift restraint tool, using the belt from a bathrobe, fluffy, long, sturdy, and comfortable, for tying ankles in a spread-legged position by looping it from behind the neck.
My favorite practical inventions are the “S Self-Assessment Form” and the “BDSM Partner Due Diligence Checklist,” both genuinely fun and useful creations.
Even with nothing left, I still have psychological control, inventiveness, resourcefulness, and rhythm control.
05
The guy who brought me nails visited often, allowing me to safely venture into the snowy streets to buy food and toilet paper.
He liked lying on the carpet, enjoyed pain, and asked if I could be his S.
I took out a notebook and seriously inquired about his preferences, taboos, expectations, and safe words.
I still had no tools, but I believed I could make him happy. Even with nothing, I still had a serious attitude, patience and experience, nimble fingers, a fierce little pinch, and every possible effective position.
Chicago always had heavy snow, the wind blowing the flakes into horizontal or even upward spirals.
In his car, I felt safe; under me, he felt safe. The artificially created danger became a way to keep warm.
Just like how you see who’s swimming naked when the tide goes out; when tools aren’t used, what’s left in the game faithfully reflects its true essence.
Without the support of tools, someone who understands the principles, has creativity and hands-on skills, can still be a good S.
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