Chapter 22: Reaping a Dark Harvest

Many players have healthy romantic relationships. But my situation was different, due to the intense physical abuse that birthed my fetish. I had never forgiven my father, never found healing

Dad with Edsel. My father, Earl G. Denlinger, stands beside his Edsel automobile as a young man. When I first discovered this photo in Los Angeles, I was fascinated. His energy, his youthfulness, was something I had never seen before. Photo sourced from family archives.

I recall one disturbing conversation I had had with a girlfriend in the decade that followed London. She was a fervent evangelical Christian, and she truly loved me. I was still uncertain.

Marriage was much on her mind.

During one intense makeout session, I finally whispered in her ear my greatest fantasy, that I wanted to spank her. I could see the idea excited her, and she told me that for her birthday, she would submit to a “real spanking.” She knew what they were, since she had been punished as a child, as well.

What made it even more twisted, and thus even more spicy, was her faith. If we got married, she believed her marital role required that she submit to me in real life. But ultimately, this brought up questions impossible to resolve.

One day, several months into our relationship, as we were driving toward the restaurant where we would meet friends, she brought up a troubling question.

“I don’t understand how I am supposed to please you,” she said softly. “You tell me we are equal, yet you want me to submit to you in the bedroom. I’m not an intellectual like you. How do I know when I’m supposed to submit and when I’m not?”

I couldn’t explain.

#

I was not the only child in America who was physically abused, who has struggled to understand and overcome its varied impacts. Much has been written over the last decade about the use of corporal punishment in America on defenseless children. The evidence is damning, especially the memoirs now being published by exvangelical writers. Children are still being beaten severely, and all in the name of God.

But at that point, I was still struggling to understand.

What I was playing with were the unprocessed memories and experiences of my past abuse, combined with the erotic literature I had discovered in my formative years. All this had found its way to the surface of my consciousness through the fetish I had developed as a child—starting with the spanking games I played as a child.

To non-players, this seems insane. But for those on the inside, it makes complete emotional sense. Good sex for me was linked to past memories in which I had been punished severely, in which I had no autonomy. In the sexual prime of my life, I was playing out this tableau again and again through traumatic repetition.

Many players have healthy romantic relationships. But my situation was different, due to the intense physical abuse that birthed my fetish. I had never forgiven my father, never found healing. Like the Ringwraiths of Tolkien's world who failed to understand the enslavement of the rings they were given, I failed to realize that each time I entered into the dark world created by my imagination and memories, I lost more of my ability to truly love a woman.

For years, I had criticized my father for the way his severe punishments had destroyed our relationship. Yet ironically, I was doing the same to every romantic relationship I entered. Even at play, even with explicit consent, my choice to objectify women diminished my ability to love anyone. The realistic punishments my partners and I explored—even though only played with consent—destroyed for us any chance of true love.

I didn’t understand this. Instead, I found these dark romances to be the best sex I had ever had. It was exciting.

And it damned me.

#

I met Enyo during that third summer of study at Bread Loaf. Within hours of arriving on campus, I caught a glimpse of her willowy figure. A native of Canada, she taught during the school year at an independent school in Santiago, Chili.

Spotting her at a keg party that night, I set out to meet her. She was alone when I approached holding a craft beer in each hand. She pulled her long black hair away from her face with a graceful sweep, pushed aside the drink I offered her, and commandeered my own half-drunk pint. Eying me, she handed it back, licking the edge of her lips.

Then she took my original offering.

In her eyes was a dark essence, a primal something that contrasted sharply with the elegance of her flirty, little black dress. It was the briefest of glances, but it was enough for me to glimpse the furious blend of passion and artistry that defined her.