Daily-Dose

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From New Yorker

From Vox

“I’m not worried about that,” I choked. “I’m worried that I won’t love him.”

I bit my lip and looked away. I’d said too much. She patted my arm and walked off to join the crowd.

I was still reeling from the speed with which I’d arrived in a dungeon to learn about how to cause pain. That spring, my husband of 20 years turned 50 and decided he wanted to experiment with BDSM — bondage, dominance, sadism, and masochism — and he wanted me to join him. He hadn’t had much in the way of paying work for nearly a decade and was clearly unhappy; he seemed to be looking for something more than what was in his daily orbit. I wasn’t into bondage — our sex life had been mutually satisfying for a long time, or so I’d thought — but I loved the guy and was deeply invested in our marriage. I wanted to help him feel happier. I thought, “What could it hurt?”

Never one to do things by halves, within days of declaring his newfound passion, he had befriended a thriving community of kinky people online and off. He was soon attending dungeon parties and dragging me along to meet- and-greets with people who identified as masters and slaves, dominants and submissives. He gave me books and pamphlets on how to be a dominatrix, and he pushed me to dress “sexier” than just garters and heels. We attended lectures and socials where people routinely showed up in dog collars, their leashes held by their partners. My husband watched them hungrily.

His appetite for kink became a 24-hour obsession. He ordered improbable shoes over the internet and insisted that I wear them. When I complained that wearing six-inch black faux-patent-leather stilettos with multiple buckles up past the ankles made it impossible to stand, he suggested I kneel in them instead. The same went for the skin-tight plastic mini-dress and the red brocade corset. Practicalities like being able to stand and breathe were beside the point.

I worried about our finances; most of the stuff wasn’t expensive in itself, but the purchases were adding up. “Maybe you could get some kind of job,” I said, and handed him the credit card statement that had come in the mail at the same time as the latest shipment of fetish wear. “How are we going to pay for all this?”

“It’s fine,” he said, handing the bill back to me. “Just pay the minimums. It’s all research. I’m going to write a blog about my journey so I can expense all of this stuff.”

I tried to explain that deducting a leopard-print catsuit off our taxes wasn’t going to do much to address our thousands of dollars in credit card debt, but he waved away my concerns.

It didn’t matter to him that I already owned boudoir wear that made me feel good. These new outfits were what he got off on now, and the fact that they didn’t make me feel pretty or loved or anything else positive was beside the point. I wasn’t interested in looking like my husband’s increasingly exaggerated idea of attractive, and he wasn’t interested in intimacy, touch, or plain old nakedness. He had changed the rules and I couldn’t keep up. Seemingly overnight, sex happened as part of a kinky “scene” — which meant one or the other or both of us dressing in tight outfits and heavy makeup and acting out some sort of fantasy role- playing session — or not at all. There was less and less of myself in our connection and more and more demands. But I stayed.

Staying played into my myth. I was the strong one. I could hold our marriage together — physically, financially, emotionally — in the face of whatever came our way. Friends and family expressed concern and alarm, but I was loyal to what I believed to be important. “Staying married” meant I won, I beat the odds, I didn’t fail at this. Staying was my own form of masochism — just without the kinky accoutrements.

That summer, we went to our first Ladies’ Night at a dungeon on Folsom Street in San Francisco. About once a month, the underground space hosted an event that was only for female-identifying doms and their subs of any gender. There were lessons in how to be a dominatrix, but the apex of the event was a round robin of subs and doms rotating through partners every few minutes, and my husband was quivering with excitement to participate.

I was quivering, but not with excitement. The dungeon made me nauseated, and I was feeling horribly guilty that I could no longer say “I love you” to my husband, especially when he demanded I do so as part of a “scene.” Maybe the love was already gone and I hadn’t seen it leave.

But I couldn’t let myself think about that. I had new skills to master. There I was at the dungeon, learning how and where to hit safely, what kinds of tools to use, and how to stop when your sub uses the safe word. I put on my pointy black snakeskin boots and a corset that pushed my boobs up to my chin and, from my now 6-foot height, stalked around like I owned the place. My fellow doms at the dungeon complimented my getup and called me a “badass,” noting my increasing ability to appropriately administer pain. I wasn’t immune to the praise. I’m a pleaser; I liked being good at my appointed role. I began to feel as though maybe I could pull this off. Ladies’ Night for us became a regular thing.

We went to the Folsom Street Fair, too, an adults-only kink-fest that takes over several blocks of Folsom one weekend every September. When we got behind the entrance barricades keeping out the underaged, my husband told me he was signed up to be a volunteer in the spanking exhibit. Even though it was barely noon, I had two quick beers to help me ride out the weirdness of crowds of naked people, leather people, pierced people, and my husband taking off his clothes on a public street and leaning over a sawhorse to receive whacks from a burly guy in a hood, a jockstrap, and nothing else.

A few beers later, we staggered into the crowds around the tents selling fetish wares: boned corsets, handmade fetters, masks made of leather and fur. My husband picked up a short, many-tailed whip made of braided black suede and smacked the ends into his palm.

“This one,” he said, “it’s only $65,” and looked at me to pay for it.

The shop’s owner said, “Ooh, the cat o’nine tails, good choice. I can tie knots in the tails for some extra sting if you like that,” and my husband’s eyes lit up. I handed over my credit card. I was a woman of the world; I could do anything.

Eventually, though, my own myth-making couldn’t keep up with reality. My love for my husband ebbed lower with each kink session, each purchase, and every fight about our finances. I spent more time wondering what the hell I was still doing there and less time trying to please anybody, least of all my husband.

My lack of enthusiasm seemed to spur him further down his chosen rabbit hole. He dressed up and went to some sort of club or kink event every night without me, and it became clear he was having sex without me, too. That’s when I cracked.

After nearly a year of this kinky experiment, I said, “I’m done. I want a divorce.” I felt the truth of that statement go all the way through my body. I realized I didn’t love him anymore, and I felt freer and more at peace than I had been all year.

“You can’t be serious,” he said. “After all this? We can work this out.” Without a shred of irony, he added, “Besides, this Saturday is the last Ladies’ Night of the year. You promised to go with me.”

He looked at me as though I had lost my mind. “I can’t go alone. You promised.”

Setting aside the promises to me he had made and now broken — all that “cleave only unto me” and “death do us part” stuff we’d said 20 years ago, not to mention the recent sex with strangers — I agreed to go. He needed more time to get used to the idea of splitting up. And I am not one to break a promise lightly.

That Saturday night, we changed out of our street clothes at the dungeon’s locker area and headed downstairs. We were early, but there were already plenty of people using the tables, benches, beds, and slings. One woman was tied naked to the 7-foot-tall X-shaped crucifix in the center of the room, her dom prowling around her with a feather. A professional dominatrix who liked to practice on my husband when she didn’t have other customers had her gear set up at a bench, her client bound and bent over on his hands and knees.

Euphoria bubbled up from deep inside me. I was almost giddy at the idea that the clothes, the tools, and the exhibitionist nature of the dungeon would no longer be part of my life. It was my final performance, and I realized I could play it to the hilt.

I handcuffed my husband to a bed, spread- eagle on his face, and told him he’d be sorry. He’d be sorry for the mess he’d made of our relationship. He’d be sorry he killed the love between us. He’d be sorry he’d hurt me. I pulled out the cat o’ nine tails with its wicked little knots and I started laying into him.

I’m a big, strong person. I figured I could hurt him. For a brief moment, the anger I had been sitting on for a year washed over me and I wanted to hurt him. I stood beside the bed and went to town on his shoulders, his ass, the backs of his legs (no kidneys or lower back, that’s bad practice — I was a reluctant dominatrix, not an irresponsible one), first with the suede whip and then with a bamboo rod. He twitched and jerked and moaned, but he didn’t ask me to stop. When my right arm flagged, I switched to my left. When I wanted a different angle, I knelt on the bed and hit the sides of his ribs, the backs of his calves, his upper arms. I used a paddle on each ass cheek and flat against both, first softly and then as hard as I could. His back was purple and white with angry lines and streaks, and his butt was cherry red, and still he didn’t say “stop.”

Finally, I’d had enough. Climbing on top of him, I rammed my knee into his crotch hard enough to make him grunt and leaned over to say in his ear, “Are you sorry?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he sobbed. “That was so good. Do more. Fuck me. I love you. I’m sorry. Stay and do some more now.”

I reached over to unlock the cuffs.

“No,” I said. “I’m done.”

And I was. The only safe word I needed was goodbye.

Allyn Wright is the pseudonym of a writer in California.

Specifically, Afghanistan’s economic collapse means many people, including some members of the Taliban, can’t afford to buy food. In the aftermath of the US withdrawal, many Afghans working as interpreters, aid workers, prosecutors, professors, and journalists suddenly lost their positions and their incomes, and many have been forced into hiding, further hampering their ability to provide even the most basic necessities — blankets, food, fuel, and medicine — for their families.

Freezing temperatures are also forcing families to make the critical choice between food to sustain their families and fuel to keep them warm in the bitter winter months.

“Everywhere we go, we find thousands more people who need help,” said Babar Baloch, a spokesman for the Office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees in Geneva, told the Washington Post earlier this month. “They haven’t been driven from their homes, but they have lost their jobs, they have no savings, and their life systems are in collapse. They are not on our lists, but they come and wait outside the distribution sites, saying, ‘What about us?’”

“Everything is connected. The government has collapsed, people have no salaries, and the economy has gone to zero,” Shahwali Khan, a vendor in Kabul, told the Post. “People can’t afford to buy now, and we can’t afford to sell.”

US policy is helping drive Afghanistan’s humanitarian crisis

Many of Afghanistan’s current problems are intimately connected to the US withdrawal from the country last year, and the Taliban’s ensuing takeover of the central government. Since then, US sanctions and an abrupt end to international aid have wrecked Afghanistan’s economy and sent it spiraling into crisis.

The US and the UN have made some concessions to allow humanitarian aid to operate outside the auspices of the Taliban; the Treasury Department’s Office of Foreign Asset Control (OFAC) granted some licenses to aid groups to operate in Afghanistan without running afoul of of financial restrictions on certain individuals and institutions in the country.

But, as experts have said, it’s not nearly enough to bring the Afghan people anywhere close to the needed aid, and regardless of the OFAC licenses, the Afghan banking system is still essentially held hostage by US sanctions against the Taliban.

“Sanctions are intended to have a chilling effect, in that sanctions will always go beyond the face of the text,” Adam Weinstein, a research fellow with the Quincy Institute for Responsible Statecraft, told the Intercept in December. Banks and businesses don’t want to risk dealing in places or sectors with economic restrictions from the US, for fear that they’ll violate a prohibition and be subject to sanctions themselves, Weinstein explained.

To that end, more than 40 members of the Congressional Progressive Caucus sent a letter to President Joe Biden last month, urging him to release the frozen currency reserves, which belong to the Central Bank of Afghanistan and the Afghan people.

“No increase in food and medical aid can compensate for the macroeconomic harm of soaring prices of basic commodities, a banking collapse, a balance-of-payments crisis, a freeze on civil servants’ salaries, and other severe consequences that are rippling throughout Afghan society, harming the most vulnerable,” the letter warns.

So far, however, no policy shift has been forthcoming. As of earlier this month, the US has pledged an additional $308 million in humanitarian aid to Afghanistan, but the Afghan central bank reserves remain frozen.

While some aid is getting to Afghans via the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (UNOCHA) and the WFP, those organizations often have stringent requirements regarding who qualifies for aid. In a nation on the brink, many who are in desperate need don’t qualify for aid because they don’t fit the program’s focus area or because they’re not poor enough.

And while Afghanistan’s current crisis isn’t wholly caused by external factors — even without sanctions by the US and its allies, the Taliban’s inability to manage the bureaucracy of government would have created issues, as would the pandemic and a severe drought that began in June last year — US actions do play a substantial role.

The chilling effect of sanctions is keeping businesses and banks from actually engaging with the economy. As House Democrats pointed out in their letter last month, relatively simple steps — like issuing letters to international businesses assuring them that they are not violating US sanctions — could help alleviate the crisis and shore up the Afghan private sector, but Treasury has yet to do so.

“Restoring a minimally functioning public sector and stopping Afghanistan’s economic free- fall will require lifting restrictions on ordinary business and easing the prohibition on assistance to or through the government,” Laurel Miller, director of the International Crisis Group’s Asia program, wrote in a New York Times op-ed this month. “Without that, there’s little hope that humanitarian aid can be more than a palliative.”

Humanitarian aid, at least on a large, international scale, doesn’t seem to be forthcoming, either; the UN’s Financial Tracking Service shows less than $29 million of the $4.4 billion needed to keep Afghanistan from disaster has been funded so far.

In the meantime, however, the Taliban will hold talks this coming week with Western nations, including Norway, Britain, the US, Italy, France, and Germany, about humanitarian aid. The talks should not be seen as a legitimization of Taliban rule, Norwegian Foreign Minister Anniken Huitfeldt stressed to AFP on Friday, “but we must talk to the de facto authorities in the country. We cannot allow the political situation to lead to an even worse humanitarian disaster.”

UN Emergency Relief Coordinator Martin Griffiths echoed that sentiment in his initial call for donations last week, saying that unless the Afghan economy can recover and begin to provide for people, the crisis will only worsen.

Without aid, Griffiths said, “next year we’ll be asking for $10 billion.”

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