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No More Mr Nice Guy

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A couple of years ago, I wrote a blog post about Nice Guy submissives. The Nice Guys of OK Cupid public humiliation blog has recently brought the “Nice Guy” back to the forefront of some internet discussions, and I’ve seen many an online debate in the past week about exactly why Nice Guys are not nice guys. In short, it comes down to the same thing that most things in BDSM (and relationships in general) do: the enthusiastic consent of all parties involved.

Now I’m not talking about actual nice guys here, but “Nice Guys”. We’ve all met them. We might have been one at one time or another. You might even be one right now without realising it. There has been a lot of confusion over exactly how one would define a Nice Guy as opposed to a nice guy. Here’s a simple way to differentiate:

If the woman you desire as a girlfriend, dominatrix or full-time amateur therapist has specified that she just wants to be friends, nothing more intimate, intense or physical, is this because:

a: she doesn’t fancy you, want BDSM play with you or want to give every bit of her attention to you and, although you might find this painful, you will respect her choices, accept the offer of friendship or move on? 

b: you’re obviously too nice, and she’s just a vindictive, bastard-loving idiot like all women/dommes/humans and therefore ignores nice guys, and anyway, why the hell doesn’t she value your 200 text messages a day telling her how important she is to you and therefore reply to every single one in detail (even if she won’t give you any of the sexy playtime that you clearly deserve for having to put up with her friendship) and if you sulk just enough and express quiet resentment at any attention she gives her other people in her life she will probably change her mind eventually and realise she needs nobody at all except a nice guy like YOU, the stupid bitch?

If you answered a, you’re a nice guy. This is a good thing. If you answered b, you’re a Nice Guy. This is not a good thing.

I’m sure most of us, at some point, have wanted something we couldn’t have. Rejection hurts, but it’s up to all of us not to be an arse about it. I would strongly recommend that you read this brilliantly sympathetic blog post by Girl On The Net about what to do if you think you might be, have been, or know a Nice Guy. Click here to read “On nice guys, hard truths, and the Friend Zone”.

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It’s been a while, but we’re filming again… Click on my Clips4Sale site for videos, old and brand new. (More specifically, click on it to watch Ms Nikki and I having a giggly swordfight last week with a pair of strap-ons whilst making lightsaber noises. Yes. This is what we do in our spare time.)

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She has never held a gun before. It is heavier than she had imagined it would be. The pistol’s grip is still warm from his hand. She wonders how easy it would be to pull the trigger, and if this would cause it to fire. In films, characters sometimes flick down the hammer with a firm, confident clack-click before they shoot anyone. She is not sure whether she is supposed to cock the gun like this, or even if the safety catch is still on. In all honesty, she doesn’t know where the safety catch is.

Despite this, she shows nothing. Her brows are locked, eyes unblinking, watching the back of his head. The orange street light turns his hair to amber, to threads of dripping tree sap. If she fired the gun, she imagined that his head would be sticky to the touch, skull broken like a boiled egg. The pavement is wet. He is kneeling, fingers knotted together behind his neck, just as she has instructed. He is shaking. There are words coming out of his mouth, muttered, sobbed, whispered. Perhaps he is praying.

It occurs to her now that it is not a gun at all. It is just her two fingers, held out in the shape of a pistol. Her weapon is mimed. He knows this too, yet perhaps he has forgotten, just as she did.

We play-act. It’s what we do when we take our roles in a scene. There were games we played as children when, just for a moment, the monsters were real, the cupboard actually was a portal to another universe, and if we stepped off the ledge we just might fly. Actors sometimes lose themselves, albeit temporarily, in the characters they play. When a fantasy becomes so vivid that you feel it solidifying around you, like frost forming into patterns on a window, then you know that it must be a good one.

She presses the tips of her loaded fingers into the back of his head and tells him that she loves him.

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