Failure
The limits of sexual roles
To make bread, you must first make dough. The recipe calls for 500g of strong white flour, 7g of quick-action yeast and 2 teaspoons of salt, mixed with water and olive oil. The yeast is key - a collection of single-celled organisms that are spurred into action during the process known as “proving”. If done correctly, the yeast comes alive and the dough expands to double its original size. If done incorrectly, the dough becomes sluggish and dense.
I made bread this week, the day after I was signed off work for stress. It was something to do with my hands that did not involve my brain at all; a rhythmic, slow task that could consume me for several hours. Despite its promise of simplicity, I mistimed the process, and the dough was sluggish to prove. The single-celled organisms had been confused by me putting them on top of the boiler, and then in the fridge, and then on the warm stove. The recipe had called for a specific sequence to be followed, and I had failed.
Failure comes in many forms: there are small failures, like my bread, and there interpersonal failures, where one party acts poorly or selfishly, and career failures, where you fuck up a task or role you were trusted to complete. There are also moral failures, where your actions do not align with your values - for example, buying boycotted brands because they’re more convenient, or ordering from Amazon despite knowing about their inhumane warehouse conditions. We all fail in these ways with stunning regularity. Failure is the gap between the person you are expected to be and the person you actually are.
The gap between the expected version of yourself and the real version is particularly potent in sexual failure, partially because there is often a witness to compound the humiliation, and partially because of what our sexual prowess - or lack of it - signifies. When I mess up making bread in my own kitchen, the only person who knows I have failed at a simple task is me: the role I am performing is the breadmaker, and I am the only witness to my failure to do it properly.
During sex, the role I most often perform is the submissive gay bottom, and this role requires someone to witness my submission. This person (the dominant) takes the role of both spectator and director, and when we both perform our roles, we develop a kink dynamic of power and control. A degree of performative failure can be folded into the submissive role through the expectation of punishment, such as receiving a spanking as discipline for not being deferential enough to the dominant. Often, the dominant hopes for this failure to occur so they can enact a display of control, and there is a sense of disappointment if the submissive performs a bit too well and there is no justification to bring them in line.
Complete failure, however, is a disruptor. If one party does not perform their role adequately, the other cannot fulfil theirs, and the dynamic collapses. Over the past year, I have progressively been failing at the submissive role I previously played with ease - where before I had enjoyed scenes of physical humiliation and following demands, I now felt a pit of dread in my stomach at the thought of exposure and degradation. Something in me changed and I could not perform my role any more, causing the complete failure of previously established kink dynamics. The thrilling catharsis I had previously enjoyed in humiliation failed to materialise, and the humiliation felt simply humiliating.
Failure to perform a role that was previously felt natural invariably brings an identity crisis, casting shadows of doubt onto who you are and why you have changed. There is a gap between your previous expectations of yourself and your new, changing desires, combined with a fear of what it means for the relationships founded on who you previously were. The roles we play form the web of social relationships we exist in, both during kink and outside of it, and to fail at your role places these relationships in jeopardy. The people in your life must decide whether they can adapt to your new identity amidst the knock-on effect on their own. In my case, it placed my previously dominant/submissive dynamic at risk - without someone willing to submit, the dominant role cannot work, as they are no longer dominating anything. His identity had to be reformed alongside my own.
My identity crisis eventually subsided, and I was left with a newfound clarity about who I am and what I want. The events of the past two years have changed me foundationally, as all enormous life events must do - my dad died, I moved cities, changed careers, and fell in love. To expect my desires to remain static amidst this was always a project doomed to failure; my roles in every other part of my life have changed, and so too must my sexual role.
I recently wrote that I am beginning to feel like a whole person for the first time in my life, and that the parts of myself that had previously been isolated are rejoining. Perhaps failure is a necessary part of change, and the abandonment of strict roles is a necessary part of viewing myself as this new, whole person. The desire for a single, unchanging identity often stems from fear of the unknown, and who you will be in that unknown, whereas change requires trust both in yourself and others.
I am going to make bread again next week. This time, I will plan it correctly, and it will prove as it’s meant to. My hands will push and shape the dough, reforming and remaking it into something wholly new. I will put it in the oven and it will come out light and textured, rather than dense and compact, and I will take it to my friends’ to share over dinner. My previous failure has shown me what needs to change, and what matters. Perhaps every failure is a step towards getting what we want.
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