The fear and the shame

Sex is, to me, an art form. It is my religion, my passion, a guaranteed and reliable path to altered consciousness. This may seem like odd new age bullshit to you. To the people that feel that way, to the people that view the sexual experience as insert tab A into slot B, you might as well check out now. If sex as a path to altered realties sounds like hippie drivel to you, this is not the essay for you.

Right then. Where were we? This is for the people that have stuck around.

I found out years ago how with the right partner under the right circumstances I could lose my fucking mind. This was an incredible revelation. I could literally use sex as an effective tool to lessen and even shut off the pain of existence. Minds. They can be a right pain in the ass most of the time. Are you telling me there are reliable tools and techniques that make me forget my name and see other realities? Why the fuck isn’t everyone doing this all the time??

Because fear. Because guilt. Because shame.

It turns out that people have epic levels of guilt and fear and shame associated with sex. Crippling amounts. All of that shame is a toxic stranglehold that kills what could of been an incredible experience with another human being. Your mind will not let go, it will not shut up. It chatters, it bitches, it floods you in anxiety and paranoia. What a waste of the precious limited time you have been given on this planet! You don’t get back the wasted hours you spent wallowing in fear and guilt.

People remark to me on a fairly consistent basis that I am somehow remarkable or different or inspiring. There is nothing different or remarkable about me except for one very important thing: I just do not give a fuck. I do not. Not even a little bit. I do not carry the baggage of shame or guilt or fear in my sexual experiences.

The not giving a fuck is a game changer. I just let go. I give it my all. I seek drooling oblivion. I seek becoming a Greek God with access to a different, primal universe. I seek to be blasted into levels where I am no longer physically able to sit up any longer. I seek to shut my mind right up. I have the tools, I know the path, I know how to get there.

It is when I try and take others on this journey that I can run into trouble. They panic, they can not let go, the fear creeps in. The shame and guilt pop up to poison the situation. “How do you do it?” they ask “How do you go that far? How do you not freak out?”

Because I simply do not give a fuck. It is just that simple.

None of this might make any sense to you. It might seem like I am talking nonsense. But there are one or two of you out there that just might get it. There is someone out there that will read this, chose to put the shame and fear down and also find that path to the altered realties. And when you are spent and twitching on the floor, eyes glassy, covered in sweat and drool and your mind a blissful beautiful paradise, the pain of day to day existence completely gone, as your brains ever so slowly trickle back into your skull you just might think of me for a moment, watching and wildly approving from the corner. You are welcome. It can be done. Show others and spread the knowledge.

Food for thought my friends. The feast is out there. Go for it.

Rain DeGrey

I love you. I am broken. Please fix me.

From an early age, we are raised on the Hollywood Hallmark myth of love. That amazing perfect person is going to come along, sweep you off your feet and make everything all better. That your soulmate and partner is out there waiting for you and they are going to fix you and save you from yourself.

Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that is a fucking myth.

While you are waiting for that person to come along and fix you, life just keeps chugging along. And here you are, flailing around and broken, waiting for someone to rescue you with love and affection and endless bolstering of your endless issues. What a horrible burden to put on someone else! What a heavy rock you are desperately looking for a pair of shoulders to drop on.

“I love you. I am broken. Please fix me.”

Entering a relationship as a broken bag of issues and expecting your partner to be the magic potion that will fix you all up better is a recipe for disaster. People are not magic potions. A relationship is not going to fix you and make you a more complete person. And when that is the unspoken expectation you are putting on another person, they are guaranteed to disappoint you and fail to fix you in some way. Cue the spiral of unfulfilled expectations and resentment, and you are on to the next relationship. Surely THIS one will be the one to make everything all better! This next one is the one that will do it!!

Here is a crazy thought: Why not try approaching relationships as a healthy and whole person looking for a team mate? Not as someone to save you from yourself. Not as someone to rescue you from depression and trauma, not as a rock or savior that you could not possibly live without or you will shatter into a million tiny pieces, but a companion and an equal.

I guarantee that if you bring a happy and healthy functioning person to the table when it comes to relationships, they are going to go smoother. I guarantee that when you are not looking for another person to save you from yourself you will not find yourself resenting your partner for failing to live up to the unreasonable expectations they didn’t even know they were signing up for.

When you truly love someone, you do not lay your baggage at someone’s feet and expect them to pick it up for you. No, you two carry the baggage TOGETHER while doing your very best to lose that baggage as fast as humanly possible. There is a weight limit on baggage, and too much of it will sink that relationship faster than a leaking boat.

Food for thought my friends.


You are not owed a thing

Right now, I need you to do something for me. Take a minute, a few deep breaths, locate a mirror, look yourself directly in the eyes and repeat after me: “I am not owed a thing.” Say it a few more times if needed until it sinks in. Ok, are you ready now? Here we go.

Privilege is a funny thing. You are not even aware you have it until it is taken away.

And when you are used to the comfort and freedom of privilege, the shock of having it taken away can make people act in odd ways.

Every day in every way, men have privilege. They have the privilege of greater economic power, greater strength, are generally taken more seriously and are more respected, they have greater opportunities.

The privilege of not having to hesitate when it is 11 pm and dark outside and you are all out of milk and need to make a run to the store. The thought “Maybe I should wait until tomorrow when it is safer and light outside” never has to cross their mind.

The privilege of calling up a contractor because you need a roof repair and the contractor doesn’t ask to speak to “The man of the house” or quote you a higher price because you have a vagina.

The privilege of more job opportunities at higher pay.

The privilege of being taken seriously when you go to buy a car.

Every day in every way, men get these privileges and *are not even aware of it.*

And then they get online. And still operating under the privilege they have been graced with their entire life, that they are not even aware they are bathing in, they start emailing women. And here is where a funny thing happens. That privilege gets checked. And they do not handle it well. They start melting down. They are OWED a response, see? They are ENTITLED to a response. That is their privilege talking to them there.

In the real world, on the street, even if a woman is not interested, you can get in her face. You can demand some sort of response, as little and slight as it might be. That is your privilege and you are used to having it. Online, all you can do is shoot out an email and hope they respond. And most of the time they do not. Because it is not their job. Because they do not owe you anything. And that is fine.

Where it is not fine is when your privilege makes you melt down and start DEMANDING responses, when you start getting rude and cutting, start generally revealing yourself to be the entitled asshole you were all along. And you wondered why she never responded to you in the first place? You are showing her exactly why. You are simply reinforcing to her that she made the right choice from the very beginning.

It is a brave new world out there buddy. We do most of our hanging out online these days. And it is a bit more of a level playing field here. You don’t get the privilege you are used to having. You better get used to that fact, as it is not going anywhere. Get used to empty mailboxes, get used to messages not being responded to. Because women do not *owe* you a response. They will respond if they feel like it, if you are engaging and catch their interest, but demanding they chat with you and then getting snotty when they do not do do will simply get you a one way ticket to Blockedville. And ain’t nobody want to hang out in Blockedville. It is a very cold and lonely place…


Nobody can *possibly* understand how much I have suffered!!!

We all know them. People so lost and trapped in their various traumas that they can hardly even function. They carry their troubled past like a giant bloody crucifix permanently hooked over a shoulder, dragging it about and waving it in everyone’s face at every opportunity.

We couldn’t possibly understand their pain.
Nobody on this planet has suffered as much as they have.
You have no idea how damaged they are, and everything they do is under the dark shadow of their traumatic past.

Well, I call bullshit on that.

I am going to lay all of my cards on the table right now. Not to whine. Not to try and one up you in the “my difficult past” game. No, just to prove a point.

You want to play the “rough childhood” game? Try being raised by a mentally ill mother, endless severe physical abuse, a constant stream of touchy stepfathers and boyfriends, grinding poverty and living on blocks of bright orange government cheese, alcoholism and mental illness running rampant through both sides of my family. Try being raised in a cult by hairy legged hippies that gave you no education other than some half assed homeschooling because they were so desperately trying to become enlightened past this world of suffering that they couldn’t really be bothered to teach you math. Trying moving out on your own at the age of 16 because your home life was so chaotic it was no longer a livable situation. Yes, all of that happened and worse, this is only the lighter condensed version.

I mention this not for sympathy but only to show you that I know ALL about hard pasts. And I do not allow my past to define my present. I could easily use my difficult past as a “get out of jail free” card and spend my present endlessly wallowing in misery and trauma. But I consciously chose not to. And I am a better person for it.

Your past is a huge anchor that you are carrying around with you at all times. It is heavy and weighs you down. You will never be able to move forward while still lugging around that anchor. Put it down. Put down your issues and move forward. There is an amazing world out there, and you can’t be part of it because you are lost in your trauma.

You are not a special and unique snowflake.
Your trauma is not worse than what others have gone through.
And while you are locked in the shadows of your past, the present just keeps matching right by you.

Obviously, I can not tell you how to live your life and you are going to do what you want to. But if I were you? I would let that anchor go…


A funny thing happened on the way to becoming a kinkster…

I have always been the type of person to commit myself utterly to whatever it is that I am passionate about, and kink was no different. Entering the lifestyle was like slipping into a warm bath after a long day, a feeling of meeting someone for the first time and immediately considering them an old lifelong friend. I had found something that I had been desperately missing my whole life and I didn’t even know it until that moment.

Where things started to get interesting is when my burning need for stronger and more intense and elaborate kink drove me in front of a camera. The only way I could practically get the top shelf, mind altering, other reality kinky experiences I craved was to start modeling. So I did. Walking into a dungeon and finding someone for a flogging scene is all well and good but my mind and body craved things like be buried upside down underground and caned, which is rather hard to pull off in most dungeons or play spaces.

The modeling was a means to the end I craved. I promoted myself just enough to continue to get more shoots, because more shoots equaled more fun kinky times, and I kept a picture catalog of my experiences on Fetlife as a sort of kinky scrapbook so I could keep track of all the cool shit I got to do over the years. I needed the kinky scrapbook, as I remember very little of my shoots. My mind fogs right the fuck out.

I honestly didn’t think about the videos getting created. I somehow didn’t realize that other people, people I had never met, were seeing me naked and cumming all over the place. Oh sure, logically I guess I knew, but it never really clicked. It was not about the videos to me. I have never sat down and watched a video of myself. It would just be too weird for me to do.

And then I started getting emails. Emails from complete strangers. Strangers that HAD seen little old me naked and cumming all the place and really seemed to enjoy it. Emails from Germany and Japan. All over the world! My pussy had become an international traveler! And what was amazing is that these strangers were telling me I was inspiring and a role model and gave them courage and hope.

I never meant to be a role model. It was not a role I planned on pursuing. I just wanted to be my kink on. But here I am. And the emails keep coming. So, reluctantly, but with as much grace as I can muster, I accept some people out there see me as some sort of inspiration.

People tell me all the time they wish they could do what I do, so today I write to simply give you the essence of how I got here and how to do what I do.

**Stop living your life for others, stop wearing false masks you are drowning behind because you are so terrified that other people will judge you. Be true to who you are and how you are wired.**

**Try and live each and every day as ethically as you can, treating others around you as respectfully as you can. Realize everyone has an ego, and when you slight that ego, you make enemies.**

**Have strong and clear boundaries. Don’t rush into things in some sort of kink frenzy without doing your homework and research. That opportunity, if it is legitimate, will still be there, but hasty regret leaves a bitter taste in the mouth.**

**Put your fear, guilt and shame aside. They are negative emotions that weigh you down like heavy boulders. Put the boulders down.**

That is it. Those are the steps I followed on my kinky journey, and they have gotten me far. If you find me some sort of inspiration, I am humbled and flattered and rather surprised, but I thank you from the bottom of my perverted little heart.

Keep it kinky my friends!


I am not a perfect victim

I am not a perfect victim. If, heaven forbid, anything ever happened to me, the new reports would not read “Rain DeGrey, wife, writer and activist, loving owner of 2 dogs and 2 cats” but rather “Rain DeGrey BDSM porn star” and that label skews everything else you might read. I would, in some way, *deserve* whatever happened to me because of my day job.

I never factored in that when I decided to become a Professional Naked Person that I would be trading in some basic rights as a result.

Most people can reasonably expect that they should not be hassled, talked down to, berated, dismissed or mocked. Oh sure, these things happen to us all. But once you throw in that I am a PNP, all of a sudden these is a distinct and distasteful undercurrent of “Well. She IS just a porn star. What does she expect?” in so very many of my interactions with other people.

I am not a perfect victim. While the fact I can be found naked on the internet is in no way the most important thing about me as a person, it is all others seem to see, and the label of “porn star” is the prism that everyone filters their interactions with me through. Go to the cops for being stalked? They would laugh me out of the station. Stand up for not being hassled and persecuted? How quickly the slurs of “Dumb whore” “Stupid porn skank” and “Go choke on a dick you cum sponge” get tossed my way.

For all that people voraciously consume what PNP produce, they seem to be unable to not look down their nose at the people making it. People love porn. LOVE LOVE LOVE it. But they also love to hate the people that make it. And I did not sign up to be a second class citizen when I decided to explore an aspect of being kinky that brings me so much joy.

I will always be an activist. I will always stand up for what I believe in. I will, to my very last breath, demand to be treated equally with my fellow human beings. You might not like it. You might wish the loud mouthed porn girl would just shut the fuck up already about nonconsensual dick photos flung her way by total strangers, you might think that I have less rights then a perfect victim.

I honestly do not care what you think. You can not slut shame me. You can not make me feel guilty about doing something I love. I will not be quiet. I will always fight for my rights. I am more then the cartoon character you carry around in your head. I am flesh and blood, I am human, and I deserve to be treated equally and reasonably.


Dick Pics: You are missing your target market

I get it. I truly do. Your dick, your special trouser snake, that joy stick of happiness, is the most magical dick in all of the land. There is no other dick like it in the entire world. Never mind that 50 percent of people on the planet have one. Never mind that for the vast bulk of women, they care more about the man that the dick is attached to then the flesh tube dangling there and occasionally getting stuck to your thigh on a hot day.

Your trouser snake is so magical that the mere sight of it when flung into stranger’s inboxes will immediately reduce them into a cock craving frenzy. They will not be able to think straight until they have their sweaty lil paws all over your manmeat.

Except not really.

Dick is somewhat lower on a woman’s priority list. They actually care more about if you have your shit together, if you have a job, if you are confident, if you have some sort of skill set, if you are a functioning human being. Few and far between are the women that are so cock obsessed that the only thing that matters is the peen. That completely discount the dude attached to the dick and only care about what you are packing.

But you know who really really likes cock shots?

Gay guys.

All over the world, your poorly lit cock shots with a tv remote thoughtfully included for size comparison are being completely ignored by women and eagerly consumed by cock craving gay guys. So by all means, keep flinging out your erect man meat photos all over the internet. But know the eyeballs appreciating them are usually not quite the target market you were aiming for…

Why I bottom

Bottoming puts me immediately in the moment. It grounds me in the now.

I am not thinking about needing to buy cat food, if my cell phone bill is paid, what that rude person said to me the other day, all the hundred different things you have to be on top of on a daily basis to just function on this planet.

I am never more aware of my body then when I bottom, and I seek total destruction. I seek to be pushed into a sweating, drooling, unable to sit up or get my eyes uncrossed state. I want to be unable to remember my own name. I want to be pushed into the realms of lights and colors and altered realties that a good session can provide.

We are not crazy people over here. There is a science, an art, to what we do. There is a REASON for what we do. The things we do dump a truckload of endorphins, adrenaline and natural pain killing opiates into our brainmeat and I get so blasted that I can not walk in a straight line. And I adore it with every fiber of my being.

And perhaps most importantly to me, bottoming is empowering as fuck. As a woman, I have been told from birth to be careful, don’t go outside at night, things are not safe, people can HURT you. The constant relentless message is that you are weak and fragile wears you down like you wouldn’t believe. There is nothing more empowering than getting the stuffing knocked out of you and realizing that you are so much tougher than you thought. I feel like Wonder Woman when I bottom. It makes me feel incredibly strong.

Bottoms do not get the credit for what they bring to the table. Subs are not “less than” Doms. They are both sides of the same coin, and one doesn’t work without the other. And most Doms would crumble under what they can easily dish out. Bottoms, you are tough cookies. Don’t you ever forget that.

Why I Top

I crave the control.

The feeling of absolute power when someone willing submits to you, puts themselves trustingly into your hands, is like honey and electricity on my tongue. My heart beats faster, every sense is sharpened. I want to maul their tender flesh and leave my mark behind. Every whimper, every moan, every response as I play their body like an instrument is like music to my ears.

When someone trusts you enough to hand their body over to you, it is the most beautiful thing in the word. I want to guide and mold them, protect them, help them, keep them safe. I want to be the buffer between them and a cold and cruel world.

Even if that “protection” takes the form of beating them with a Russian rubber riot police baton until my biceps ache. What can I say? I am a giver like that…

Why men find wooing so difficult

Unless you have been living under a rock your entire life, at some point you will of heard at least a hint of a whisper of the derp women face on a regular basis. And it is bad. It really is. Women have been self reporting on this on a consistent basis, but these reports regularly seem to get dismissed as exaggerations or women making a big deal out of little things and being dramatic.

Occasionally, a guy will get curious and go try a female profile before coming back wide eyed saying “Holy shiiiiiit they were NOT exaggerating in the slightest!!”

So why is it that men find wooing so hard?

Because they have never needed to before.

Throughout most of human history, women were second class citizens at best, if they were not property outright, to be transferred from father to husband. Marriages were mainly business arrangements and two people marrying for love or desire was unusual. When you could not own property, vote or have a job, you took the husband that came along and made do.

Women have been labeled “high strung ” and “hysterical ” throughout the ages, but if you were essentially living in solitary confinement with no job, money or options with some stranger you were married off to that probably didn’t even know what a clitoris was, is it any wonder women would occasionally go a little twitchy?

Those mouth breathing basement dwellers firing off the endless “heyyyy bb, wanna fuk??” emails that clog inboxes the world over would have had women back in the day, usually through arranged marriages. It didn’t matter your lack of social skills or game, you could get a companion. But now women can have jobs and own property and have options outside of getting a ring on the ringer and settling down to cooking and churning out babies. And men haven’t quite adapted to the new order of things yet.

I get that asking out someone is hard, and endless rejection starts to grate and wear down one’s self esteem after a while. But who exactly are you doing the asking to?

I have picked up my courage plenty of times and asked and gotten turned down flat. It stings. But you pick yourself up and ask someone else, hopefully under more successful circumstances. The *DIFFERENCE* is that men will overlook the rather obvious clues of “head down, no eye contact, walking away rapidly, a profile saying not interested, not single and not looking” and ask anyway, then get frustrated at their lack of progress. All women quickly get lumped into the “stuck up cunts” category, whereas if they had stopped thinking with their dick for 30 seconds they could of seen that the asking was futile as the woman is clearly saying “not interested, not going to happen.”

So for the first time in history, men actually have to woo women. And as it turns out, they tend to not be very good at it. They haven’t had much practice.