Fucking Werewolves

“There’s a beast at the door,

And he’s wild and free,

But we don’t let him in,

Because we don’t want to see,

What is lurking behind the facade.”

I’m thinking about werewolves and it’s kinda hot.

I appreciate that I’m a little late to the party on werewolves, but I’ve been thinking about how it would feel to be one and it’s kinda scary hot in a way that makes the subby parts of my brain tingle.

So, standard wisdom on the subject is that wolves represent repressed sexual energy. They’re scary and thrilling because they’re uncontrollable, a rampant id taking its revenge on the ego and super-ego (sorry, did I mention that this post was going to get a bit Freudian).

But what I’m more interested in is the other side of the equation, the were bit in werewolf. Again, looking at common representations there’s basically two ways of playing this, the human part of the werewolf typically either revels in the pleasures of becoming the beast, or ties themselves in emotional knots of guilt and self-recrimination. The former is engaging, but a little one-note; the latter can be outright dull… but doesn’t have to be.

Becoming a werewolf is a loss of control, and so, too, is submission. I can imagine a full moon transformation like a play scene, the building expectation, the want/not want, the fear, the mental games of denial and distraction until it’s suddenly upon you and it’s too late to do anything but go with it. Likewise with the comedown, the aching luxurious afterglow, the cool grey transition to the real world afterwards, the flashbacks, the hidden marks and scars stroked and grinned over as trophies.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’m hot for the idea that a werewolf is in a D/s dynamic with themself.