There are some things in life that are just things. Taken alone, they are neither good things nor bad things. They are just things.
They can be pragmatic things or provocative things, upliftingly luxurious things or depressingly dull things, steamy and sumptuous things or unctuously unappealing things. Sometimes they can be all those things, other times none, depending on your taste.
For me, crawling is one of those things.
Like coffee, if it’s done right, crawling can be a delectable treat. (And by ‘done right’ I mean ‘done in a way that I like’. I am not insinuating that there is a ‘right’ way to do coffee OR crawling, NOR am I implying that ‘my way’ is the ‘right’ way. To each their own.) If it’s the wrong brew, however, it leaves behind a bitter aftertaste.
Some types of crawling make me furrow my brow in bafflement. My reaction is the same as it is when being invited to pay seven dollars for a burnt-bean latte: It holds zero appeal for me, and no way in hell am I gonna do it. For me, this pretty much applies to *any* kind of degradation/humiliation play. In general, it’s just not my thing. But crawling in particular – if it’s being forced, if it’s a punishment, if it’s for the purpose of humiliation – goes beyond just “not turning me on.” It actively turns me off.
Humiliative Crawling (I totally just made up that term, but it works!), especially if it’s a woman who’s doing the crawling and she’s doing it at the behest of a man… Nope. Definitely not to my taste.
Crawling as an activity related to puppy play? Meh.
As any kind of ‘lowering’ protocol in BDSM activities? Ehhh… (Insert splayed palms, upturned eyebrows and shrugging shoulders, here.)
Other types of crawling, however, affect my insides in ways that range from lukewarm to steamy hot. It’s all about the who, the how, and the why.