“Primal sex is honest sex.”
When I was researching (googling) to make sure I was giving this instinctive feeling on the tip of my tongue, I came across this phrase in an article. I couldn’t agree more. Primal play was an essential stepping stone in my and my long-term partner’s intimate relationship.
Primal play, or primal play sex, refers to a sexual dynamic or role-playing scenario, in which sexual partners rely on “animalistic instincts” to lead their sexual encounter, acting as a predator and prey duo. As the name suggests, the physical intimacy is more aggressive and base, including tackling, scratching, growling, biting, pinning and scuffling as the prey partner fights to get out from under their partner, and as the predator partner fights to keep them pinned there. And of course, the most important part of the role-play.
The chase.
That’s when the “gun fires”, the race starts. After (the absolute essentials), discussing boundaries, hard and soft lines, and communication cues, the chase starts. The prey partner takes off running, or backs away from the predator partner, who then chases their partner, trying (and always succeeding) in catching, pinning and fucking their prey. Seeing that shift in your partner’s face, is like being about to drop on a rollercoaster. The tension rising between the two of you, the slight tensing of muscles as you crouch slightly, eyes darting as you try to figure out where the other is going to go… then BAM.
It is an undoubtedly freeing experience to just BE with your partner, relying just on your trust with each other, your instincts and desires leading you both forward, as you’re both fueled by this desperate adrenaline. But, how does this seemingly very communicatively shy roleplay, actually help build a relationship?
Other than the pre-play discussions, and the aftercare, primal play is held to none of the same “standards”, expectations or labels that sex falls to. There is very little time to worry about if the noise you’re making is sexy, if your pubic hair is off-putting, or whether you’re doing a “good job” when you’re so focused on fighting and fucking. Part of primal play is the honesty, and the ugliness of base desires. Everything else just falls away.
When my partner and I first met, I felt connected to him because neither of us were sexually “normal” (although I think trying to define something as “normal sex” is nonsense). I’d been diagnosed with vaginismus a couple of years ago by that point, and my partner identified on the asexual spectrum. So, we both required a lot of communication in our sex life, about our comfort levels and how desire presented for both of us. We ran into a few walls and frustration in the first couple of months, chipping away at bits and pieces to work out how we fit together. We were finding our way pretty well, when I suggested that we both take the BDSMTest; where you take the quiz, and it produces kink percentages about what “roles” seem to fit your kinks. When my partner’s highest percentage was Predator, I’d never heard of primal play and was more than happy to give it a go.
After we tried, and were just curled up together, it was quiet. For once it was just us together. It was just our breathing, slightly bruising skin pressing up against each other, a head curled into a chest and arm around securely. We weren’t bound by labels, insecurities or diagnoses. They hadn’t defined our experience with each other; the lack of them had. It was the content we felt, our desires, and the quiet pride in seeing ourselves marked on each other’s skin, branding us as belonging to one another. I still remember the shock and the giggles we had when we noticed the mottled state of my neck, and how it looked like an animal had mauled me, trying to eat me up and spit me back out.
It felt like a new start. As my partner and I have stayed and grown together, both romantically and sexually, I’ll always be thankful for primal play reminding us to take a step back, take a deep breath and to just focus on what we wanted, instead of what we were “supposed” to want. Even now, when I worry that I’m getting trapped in the role of fuddy-duddy housewife, or overly stressed student, stripping down and being chased around our house, helps wipe the slate clean and brings everything back to just us.
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Kasey Chapman (she/her) is a writer, studying library and information services and criminology. Usually a horror writer, she loves to talk about the “ugly” parts of sex, and how fear and fantasy overlap. She is fascinated by horror-romance/erotica as a genre, and is also a “baby” pole dancer (recreationally).