Day 2: List your kinks.
Today’s prompt is simultaneously easy and hard. Sure, I could simply list my kinks –
3. Rape play
But I’m not a list kinda bitch. What’s the meaning of a number followed by one fucking word or phrase if you can’t even really hear the swift slap of your palm against my bare flesh; if you can’t really feel the way my skin pulsates once your grip is removed; if you can’t really see your handprint on my ass as it dissolves into a bright red radiance.
How do I even decide which interests to include on this list? Do I get to decide what’s defined as “kink” or have the kink goddesses before me already etched the solid boundaries of my desires into stone (or leather)? Can kink be a self-given title? And if so, can the title be received without having ever even experienced kink?
I think so.
Kink goes beyond sex. Yes, it involves sexual practices, but what defines kink is the idea that it surpasses “conventional” standards – and that, the instant kink is defined as “unconventional” – is the very same moment that kink becomes more than sex. When we’re told that something we enjoy is “different” or “weird” we resort to hiding it instead of accepting it. We hide in a dark corner with our defects until we unknowingly bump into another scared kid who’s hiding in the corner as well. We finally light a match to see that there’s been a silent crowd hiding in the same corner all along. We then quietly gather this army of freaks to indulge in our defects together, thus forming a community. And once the community grows, we find solace in the fact that the things we enjoy aren’t really as fucked up as we’ve been led on to believe. We finally find comfort in our defects; we identify as them. In this very respect, kink has become an identity.
I like to think of my identity as a big fucking middle finger. My size, my sexual orientation, my gender, and my preferences in bed – each piece eternally shouting obscenities to convention. Although I’ve come to terms with these identities at different times and through different experiences, they each affect the other, overlapping in all aspects of my life. I hadn’t felt complete until discovering, accepting, and unabashedly indulging in all aspects of my “abnormal” identity because there is no way to enjoy your complete self without accepting each of your “defects” equally.
So now, how could I ever just simply list my kinks? It’s impossible to explain the way a paddle feels without revealing the intensity at which my ass then jiggles. I can’t talk about being tied up without explaining that ropes don’t just constrict movement – they also slither between cracks and rolls to form luscious mounds of soft flesh. There’s no way to explain dominance and submission without explaining that I – the woman – is not always the fuck toy; that I can choke a throat with my own “cock” just as he or she or ze may.
Lists are for vanilla soccer moms. I pray to Satan I’m never subjected to one again.