My kinks are your fault
First: No, I’m not going to tell you what my kinks are — and I don’t want to know what yours are, either. This post is about the fact of having kinks, and whether you have any or not, I’m sure you’re aware that being a little “bent” in the pants areas of life is a pretty common thing.
I’m writing today to point middle fingers at everyone who acts like having kinks makes me (or anyone else) a lesser person. I have two reasons for that spiky view: One, it’s your fault; and two, I’m proud of those things.
I’ll explain both.
It’s your fault because I know damn well where I got most of my kinks, and it wasn’t in a vacuum or from deep inside my twisted little head. I’ve been to therapy and done decades of hard work on it, and I can see their origins pretty darn clearly. The twists in my psychology and neurology that tangle pain, helplessness, power-games and anger at religion all up in sex and love come straight from this society. They’re, to a one, direct results of growing up in this post-industrial whitemale blindly-western class-oppressive shitshow I was born into, thank you very much. I was a child when most or all of what comes out now as weird-colored pleasure and release got programmed, and it was the adults before me and around me who did that programming — intentionally or unintentionally, who cares. If it was anybody’s fault, it was yours. *I* didn’t build this place, or violate myself in any of the ways that my Self then had to heal weird around.
Some of the haters will now say that even if I couldn’t control what happened to me or how my body responded to it, I’m still “responsible” for controlling my actions, and for denying myself whatever kinks they think it’s their business to dictate to other people.
Doublefuck those people, because of reason #2:
I’m proud of my kinks, because they’re ways I’ve healed. My human mind and human body need love, intimacy and affection; and instead of breaking and being screwed up forever and not being able to get those things, they’ve figured out a way. This world and the people in it tried to ruin love and happiness for me permanently, and they failed, because I and my robot here both managed to grow through those experiences and find a way. Moreover, the ways we’ve found don’t hurt anybody, and as it happens, there are other people all over the place who’ve had to evolve in similar ways, who really dig the stuff I’m into, too — both physically and psychologically — making for some rare and excellent relationships. …And you want me to feel bad for this?
You know what I’d be if I wasn’t kinky? I’d be psychotically repressed. Instead of healed mindbody-tissue that works differently than normal, I’d have dead scars all over my psyche. I’d be living a miserable life lacking love, afraid of intimacy, and partly or completely incapable of physical pleasure, because the things that attacked those in my younger self would have won. And if you think I’d be able to live a long or worthwhile life that way, well, you’re an idiot and should maybe get your own shit looked at. Yeah, I said it — quite a lot of the very same people shaming others’ kinks are severely ill in their own capacity to love and share with other people. They see kinks as weaknesses, but the exact opposite is true: Many kinks are strengths, especially after the person who has them understands, accepts and learns to live with them (because some certainly do take special handling in order to live with, especially inside the world that caused them, I won’t argue that).
I used to think of my kinks as weaknesses or brokenness, as evidence that life-shit had ruined me in terrible ways…but I should have trusted my wonderful brain and body more; they knew what they were doing. They knew that to lose out on the capacity to love strongly, to communicate fully, and to feel joy in one’s whole self would be an unacceptable trade-off. And they did a damned good job finding routes around the damage, like a tree growing around a fence. I stand here now feeling like a pretty strong tree, grown up and living a life full of love and intimacy and openness and friendship and yup, orgasms — and I feel zero need to apologize for any of my kinks. Without them, without having accepted and learned to love them, I couldn’t do any of this.
So the insinuation that I should feel ashamed baffles me, on an emotional level. My kinks sit right up there on my highest shelf of life-accomplishments, next to my taiji and my typing speed. Diss them at your peril ;)
(Another counter-argument I’d like to shoot down quickly: If I’m so proud of my kinkiness, why don’t I talk/write/share/brag/whatever about it more? Well, this goes back to point #1: I didn’t build this stupid America, and I’m not taking responsibility for how shitty it was, is, or will be to me. America’s Bill of Rights does get my vote, though, and I have the same right to privacy as long as I’m not hurting anyone as we all do. Therefore I’ll share what I’m comfortable sharing and with whom, and the rest is none of your damn business. I don’t ask what’s in people’s pants or private lives unless I have a reason to know because I’m not an asshole, and I expect the same consideration from others. Being different doesn’t mean I have an obligation to be put on display, showered with rude questions, or shamed indirectly OR directly. If you’re curious, well, too bad. Go ask about the kinks of people you know better; chances are good they have stories just as interesting as mine.)