She has a predilection for anal sex. Not because it is somehow better than a skilled pounding but because it feels dangerous; transgressive.
She likes surprising men by initiating it as part of her first date play. She carries a string of anal beads in her bag, shuttling it through airport security, enjoying it in airport lounges and on overnight flights.
But now it has become vanilla. She hates that, hates that it has become a de facto part of the ideal chick, its inclusion in wedding night processions. She watches modern twenty somethings — bleached and taut — walk around, their booties ever at the ready. She watches modern men, casually comfortable with being presented with a sanitised, safe version of her transcendence.
But yes, she still finds them; on sidewalk benches and in bars, the ones who understand its power, who weren’t introduced to it by Buzzfeed, who discovered it for themselves.