You’ll stumble on Fetlife in search for articles about masochism. You’ll see pictures of whippings and blood that will make your teeth itch, so you’ll log off and hire a shrink instead. You’ll talk about sex and tattoos and parenthood and Jack, your black fucking cat. You’ll talk about everything except what you hired her for: to get your perverted ass cured from all those sick ideas.
You’ll fire your shrink.
You’ll take up yoga.
You’ll buy Freud’s “Totem and Taboo” and begin blaming your sexuality on your primitive view of the universe.
You’ll log back into your blank Fetlife account on a Thursday night over too many glasses of wine and too much courage. You’ll invent 56 judgements about the people in the photographs before your seventh glass. On your eighth, you’ll email the most vanilla person you can find there.
You’ll talk about sex and tattoos and parenthood and Jack, your black fucking cat. You’ll talk about everything except what you contacted her for in the first place. You’ll go to sleep thinking that all those black screens feel like midnight. Two weeks will pass. Then three. A month. Then two. You’ll decide to go to an event, but you’ll develop a minor headache on the night and use it as an excuse not to show.
It’ll take you five months to work up the courage to go to a play party. You’ll think of That Scene from Eyes Wide Shut. You’ll think of hedonism and orgies and enough nakedness to start a sex cult, but when you walk into the hallway, it’ll look like the party your sister threw for her last birthday. The scenes will feel too sterile and the conversations too normal, but then you’ll find a woman in black who’s as free as a panther.
These people would make good friends, you’ll think, but then you’ll think of Charles Darwin’s theory about early human societies—about the alpha male and his harem, only instead of carrying a spear, he carries a flogger and a ball gag. Sick. You think, but then you’ll arrange a coffee date with the woman in black with the cherry blossom tattoo on her left shoulder.
You’ll talk about sex and tattoos and parenthood and Jack, your black fucking cat. Then you’ll talk about ball gags and whips and rope. You’ll tell her everything except the part about how you’ll never make any of those ideas a reality.
You’ll make all of those ideas a reality.
It will feel like home, so you’ll give away your crate of wine and do more yoga. You’ll begin to love your body, not because of the yoga, but because of the kink and the fact that you’ve seen more normal human bodies in the last three months than you’ve seen in your entire life.
You’ll become a feminist. You’ll become an activist. You’ll finally learn how to say “no”.
Three years will pass. Then four. One day you’ll notice that you’re an entirely different person than you were on the day you hired that stupid shrink—less neurotic. More authentic. Hell, you’ll even feel proud, not because of the kink, but the new friendships, which have enabled a level of honesty you weren’t capable of before.