I am constantly torn between wanting to stay true to myself and wanting to fit into the category that would make those around me more comfortable. Frequently battling the urge to pursue my own happiness against the habit of pleasing everyone around me. I spent so many years of my life pretending to be someone else that becoming myself felt like I was being ripped apart somehow, as if I was losing the last bit of good that society had hammered into me.
I’ve never had anyone explain sex to me. Not the logistics of it nor the emotional ramifications. Everything came from messy uneducated research and a lot of trial and error. My introduction to porn was a disturbing video of a Japanese “schoolgirl” being groped in an empty classroom by an older unattractive man. I wasn’t sure what he was doing to her but she didn’t sound like she was enjoying any of it. It didn’t look “sexy” to me and I couldn’t understand why the boy who sent it to me would enjoy it. I filed it away as “something weird and icky and unpleasant and I don’t need to try that ever because she sounded like she was dying a slow painful death”. If sixteen year old me had a sneak preview of my internet history now she’d probably pass out from the shock.
Being from a conservative family and surrounded by judgemental peers during my university years meant I spent most of my sexually active years feeling ashamed of all my explicit desires. Nothing that I was doing felt good and nothing that I wanted to do felt right. I had a string of vanilla boyfriends who were either horrified or unenthusiastic, either obvious in their disgust or proclaimed they ‘did not want to hurt me’. The backlash was me diving head first into anyone who did share my sinful interests, the results were just as disappointing. Boys who would feign interest for a good fuck, boys who didn’t know what they were doing, or even better, sadists who simply wanted to beat me to tears and had zero interest in my pleasure.
On a very primal level I have always been obsessed with kink. I’ve always had such a fleeting attention span that vanilla sex would cause my mind to wander and I’d find myself lost in thought about something I’d read on the news that day. The pain and the discipline forced me to focus and remain present. The pleasure always followed.
But the lonelier parts of me have always craved for a deeper connection, believed in some naive fantasy that being naked could sometimes lead to real intimacy. The desire to relinquish control in a way that said: I trust you to hurt me just enough. To be broken and then made whole again. To be loved so fiercely that it left bruises. The transgression, the control, the chaos and the surrender triggered a reaction in me that was more addictive than any sort of drug. I was addicted to the illusion of being understood. To being laid out bare, scars and all, battered and defeated, but loved and kissed, over and over, till I was no longer hurting. Just for a few moments, it would all stop hurting.