Writing is all about “the story.” My hubby sent me a link to the Stranger today that had me reading and re-reading these tiny little passages. Some are clearly more poignant than the others, but more than one had me stopping to think about the story behind them. This is a short post, because I really, really, want you to read this:
We come to understand our own sexuality over time. Over years. Rather than getting into a discussion of gender and preferences around them, I am going to be talking more about the actual acts of sex that fall under the word Kink.
Kink sexual practices go beyond what are considered conventional sexual practices as a means of heightening the intimacy between sexual partners. Some draw a distinction between “kink” and “fetishism”, defining the former as enhancing partner intimacy, and the latter as replacing it. Because of its relation to “normal” sexual boundaries, which themselves vary by time and place, the definition of what is and is not kink varies widely as well. Practitioners are sometimes considered to be perverts by “outsiders”.
I’ll never forget the first time I hit upon a sexual scene in a book that had me utterly confused enough to re-read it about a dozen times. It was a hot lazy summer day, and I was probably eleven or twelve. I remember the bed I was lying on, pushing through a seven-hundred page book in one day. It was CashelMara by Susan Howatch. I can’t find it at the moment, or I would quote the passage. But, it was certainly the first time I ever encountered three people in a sexual act together. The female character was married to a gay man who, in order to impregnate her, had to have a male with him. He came into her drunk, began to have sex with her while his male lover mounted him from behind. It took me, a young, inexperienced female, a number of readings to get through that page to just imagine what they were doing. It wasn’t until years later that I understood the passage, but it is the first “Oh…wow…there’s more to sex than my parents are telling me” moment. After Cashelmara opened my eyes to the mere fact that more than two people could get naked at the same time, I was all eyes to discover more. As a teen, I became fascinated with sex and disgusted by the concept at the same time. I could read about it ad nauseum. When it came to doing anything, I was much less interested. The reality is, my dad was a physician, and I was inundated with the very real consequences of sex. Fear took hold over any natural inclination to experimentation. I’m of the age that AIDS was brand new in the world right as I was coming of age. The message I got about sex growing up was, “Sex Kills.” (Unless you are totally monogamous and are extremely cautious about everything you do.) I filled my curiosity by reading Harold Robbins. Maybe his stories were a bit fantastical even for fiction, the sex scenes in them were enough for my teenage mind and body. Several of the sexual fantasies that I explore through role play are formed largely on some of the scenes in his novels. When I was in college, I remember coming home from class early. I would say even unexpectedly, for certainly my dad was more than bit flummoxed when I interrupted his viewing of The Story of O. He hastily grabbed the remote and clicked it off. The “damage” was done, however. I had seen enough to get the gist and was rather embarrassed myself. I didn’t think about that incident much until later. I had just finished an Anne Rice novel when I noticed a book published under a different name originally, but was really Anne Rice. Without even cracking it open, I bought the book. The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty both shocked me and turned me on in ways that bothered me. I wasn’t particularly comfortable with the way my head would say one thing while my body was responding with a hunger that was just forming. It took me many years to understand that my particular enjoyment came from the observational or giving end and that my natural inclinations tend toward the domination of another, and not the other way around. I didn’t want to be Beauty. When my father died, I finally understood there might be a biological predisposition toward sexual kink. He had about ten library feet of books on or about sex. He had a hidden stash of video tapes that were varied in their content. I can surmise through inspection of their content that he was most likely a closet bi-sexual. And he was one kinky dude. We found a set of sounds, penis enlargers, and other “toys.” My mother on the other hand couldn’t talk about sex openly even when she got older, so I’m pretty sure my kink comes from my dad’s side of the family.