When Did You Know You Were Kinky?(Hint: It’s Not When You Think)
This is a revision of something I posted on FetLife a couple of years ago. It seemed rather fitting considering my last few posts, and nicely ties together a lot of the things I’ve been discussing so far. I encourage people to share this post with those who are kink-curious or just dipping their toes into the larger kink community. You are not alone!
At a leather conference a couple of years ago, Mercy and I delivered a presentation about educating younger folks new to the kink scene. I asked a question that I thought was straightforward: “When did you know you were kinky?” In retrospect, I really could have framed it better, and thankfully, the thoughtful responses from our audience quickly expanded the conversation into some fascinating territory. I’ve been thinking a lot about that, and how, personally, I was so quick to say “I’ve always been kinky,” because certain images and situations used to cause certain feelings in me at a very young age.
But, as per my previous post, the difficult thing with memories of childhood is that we are always viewing them through the lenses of our adult lives. We’re not “recollecting” a specific memory that’s somehow recorded in our brain, but merely recalling instructions for how to reconstruct said memory. So we’re basically constructing memories whenever we call them to mind.
I think this is why, when we think about it, we can look back at our lives and sometimes say “I’ve always known that I was kinky.” But what we really mean is “I've always been discovering that I am kinky” because the labels only really came later for those of us who had the privilege of either playing them out or at least finding some kind of imagery that represented those feelings (ah, Tumblr). But, when you REALLY think back to it, those moments of the early glimmers of our kink were often accompanied by confusion (at the least); and/or profound shame. For me, it was the seemingly Pavlovian little-boy erection when seeing Daphne and/or Velma from Scooby Doo tied up; or seeing Josie and the Pussycats in predicament bondage; not to mention the INCREDIBLY inappropriate The Perils of Penelope Pitstop. Really, look this one up. I wouldn’t be surprised if an entire swath of GenX kinksters felt their first stirrings while watching this cartoon. I mean, the villain was named “The Hooded Claw” … most certainly a reference to Irving Klaw, famed Bettie Page fetish photographer.
So I can think back to my single-digit self being mesmerized and overwhelmed with SOME kind of feeling about what I was seeing; and not understanding why it was only images of women in bondage and not men that made me feel that way. I literally thought that seeing images of women tied up did that to EVERYONE. But it’s the awkward moments of discovery that come with sharing; of playing with friends and discovering that not everyone was as enthusiastic about playing games were someone (preferably a girl) got tied up. Learning about our own sexuality is an often rocky process for those who are cis/straight/vanilla, never mind anyone who finds themselves on the margins of non-normative sexualities. The shame that too often ensues can grow into darker, more crippling issues later on.
It takes a lot of work in our adult lives, to learn to re-cast those moments of shame; to forgive ourselves for both what were – to us – natural inclinations, and the shame that came with them. For me it was the embarrassment of my parents making a strict “no tying up!” rule with babysitters, after an equally embarrassing moment with a babysitter who I managed to tie up so well in some kind of knot that neither of us could untie. Or the sheer mortification in my teen years of my mother finding the meager stash of the BDSM images and Hustler magazines I did manage to get my hands on. Because the internet didn’t exist yet, my only source of pornography was literally the odd dirty magazine remnant found in the woods near my house, or that I got from “that kid” in high school who sold porn mags and VHS tapes out of his locker.
We recast those moments and feelings from the point of view of our adult selves, and attempt, through our practice of kink, to absolve ourselves on some level of the shame we may have felt, just as we become aware that the representations of sexuality we did see were problematic in various stereotypical ways. We try to surround ourselves with a community that supports us, and validates the feelings we’ve had. As we share our stories with others, we gain a kind of absolution.
And yet, that can come crashing down at any minute if our neighbors or our employers find out. Getting outed has the effect of shining a spotlight on us. How we respond to these moments shows us our deepest vulnerabilities: we think immediately about the impact to our intimate relationship(s) with our partner(s); to our families; to our careers. And, in those moments, we are forced to begin a process of initial damage control; for those who are polyamorous, the vulnerability is multiplied by the partners we have, and their own ability to weather any kind of scrutiny. If our partners are BIPOC and or LGBTQIA+ we see them as even more vulnerable. And vulnerability is the cost and catalyst of love itself.
That’s another reason why I think that our kinky relationships burn brighter and faster. When these moments of vulnerability are met with radical acceptance by a community of chosen family, it can be absolutely intoxicating, and we want to immerse ourselves as deeply in all these emotions as possible.
So when I think about myself as a little boy, circa 1978, under the covers with a flashlight, tying up his Princess Leia figure, I can, retrospectively, label him “kinky.” But to have compassion for him and his process of discovery, I need to think about his own ignorance as to what his feelings were and what they meant. I need to have compassion for the teenager in the 80s and the questionable images he consumed. And I also need to have compassion for the 20-something year old me in the mid-90s who felt “stupid” and resentful for going to a dungeon to learn, but was greeted with skepticism and gatekeeping because the knowledge he DID have about consent was from the internet. Yet I can simultaneously have compassion for those who were trying to keep their community safe. The same is true today: we wish to be welcoming, but, now more than ever, we need to be on guard for those who would rather see any kind of non-normative sexuality eradicated. This only further intensifies the intimacy we find within our communities.
Coming to terms with moments like these allow us – hopefully – to find compassion for ourselves more quickly when we stumble in our journeys in the present, whether those impediments were purely accidental or put there maliciously by others. And if we can find that compassion, hopefully we can safely let go of the pain of the past and concentrate on how to be present in the now, and better orient ourselves toward the future.
“Knowing” we’re kinky is an ongoing process of self-discovery and questioning, not just about who we are, but who we were and who we want to be. We can only have a chance at “knowing ourselves” when we can hold all of those spaces simultaneously, creating healthy boundaries within which we can safely grow and explore. While we may “know” we’re kinky in a retrospective way; in the present, we are always discovering our kink.
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