I don't think those who know anything about me more than my literary skills are going to be reading this, so you probably already know I'm a hardcore fetishist. I can't expect myself to be turned on without anything less than lots of leather (or latex, if that's on), the right amount of metal, a voluptuous woman or two and lots of freedom. And I don't mean the freedom to do stuff, rather the freedom to push harder, to do those things again and again.
I've long had an identity crisis that began when I was about 12 years old. For about 7 years since, I've been confused, and very frightened, about the way I've looked at girls, about how I felt when I looked at them so much stand up from sitting on a chair, about the things I felt like doing to them. The first thought that sprang into my mind then was if I was disrespecting them. Yes, I was. But I was only disrespecting those women who didn't like being treated that way. That was quite some time before I found out that I wasn't alone in my ideas, in my aspirations.
I'm a little surprised now that I drove myself to find a "cure", but I guess that was a pretty reasonable way to think at that point of time: I tried writing extensively about it, but without being able to expect an answer from the pages upon pages of confessions, I still felt alone, like a hollow pot in a full Universe, as if whatever was inside me was demonic and needed to be destroyed.
Needless to say, I had little or no assistance from inside my home — which wasn't a home but a cameranious refuge where I could find food and a bed from the even harsher world outside. My mother was abusive, verbally and physically, and my father was a bit of a coward who couldn't stand up to what my mother did to me on a daily basis. I must mention how he pushed me to read tens of books every month, a habit of reading that I'm extremely grateful for. It was this habit of reading, and so indirectly my father, who led me to believe that all my intentions had a firm psychological basis. Then again, that realization came much later.
As I grew up, I became increasingly curious about my condition and that curiosity broke out as a series of activities that scared the shit out of my already religion-wrecked monster of a mother, and a series of visits to specious godmen only managed to break my spirit. The amount of condemnations that can arise from a foundation of nothingness, rather a foundation of frivolous but anosognosic desires, is staggering. I guess it takes time to understand the words of these men for what they are but in that period, the clash of a naive belief with the clash of a misguiding belief is inhumanely destructive.
I bruised myself repeatedly, I tried to kill myself twice (although the second attempt was more recent), and when my father returned from his first overseas trip at work, he gifted me two things in the shape of a PC: knowledge and freedom. Yes, I know how you're thinking freedom automatically follows from knowing the cage is only there because we don't think it isn't there, but to me, they were two very different things.
I found out about other groups on the web, groups that engaged in bondage and unabashed fetishism, but I was still quite "unplucked" in reality. It was around the same time that my fascination with the male sex — yes — began to die out. I'm sure Mr. Freud would have had a hundred fascinating explanations and labels for the transformation, but I'd like to put it down to my first orgasm while looking at pictures of a woman stripped down first and then garbed in chains.
The only people who know the way I feel about such things are friends; I've chosen not to tell my parents about it at all. I continue to blame my mother — for what I've written about and many things besides — and, to some extent, my father, but it's not as if I'm actively holding back from them. I don't give a damn if they disown me (the only remaining consequences of that will be legal), and I do think they'd deserve the embarrassment they might incur in the public eye when everyone finds out they have a son like me.
I'm proud of me. Immensely. For as long as my sense of identity was derived from an external locus of perception, I liked myself by the way my friends thought of me: reliable, friendly, a good listener, a good writer, helpful, sweet, bashful, perverted, etc. When my sense of identity slowly turned inward, I liked myself more. Have you watched 'V for Vendetta'? Of course you have. In the movie, V unites the people in the name of an opposition that the ruling party deserves and, once they're united, he gives them a face of good (the famous mask), a face they think of when the new face of evil in their minds is seen: High Chancellor Adam Sutler. And then, he pokes a bubble into that unity.
It's like all those ideas, thoughts, doubts, lies, confabulations, beliefs and morals, which were once freely floating without any sign of coherence inside the mind, suddenly find themselves linked to each other via a large but equally sturdy network of choices and desires. It's like this new sphere of intelligence is then threatened with invasion by an alien insurgent, a villain sporting the face of conservatism, of orthodoxy, of tradition and of fucking conformity. It's like the whole body then moves to smother it, suffocate it, bury it alive and just move on as if nothing happened. It's like engineered mass-destruction.
It's so beautiful.
With such understanding comes the freedom: that's a short journey now but only because the bridge is already there. Now, I know that what is inside me is nothing like a demon. It's a medallion I think I've earned by choosing to follow after my desires, by choosing to break out of what was only a thin shell and live my life to the fullest: proverbial but true. Now, I'm free to allow myself to be open about the fact that I can still do all those things and be a good person...
That I can understand her when she says she wants to be treated like a dirty little minx...
That I can freely take pleasure from doing something that also brings pleasure to my partner...
That I can create a deep intimacy that's so hard to beat just because it's so liberating...
That I can finally unlearn what "women are" and instead focus on what "women need"...
That I can explore my own self, inside and out, and know the meaninglessness of convention...
That I can open myself up so completely to someone and have the knowledge of a sturdy shoulder...
That I can reinforce my self-confidence even with such admissions...
That I can break my perceptions towards pain and embrace my mistakes at the most basic levels...
That I can explore the liberties of consensus and understand my woman much better...
And still be a good man.
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