Celebrating Kink

whatawaytoburn is hosting a lovely kinky party on dreamwidth that seems to have taken off quite a bit: Let’s celebrate kink! Because why the fuck not? Archiving my comment here:

I love desperation. Maybe it’s being so turned on you can’t help but come in your pants, or maybe you’re holding your piss until you can’t anymore. Maybe it’s being desperate for nonsexual touch and calmed by hands on you. Maybe it’s desperately in love. Whatever you’re desperate for, I want to see it. It doesn’t have to be sexual at all; I’m not sexual. I want to see people alive like that, that’s all. Pure need, yearning. I want you to bare your soul to me.

I want to read a slash fic where you open your pants for me to come in them, followed by you zipping them back up and then getting off in them yourself, in my come.

I want to read a fic where we’re abandoned on another planet and only have each other to rely on; I want it to get serious and deep and close without getting sexual. I want us to be terrified that we won’t get home, and I want us desperate for each other, because we’re literally all there is.

I want you to cross my wrists and tie them over my head. I want you to stroke my body without pattern until I fall asleep, or I want you to lie down next to me and set a hand on my stomach and not move it, just talk until I fall asleep. I want to kneel at your feet and rest my head on your knee and float, and I want you to stroke my hair absently and otherwise ignore me – read a book or make a business deal or talk to your parents on the phone. I want you to call me your pet as a description of our relationship, and I want it to be clear to everyone that it’s not derogatory or humiliating but the most loving place I could inhabit. I want to wear a collar, and I want you to have the only key.

I want to hold you down and just look at you. I want you to accept it without struggle. I want to make you hold yourself still as I put out matches on the inside of your arm. I want to watch you fail to stay still as I put out a match on the inside of your thigh. I want to learn how to flog you exactly the way you want. I want to fuck you and hurt you and tease you and love you, and I want to do it because you ask me to. I want to do it all to your specifications, under your command, in your service.

I want to be chained up in your closet while you fuck someone else in our bed.


On Health and Privacy

Just because I swallow a pill in your presence doesn’t mean that my health is suddenly any of your business. You don’t get to ask me what I took, or why I took it, or what medical conditions do I have that make me need to take it. You don’t get to ask me how often do I take that particular medicine or how strong is it. And you most certainly do not get to become offended when I tell you that’s personal information instead of answering your invasive questions.

This is a situation that arose for me last night. My volunteer supervisor asked me these questions. In this case, it was a mild NSAID – certainly nothing that affected my ability to do my job or was dangerous for anyone. I suppose you could argue that he didn’t know that, but that doesn’t change the facts: Whether or not I tell anyone – and who I tell, and how much detail I give – is my decision entirely. As a casual acquaintance whose name I cannot even reliably remember (and who cannot reliably remember mine, either), he had no business even considering asking these questions. But wait, that implies that someone does!

Yes, a few people have the right to ask me these questions, but it is a right that I gave to them. My healthcare providers. My mother, who is my medical emergency contact, supplies my health insurance, and pays the bulk of my healthcare bills. My queerplatonic partner, who is my primary emergency contact, not to mention my partner and an important part of many of my major decisions.

But the list ends there, so if you’re not on it, keep your curiosities to yourself. It’s one thing to express concern if you have reason to believe I have taken something unsafe. Beyond that? I am not your museum exhibit.