I told three friends the other day that I wrote BDSM erotica. I even gave them my pseudonym so they could read it. They are the 3rd, 4th and 5th people I’ve told since I started publishing my work in December. I’m not out as a submissive to many people, obviously, and sharing my writing essentially outs me, as it’s all about femdom and it wouldn’t take a genius to put it together. But telling these friends felt right. These are good people: the kind who see the weird in you and like you more for it. After telling them, I quickly said: “Don’t think just because I write about it that I want it to happen to me, ok? A lot of stuff is just for the story. It’s not me. Ok?”
I was lying. I want most what I write about to happen to me. And the things I think they would be most shocked by, the things I was thinking of when I said that to them: I especially want that. I want to be put over someone’s knee and spanked for not making the bed correctly. I want someone to make me eat oatmeal drenched in her piss. A part of me is ashamed of wanting that. And a larger part of me is ashamed for feeling that shame.