Why I’m a Feminist Pervert


This is a repost of an original essay written here. No changes have been made.

Being a Fetish Coach is fun by definition and… (un)surprisingly, fun by practice as well. So far, with the few clients I have accumulated, it seems that these modern-day people feel as though they can lead their private lives out of the darker recesses of insecurity and shame; they can bring their perversity out into the open with acceptance and gratitude. Why gratitude? Well, haven’t you felt some hint of grace when impacted with that first passionate kiss, that untimely touch, that insatiable surge of sexual madness, as if you’ve been afflicted by some terrible disease? Weren’t you utterly happy to realize that your body, essentially, did not give way to civilized codes of conduct, that no matter what you’ve been taught, it still couldn’t help but drop a bit of genital dew when exposed to impassioned incidents and people? You know what I’m talking about. Backseat mischief, a subtle slide of the hand in a crowded restaurant, necking in the basement of your parents’ house?

I never did any of those things when I was in high school. In elementary school, I made out with my best friend’s brother while my best friend made out with a boy who would later sexually harass me some years later, which is probably why I was so unattainable during my teen years. It didn’t show, though. Between Francesca Lia Block’s sensual daydreams of destructive sexual exploits and Camille Paglia’s feminist lectures on sexual angst I was a self-contained pervert in the making. No boy in high school would understand the fire that left my brain a seething organ to match my sex, and that’s probably for the best.

Sorry. That was a tangent. If you’ve read my Myspace blogs, you would get used to them by now.

Anyway, my job is to sit on your left shoulder and whisper in your ear that it’s okay. It’s okay to break a rule. It’s okay to be weird. It’s okay to be a pervert.

Am I a pervert? Upon being asked what fetishes I enjoyed, I shrugged. There are only a number of kinks that really launches my rocket. But, indeed, I do love to pretend. I love to let go. I love to be a stranger in a strange world where the only impulses I have are Pagan, natural, crude. I love fucking around in public. I love touching when I shouldn’t. I love being told no and defying such resistance. I love being told yes and teasing the expected results. I love being a pervert.

While I dislike religion, I am devoted to ritual. I am devoted to performance. It’s arousing to feel out of my skin and, yet, so inevitably tied to it. Being stoned but better because, for the most part, I am completely sober and utterly orgasmic.

Being a pervert requires breaking the rules. And, a hard line to walk is being able to continuously bend the rules enough so you won’t get into too much trouble. This is what I teach my clients. This is my profession.

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