I've been working on a re-release of a novel I wrote in 2001, Affairs of a Wicked Heart, and this little gem about the nature of our BDSM kink caught my eye. It's nice surprises like this that jump out at me when I'm combing through those old archives of fantasy. I really wrote that?
It's been my conviction for many many years that we're either born with the kink gene or not. Not much different than our gender or the color of our eyes or whether we prefer broccoli over green beans. Where does the fantasy, the obsession that drives us come from? My fascination for kink (in the form of spanking) began at such an early age that it couldn't be explained away by what I saw on TV or read in stories ... unless it was the fairy tales of childhood that inspired it. I'm quite sure there's some connection to the way I was disciplined at an early age...but I'm tired of combing that old territory to understand how it all began. After spending many years with the psychologist in me trying to figure it out, I'm content to enjoy the fantasy now ... in whatever way I choose. Fantasy or real life ... both have aspects that satisfy the need.
After reading this, I felt a little wistful about how kink was in the past (meaning 20 years ago) when the images and erotica of Masters, Slave and BDSM sex weren't so accessible. Kink is hardly the secret it used to be ... like trying to push a genie back in the lamp, or close Pandora's Box ... it'll never be the naughty little secret it once was.
An excerpt from Affairs of a Wicked Heart...
“Masters and slaves, it’s not a made up world,” Ellery rises from his chair and struts about demonstratively, cocks his head, going into and out of the bright sunlight like an apparition mutating from ghost to flesh and back. “It’s not fantasy, Jordan.” He turns and strolls away, still talking, “It’s the 21st century, but we still ache for 7th century values—if you can call it ‘values’. We’re seduced by our own previous reincarnations is the only way I can explain it. The memories are shrill; they climb from tombs of centuries ago and haunt us, specters in our dreams. We don’t have to think about it, we don’t need the media to sell us the images, we find them on our own, seek them out when we’re little, sprinkled in fairy tales that our parents read to us as innocent stories. We grow up with the passions desiring expression and gravitate to those who share our secret kink—sometimes without even knowing. Of course, now we have an Internet that floods us with information and every graphic rendering of our darkest thoughts—we don’t need our imaginations to fuel the desire anymore. We can even create it in those for whom it is not naturally there. But our Miss Desmond, there’s a real slave under her skin. She’s a breath of fresh air for a man like me.” He lights a cigarette from a gold case that lies on the table next to the pictures. He’s forgotten that he’s trying to quit, and as he puffs vigorously, the smoke curls into the hazy, sparkle of sunshine, getting lost.
Then Ellery continue ... “I rather preferred it when it wasn’t so ‘out there’, when our lifestyle remained a pure secret. Oh, how the desire could melt you then, when no one knew, no one could know, except those special few.”
I'll have another juice, sexy excerpt for tomorrow. This one stands on its own.