Imagine this. You have finally made it out of the group stages in your pursuit of that madam who discombobulates you. You have breezed through the knockout rounds, and now you find yourself at the precipice of a final, to be played on your home turf.
It is only normal to want to pull out all the stops, right? You swore to yourself when she was playing hard to get that you would show her everything.
But then you pull out a move to send her into cardiac arrest, and instead of inspiring those mini tremors that start in the Achilles and vibrate the hamstring, it causes her to shout the safe word and call a time-out. "What was that?" she demands, eyes wide, hands on her chest in genuine horror. "What makes you think I'm the kind of girl who would be into that?" "Where did you even learn something like that?"
That, you want to tell her, is between you, your god, and your internet service provider. But you realise her disgust is genuine. She is not being coy, she really was thrown off by your kink, and from the way she is eyeing you, that may well be the last time you're invited to perform at Wimbledon.
Revealing your fetish is like walking a tightrope. On the one hand, you want to be perceived as open-minded, adventurous, and even worldly. You know? You want your partner to know that you've been around the block. That you know your way around a kitchen and are not afraid to try new things. That you're not so boring your ability begins and ends with driving the nail in.
On the other hand, though, you do not want to be on the receiving end of uncomfortable questions just because you tried something risky.
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You don't want the person whose legs you were just bunching together like you were about to change their diaper to turn into a therapist. Just because you asked if you could drink milk from their navel. Or because an involuntary moan escaped your lips when they pinched your previously unresponsive nipples. Is this a safe space or not, Susan?
Still, you should consider yourself lucky if your particular fetishes and proclivities fall within the acceptable range. Because let me tell you, there are people who are wild in this our fair city. And the only reason they are not living out their fantasies is a fear of kink-shaming. I know a gentleman who doesn't mind being slapped around a bit. If he isn't coming out of that bedroom with a black eye and a few scratches down his back, that woman will be forgotten faster than the MaDVD earthquake.
Another fella likes to watch his woman get hit on by other men. He found out when it happened at a club, and he couldn't intervene because he was visibly aroused. And there is one who once tried on his wife's g-string, and he did not hate how it felt. It has since become his (Victoria's) secret for confidence; if he needs a shot of adrenaline for a work presentation or something, all he has to do is grab something risque from his wife's undergarment collection, and those corporate jokers won't know what hit them.
A lady once told me that she was choked to the point of seeing literal stars and that she was unconscious for a few minutes. But it was also the most intense orgasm of her life, and in the morning, she was on the rooftop airing out her mattress along with her neighbour's bedwetting kid.
We are an enlightened generation if the sex toy business is anything to go by. We are also one of the kinkier countries, according to Google search data. But it seems we are still pretty tame when it comes to the more extreme items on the spectrum. Or perhaps we are hiding our true selves online, but behind closed doors, we put everything and anything in our mouths.
My heart goes out to the weirdos. It must be so disheartening to have to stick to plain, this-goes-here bedroom 'manenos' when you would much rather be dripping candle wax onto someone's nether-adjacent regions.
That you have to pretend to enjoy circling between the same three positions as if you're not fantasizing about dangling your missus over the edge of a balcony by their weave.