The holidays are a mixed bag of broken glass and barbed wire dental floss, and every year dragging my ass into the seventh ring of hell known as the exurbs becomes harder and harder. Every year it is the same balancing act of niceties and bamboo skewers from pier1 imports through my heart. We put up with Republican tirades on taxation and traditions that involve door-buster sales, and every year we drive home with a little more of our collective soul eaten by modern America.
It has been less than a year since ZG and I came out and started playing rougher and with others, but I am not going to make some stupid “I’m thankful for a paddle” post. No, I am much more interested in the idea of subversion and change. As I wander around drinking half-caff drip coffee, listening to stories about college parties and coupons, I am comforted by the number of our friends that have started to explore their kinks.
I do not believe that anyone is truly “vanilla.” The idea of straight forward, face-to-face, until we’re done sex getting anybody off is hard for me to believe. Whether it is power exchange, submission or bisexuality, there are so many different ways to explore the mental stimulation that goes along with the physical act. This is not to say that everyone is into extreme games, that you have to have multiple partners or go to sex clubs — you can simply read or flirt online! But, in the end, most find that getting the brain involved in sex will make you a happier, more-adventurous person.
As I wander through the cul-de-sacs, past the inflatable santas and oversized snowglobes, I am comforted by the thought that while most everyone is lying to each other about their kinks and proclivities, they are lying to themselves less and less. People are becoming more honest and seeing that it is okay. The suburbs are awakening to their twisted selves and listening to their perverted hearts. I take solace in the fact that there are new fetishes for McMansion with a dungeon in the partially finished basement, suburban sprawl like a St. Andrew’s Cross and keeping up with the Joneses’ (dungeon edition). Even though they are not for me (not all kinks are for all), they are out there twisting and subverting the well manicured lawns and two and half car garages.
It is not to say that I am moving to the suburbs. I still see the suburbs are the American Gulag Archipelago (to be known from now on as the AGA), a place of exile. There are still many things that I disagree with — religion, politics, gender and sexaulity rights, etc. — but this is a glimmer of hope. A sign that more people are learning to accept themselves, and if they can learn to accept themselves, maybe just maybe they can learn to accept each other. So as the holidays roll along, and I am psychologically flayed by roads that meander for no reason and branded by inane decals on SUVs, I will escape into my own future acts and the hope that someday, these trips will hold moments of twisted pleasure that they do not currently. Already I know the answer to this hope; you make the torture that you most enjoy, and if I am going to find sadistic release, I am going to have to bring it with me and find people in the ‘burbs to play with.