Even before I even knew terms like “Kinkster,” “vanilla,” and “kink shaming,” one word often came to mind: perverted. Especially while I was discovering and exploring my sexual preferences. The term was floating around in my head. Like a leaky faucet in a new apartment you’re just starting to furnish. Like an unwanted guest on a cruise ship heading to brave new shores. Like the catty aunt at the wedding who stuffs herself with cheesecake and tells everyone how much she dislikes the groom. That’s what that word felt like.
I want to be perverse, but I don’t want to be perverted!
Nobody had to tell me “That’s perverted!” counter-emotional. Thanks to my background and upbringing, I managed that quite well on my own. I knew that others would label my sexual behavior as perverted. However, the first thing that came to mind when I heard the word was bad things. A sweaty bus driver who harasses school children. A disturbed teenager who tortures animals. Was I on the same level as such criminals? Just because I like role-playing games?
Alright, I knew there was room for differentiation. Still, the accusation against myself lingered like a pile of junk in the hallway. It needed to be cleared out, but somehow, I never got around to it, and—oh well—maybe I’ll need those coasters again when guests come over. When friends and acquaintances joke about the “perverted Fetishists” on “Frauentausch” (a German TV-Show, can be translated as “Wife Swap”) over a cup of coffee. And it’s easier to just smile innocently and nod rather than let on that you’ve already googled the sex toy from minute 78.
As much as I enjoyed learning to understand my inclinations and discovering BDSM for myself, I often labeled myself as “kinky”. Maybe because I didn’t have another word for it. Maybe because, like Fat Amy, I preferred to do it myself before someone else did it. Then I would have responded to the “You’re a pervert!” replies: “Yes! I know. And I think it’s great.” But the bitter aftertaste of being abnormal remained.
The beautiful sound of breaking taboos.
Today I know better. I’ve learned that I’m not “fake different,” I’m just “different.” I know other words. I know other “perverts” (because that’s what they like to call themselves) and not perverted Kinksters. In the community you learn that you are not abnormal just because you break what is taboo for others with excitement. And even how beautiful it is to dance to the sound of breaking taboos. To celebrate yourself and others. I have learned that my tendencies are not a basis for blame. My different behavior no longer needs to be explained, neither to myself nor to others.
Normal is an illusion. What is normal to the spider is chaos to the fly.
Morticia Addams, The Addams Family
I was now supposed to write an article for Deviance about the term “pervert”. To be honest, before I properly researched and dealt with the topic professionally, I thought: “How is a blind man supposed to lead the blind? I can no longer distinguish between what is perverted and what is not!”
So I asked some of my vanilla friends and was told: “All you need to do is remake the bed.” Or: “Some people think it’s perverse when you stick your finger in their bottom while you’re doing it.” It continued with: “I would find it perverse if you wore a chicken costume and relieved yourself in the yard.” But there was also the opinion: “Perverted…those are the things that are particularly fun.” And my favorite answer: “Do you remember that time you dipped your fries in Nutella? Kitteh, THAT was perverted.”
