Offending Fetlife: Why I Write what I Do

These days offense seems like a badge people take pride in wearing, as though outrage makes them a part of some kind of special club. Write that the sky is blue and you’ll draw a pissed off comment about how you dared forget to mention the clouds. Satire, though, gathers so much offense online that the genre is dying a quick death.

Editors tired of battling contention pressure their writers to choose less important themes and then ultimately stop publishing stuff that’s unpalatable for the masses. Ever tried hunting for satire online these days? There aren’t many quality sources for a reason: satire comments threads aren’t exactly fun to moderate what with all the rage floating around. Add to that the fact that a huge number of people take satire literally and you’re left with an administrative nightmare. Most decide it isn’t worth it.

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It’s tempting to jump off into softer genres. Hell, I’ve done it for months on end. I keep on coming back to satire, though, because social commentary has its place in our community. If we don’t stay aware of our culture’s habits and foibles, it becomes that much easier to drink the Kool-Aid.

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SpanishRed’s Most Excellent Guide on How to Make K&P

Making K&P is the most important part of being kinky. It’s a myth that BDSM is about bondage, discipline, yadayadawhogivesafuck. The highest echelons of kink are found next to a picture of Depraved Eros throttling yet another sub while gazing broodingly into the distance. How is anyone supposed to take you seriously as a dom if you’ve never been in the top 10?

How to Make K&P

Write About K&P

The best way to make K&P is to write a post about how to make K&P. This might seem to create a circular problem in that if you don’t know how to make K&P, you can’t write about it, but behold my most excellent example: Here I am writing about how to make K&P even though I don’t have a clue what I’m talking about. You can, too!


Rants about how men need to stop sending sexually charged messages to women and using cock shot avatars make K&P approximately 5.95 times a day. You might feel tempted to be original with this one, but resist the urge. How are you supposed to find enough hours in the day to write stuff nobody’s read beforeand update your posts 50 times a day? Exactly, but now I’m getting ahead of myself.

Forcing Fetlife to Love your Crap

Fetlife knows that being on K&P is more important than life itself so its members can be stingy with their loves. If they’re not clicking on that button, you need to teach them a lesson. That lesson is called “update, update, update.” Don’t feel embarrassed that people will see right through you. They’ll understand because they, too, think that being on K&P is exactly the same as winning a Pulitzer.

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Use Your Friends

What are friends for if not to be stepped all over as you climb towards your loftiest ambitions? If you take BDSM seriously, you will already have a list of 20 000 of your closest and most intimate friends. Once you’ve written your post, send them all a link to it because you’re the only person on Fetlife who knows how to read the newsfeed.

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Men, Merlot, and Me

Whenever I read a post about wrinkles, receding hairlines, and grey hair on men, it’s written from a place of acceptance; no more, no less. In other words, “it’s okay if you have physical flaws because you’re all mature and stuff so I’ll look beyond them.” If that’s you, please do me a favour and leave me to my pick of those “flaws” because I’m a bit of a connoisseur.

I don’t have daddy issues. I swear. I just think crow’s feet are the sexiest things that were ever invented (other than cocks, obviously). Next on my list is salt and pepper hair, and I’ll take that receding hairline, too. If at all possible, can I have a steady, relentless gaze as well? The type that proves your intellect is less pronounced than your wisdom?


A gracefully-aged man is the physical embodiment of his own well-hewn character. This is someone who wears his life experiences on his face, and damned if that wisdom isn’t sexy to look at. It’s one thing to objectify a Calvin Klein model (and believe me, I can) and quite another to objectify a man who has that much depth. Sex appeal that sinks all the way down to the root is delectable.

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Depression Doesn’t Make You Stupid

(Trigger warning: suicide)

Of all the idiocy around common thinking about suicide, nothing annoys me more than this little gem:

Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

Depression is not simple enough to be fixed by a clichéd trope. Mental illness never is, but I hate that line primarily because being suicidal doesn’t make you stupid. It doesn’t make you think death is impermanent for god sakes.

Suicide is kind of a major decision </understatement>, so by the time someone starts asking how to die instead of why, they’ve already taken a long, hard look at all the awfulness involved. They know it’s permanent. They’re comfortable with that fact. Its permanence is soothing when you’re in that much pain, so please put your cute saying away somewhere muggy and dark where nobody needs to see it again.

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I’ll never understand what makes lay people think they can explain suicide to a suicidal person when they’ve never been there. By ‘been there’, I don’t mean one of those miserable whims that arrives for five minutes after you break up with your girlfriend. If you think you understand what kind of darkness lies behind suicidal ideation and have never been depressed, you’re probably wrong.


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Trying to get past an abusive relationship is like trying to stop being a ghost

Trying to get over an abusive relationship is like swimming through mud. It’s sticky and ugly and it takes forever to move forward. Making it out isn’t enough because you’re still covered in filth, and the world looks like a different planet.

It’s like wearing glasses after having spent a lifetime without them, except they show you a side of the world that’s ugly and hateful, not clear and beautiful. That kind of world—one that’s covered in daisies and light, is long gone. It was just an illusion.

Evolving from anger to acceptance is not enough. You must begin the process of reclaiming your self-worth. You must live with your new awareness that there is that much cruelty in the world, but you must evolve beyond your cynicism. You must trust a man again one day.

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You must start talking in ‘I’ instead of ‘you’ statements because it didn’t happen to someone else. It happened to you, and talking in the second person is just your way of pretending you feel free.


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Fuck Roses. Give Me Sex and Hendrix.

My mother was an engineer, so it wasn’t as though I spent my childhood surrounded by pink and roses. My family valued the sublime things in life, not the pretty ones: Food, not diets. Sex, not romance. Authenticity, not manners. Hendrix, not flowers. I was taught to kick visitors out at the end of the night when I wanted to go to sleep and to make them bring their own damn food to dinner at my place if I was feeling lazy. I only learned how to be diplomatic when I was in my thirties. I don’t value politeness much. I prefer generosity.

I guess that’s why Google’s algorithm thinks I’m a teenage boy. Some of my friends have the same impression. I never did grow up, and I never became a lady, either. My girliness started lagging behind the second I turned nine. I do sex and relationships with about as much femininity as a sea turtle.

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I like my space. I like my partner to do his thing without me half the time, and I definitely require him to enjoy his life. The capacity to find joy is one of the most important things I look for in a man. I don’t care what brings it to him, but I do care that something does. Maybe it’s an odd thing to look for in a person, but my life is magical because I take plenty of pleasure out of day to day living. I arrange it according to what I love, and I want to spend time with a partner who does the same. Mostly, I want a man who lets me live freely. I hate being cramped and limited by relationships. I want someone who can roll around in life’s excesses with me and enjoy it.


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The Puzzle of E

I could wonder what E did to make me the sub I was for years on end without coming up with a conclusive answer. It was that mysterious and insane. How does a man get a brat like me to turn into a sub? How does he get a disciplined person like me to let go absolutely?

How does he turn a vanilla feminist into an utter whore? I wish I knew. I think it was magic. I think he put Viagra in my food and hypnotised me while I slept. Okay. So that’s not likely, but I do occasionally come up with some more rational theories about it.

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One of the things that made him different was that he had zero sense of entitlement as a dominant. He didn’t expect anything from me—not even the slightest ounce of submission, and so he got it all. Lack of entitlement comes with a special side effect: gratitude. He genuinely appreciated even the tiniest things I gave him, so I gave him the big things, the absurd things, the things I’d never dream of giving a man.

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