Every man I’ve ever loved also loved the whore in me. My first kink was sex in public places. I had sex outside a prayer meeting, on a trampoline, and next to a dam. I gave head in cars and got laid in fields. I had so much public sex that it stopped being interesting. My casual sex months followed. I spent five days holed up in a five-star hotel with a giant penis I’d met in a bookstore after work. The sex was crap, but the food was excellent. Then there were threesomes and fistings and bondage.
By 30, I thought I’d come into contact with every possible form of kink. I was wrong. Move along. There is nothing to see here—just obsessive lust that you can play with in a thousand meaningless ways. I’ve experienced enough sexual emptiness to fuel years of obsession, and I never, ever want to feel that sick inside again.
These days, I’m only whorish if there is love. That fills the void and shoves out the darkness.
I treat kink like a walk on the blade of a knife. One clumsy step, and there will be blood—and not the fun kind. I could blame my rape, I suppose. It certainly made sex dangerous for me. I could also blame my obsessive nature, and I’d be right too, to a degree, but I think the truth is simpler: I have already had years and years of empty sex. I found it wasn’t to my taste. It left me feeling like you do on a humid beachside day when all the salt is sticky on your skin and everything feels filthy—that’s what empty sex made me feel inside.
Love doesn’t do that.