Pissing on the Oyster

By Viola

There are certain pillars of the kink/BDSM/fetish/leather communities that have been pushing the following message:

“Queer organizers realized that if someone knew a gay or lesbian person, they were less likely to discriminate against them. The problem was that most people didn’t know an openly gay person. Queers started coming out of the closet, and that fixed a lot of discrimination issues. Since the general population discriminates against kinky people, we should all come out of the closet as kinky! So tell your friends and neighbors that you’re kinky, and they’ll be more accepting of kinky people, and this is how our movement will work! In 20 years, kinky people will be just as accepted as queers!”

And every single time I hear this argument, I want to rip my hair out.

Let’s get something straight. I’m not going to “come out” as kinky to my neighbors, colleagues, professors, and family. There is nothing that would horrify my mother more than to hear the words “Mom, I’m a super huge pervert and I’m kinky.” This has nothing to do with my mom’s views on sex, but the fact that my mother doesn’t need or want to know about my sex life. If I told my professional contacts that I was kinky, my career prospects would go down the toilet, not because of anything I do in bed, but because nobody in the world would hire a lawyer who was known for walking up to people to talk about their kinky sex life. In the real world, people think you’re a tad weird if you walk up to them at random and announce that you enjoy kinky sex. Sometimes they even complain to HR. Just sayin’.

But looking past the possibility of shooting myself in the foot professionally (worst case scenario), announcing to the world that another overworked, socially awkward 20-something graduate student started having halfway decent sex will do nothing for the “movement” or “community.” Regardless of the social ramifications of spilling your sexy secrets right before moot court tryouts, nobody really gives a damn what I’m doing in bed, and I refuse to inform them. Being a dyke is hard enough — it somehow seems that whenever someone “innocently” asks you what lesbians do in bed, they really want you to tell them your titillating lady lovemaking stories, a verbal play-by-play of what you do in the sack. I’m sick of it, and will not participate.*** Not for kink, not for queerness, not for anyone. Sorry, my business is my business, and only I get to choose what to disclose and discuss for the sake of political activism.

But then that leads to another issue: what, exactly, is kinky? To “come out” as kinky means so many things to so many people, and while I do indeed plan to spend a lot of time and effort to write, educate, and discuss the ramifications surrounding quite a few pretty problematic laws (see “Kink and the Law” by Brian), I might not be all that kinky. I’m not a whips and chains kind of girl, I’m not a Master/slave kind of girl, and I’m not even all that much of a “lifestyle” girl. I’m a queer poly chick who likes interesting sex with smart, hot people. I like play parties, primarily because I like people, sexuality, nudity, and general pervy creativity, and I like having sex with a healthy dose of D/s that ends as soon as the sexy fun does. But when people think “kinky” they don’t think about what I do, exactly. They don’t think about someone who looks and behaves as I do — that’s not because there’s a stereotype and I don’t fit into it, it’s because there are so many ways to be deliciously perverted. So there’s a conundrum; if one decides to “come out” as kinky, do you let your audience assume whatever you want, or do you sit down with the nice lady across the street who came over to borrow a cup of sugar and tell her all about your passion for spreader bars, public fisting, and interrogation play?

I think the way our society views sexuality is indeed problematic, and in theory I agree with the notion that dialogue may spark a change. But to compare the oppression, social stigma, brutality, and fear that has permeated the public’s view of queers to the inability to speak freely about going to a play party is bullshit. Sure, there’s a bit of overlap concerning a history of criminalization of sexuality. But truly, it’s a different struggle with different consequences. I will file my taxes differently, will speak to the human resources office at every future employer differently (since most workplaces won’t extend benefits to my partner), will deal with the legal ramifications of buying a house while unmarried, will be classified as “single” for legal purposes, and will inevitably write my will differently because I’m queer; a straight, married heterosexual couple will probably never have to do these things differently just because they’re kinky. The idea that the two movements (queer and kink-awareness) are parallel and will remain so for the entire trajectory of their evolution is also, quite frankly, absurd. While Heather might have two mommies, Heather’s mommies probably won’t be illustrated wearing collars and smacking each other with crops. There are limitations to the comparison between kinky people and queer people, as well as the different struggles — political, social, and cultural — that individuals face because of their queer identity or kinky activities.

So let’s step back. Let’s look at what we’re saying about kink, sexuality, and the law. Let’s examine exactly what coming out is, why it might be meaningful, and why one might “come out” as kinky before encouraging everyone who might be interested in wrist restrains and crotchless panties to sacrifice their livelihood. My freak flag is at the dry cleaner for a reason — I have one, but I’m not flying it. It’s clean, well-pressed, and hidden from the population at large. I don’t fly it because if I decide I want to express my political views surrounding sexuality in a public forum, I want that day to be significant; it might come, perhaps, but it won’t be tomorrow. To establish myself as a normal, professional, intelligent, articulate person whose opinions matter and authority as a scholar, jurist, or activist are respected seems to be my biggest priority at this point in my life. To lose the opportunity to do these things for the sake of kink-related activism seems counter intuitive. The world is my oyster, so I’m not peeing on it.

***Okay, I lied. My next column, lesbian sex for straight men, will debut soon. After reading it, you’ll never have to ask me that horribly awkward question ever again.