Hey folks! It’s been a couple of weeks, so I thought I’d check in. I’m attaching a cap that wrote a several months ago, that some of you may have already seen. I am posting it here because I like it, and would like to share it as part of my official canon.
I would also like to rap with you a bit about a topic with which you might be familiar: shame. I have written about it in the past, but it keeps popping up. I feel that shame is intimately linked with our peculiar manner of arousal.
You may also call it humiliation, if you’d like… but there can be doubt that our brand of fetish falls clearly outside of social norms. Is this simply a byproduct, or something more? Are we misfits by nature, or did our perversion somehow contribute to this outcome?
I have heard a lot of people say, some highly reputable sources, to not to be ashamed by our fetish: embrace it; embody it; be proud. I would say no: be ashamed... be very, very ashamed. Shame is spicy, shame is hot, and without it, they are only just clothes.
Now, fetish and identity are two separate things. Yes, I am in favor of confidence and self-esteem, but my sexual fantasies are irrevocably tied with social anxieties. We can have two lives, says I, and balance our duality, inside and outside the closet.
Embrace it? No, fight it! Accept it? No, deny it! Be like those quantum particles with simultaneous ontologies.
I feel awful sometimes, so deeply depressed… meaningless, isolated, confused. I like to maintain a public persona, but privately I am overwrought. My shame is private, it is mine, and you cannot have it. I would cry out: Reclaim the Shame!
Whip that surly bastard, but do not let him go… no matter how he wriggles.