I'm not that kinky

I have to admit, I'm not that kinky. I mean, sure I like to be tied up. A lot. I even like being the one in charge and fucking her (for some value of her) with any one of my toys, hands, or whatever else is handy. But, the really deep-down-dirty kinky stuff? Not my thing.

For me it stops at sexy time. And even then it isn't an all the time thing. I'm not a fan of pain (mine or hers). Discomfort? Sure. That achy-burning-twitchy feeling from restraints? Oh, absolutely. But not real pain. Nothing more painful than (for instance) a tattoo or piercing. No blood. No marks, please.

I love being told what to do, but nothing too weird, well... maybe. Maybe a little bit.

I'm an amateur when it comes to kink, despite twenty years of fun with it. I'm more interested in the feeling of it, the experience of my kinks: perceived (or maybe real) powerlessness and a depth of trust that goes beyond reason into the depths of the soul.

I love feeling the layers of social graces tear away, but I'm not that kinky. Not really. Right?

Most of you have probably guessed where this is going. My kinks, just like yours (if you have any—and I suspect that everyone has some kind of kink, some button that says "yes" and "more" and "I can't think anymore") are mine. I like what I like, and I pull away from what I don't. And the lies that we can tell ourselves (and each other) about our own sex lives, our own desires, really can make it much harder to get what we want. I may not be really kinky, but I am kinky.

I can own that.