“Before you treat me, I need to make sure you’re comfortable with a few things.”
“I’m part of the local kink community. I’m really into it. It’s important to me.”
“Kink community?” The look on my therapist’s face is one of sheer confusion.
I sigh. I’d worried when I saw the framed bit of scripture on her desk, the religious books in the waiting room, an ad in the lobby encouraging pastors to refer their parishioners to this practice. “Well…” I fidget, avert my gaze. “I kind of go to a dungeon.”
“A dungeon.” My therapist repeats. “And by dungeon, you mean…”
“It’s a social club,” I explain.
“A place where people have sex?” she asks.
I shake my head. “There are places like that around, sure, but I don’t go to those. People get naked at the dungeon, whip each other. But it’s not all about pain. I mean, that’s just one aspect.”
“I see,” she says.
“Like, for example,” I say. “I like costumes a lot, dressing up, prancing around in fancy clothes.” And getting the crap beaten out of me, I add in my head.
She tells me she’s fine with that, that she thinks we’re still a good fit for one another.
After my appointment, I take Skyspook to a diner to thank him for giving me a ride to therapy, our usual ritual. He sees something on my face. “What’s wrong?”
I tell him what I said to her, and more importantly what I didn’t say. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell her. I’m not ashamed to be a masochist. I’m proud of my submission.”
He’s understanding, says he gets my caution.
There’s so much already I need to work on in therapy. I worry such a revelation would in a best case scenario result in wasted time – and in a worst case scenario, judgment, pressure for intervention, complete derailing of our therapeutic relationship. And I like her. I feel like we’re building rapport. I don’t want to mess it up.
As the weeks go by, I find myself editing out situations relating to my kink, knowing it’ll blossom into a bigger discussion, still not wanting to open that can of worms. But it’s there in the periphery, and the longer time goes on, the more I worry about screwing things up by springing it on her.
Dealing with the divorce, the stress from the cross country move, childhood/teenage traumas, there never seems to be a good time to say, “Oh, by the way, I love to be beaten, mind fucked, called names, and used like a slut. It makes me feel really loved.”
At the same time, it feels wrong to hide these things from her.