Welcome to the New Kink

Here’s one of my favorites.

There was knock at my backdoor one evening, a shy, hesitant tapping at the glass door, almost a bit seductive. The kind of tapping that makes you check yourself in the mirror before you see who’s behind the tapping. It was the polite young neighbor from down the block. She looked like she’s been crying about something, so I escorted her inside, give her a fleeting hug, my hand placed on the small of her back, that delicate dip between her ribs and her curvy, shapely backside, and lead her to the couch.

I handed her a drink, a simple gin and tonic, and listened to her story intently, but it’s one I’ve heard countless times before, and it’s both heartbreaking and a siren’s call to me. How her and her husband are struggling to start a family, timing their love making to her cycles, saving it up for exactly the right moments, reading all the literature, yet nothing ever flowers. How the doctors and the experts, with their degrees and expensive tests and more expensive tests, can’t find the answer, always have no concrete answers, but more tests. How if her husband thinks he’s the problem, he’ll die, feel emasculated, and how she feels so helpless, but she has the urge to just do . . . *something*. She looked at me imploringly, silently begging me to make the first move.

I told her it’s okay, I understond completely, as I took her hand and helped her off the couch. I led her upstairs to the bedroom, and unbuttoned, unzipped, undressed her with precision. Then I took her. No games, no tricks, no toys, no nothing. I released deep inside her, completely abdicating myself to her voracious arms, her voracious womb. Thank you, she whispered when I was done, and then I was helping her back into her clothes, sending her home to get dinner ready for her husband.

Then there was the secretary that worked in the same building as me. She was always asking our co-workers about their kids, dreamily following her friends’ Facebook feeds and Twitter accounts full of happy cherub-faced babies. We did it on her desk the first time, my desk the second time, sweeping aside books and files and a laptop. Missionary position, her hips arched, angled for maximum pooling of my sperm around her crervix when I finish inside her. She told me she’d name him after me if it’s a boy. I blush, told her to name it after my father instead.

My therapist claimed she’s seeing more of this all the time. There’s no monthly newsletters or psychological research articles dedicated to us just yet, she said as she removed her heels, no secret clubs or Facebook groups beyond the anonymous dark fringes of the internet, but just wait.

She had a theory about my behavior, how I’m ahead of the curve. How the old sex fetishes are starting to rust away, slowly dying from exposure and over indulgence, but I’m part of the new breed, the new fetish.

Before, perversity has meant nonreproductive sex, she said, as she leaned back on the couch and pulled up her skirt, perversity meant barren sex. Sex without consequences, sex without the natural results of sex. Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Self Sex, Homosexual Sex, Sadomasochistic Sex, Phone Sex, Pornography Sex, Cyber Sex. All barren.

Of course, she continued after, as she pulled up her panties, lacy pink silk panties that looked quite expensive, there is the atomic bomb of all nonreproductive sex, Protected Sex. Birth Control. Condoms. Day After Pills. Everyone could now get in on the perversity. Perversity now meant finding a way to trick mother nature, get the pleasures of the orgasms without the intended consequences of the baby. But it has gone too far, she said, the pendulum has swung too far the other direction, and now sex is almost always nonreproductive, it is expected to be perverse. Humanity only sought to win the battle against nature, but now it’s won the war, and doesn’t even realize the ramifications. Mother Nature is now shackled and bound, like a BDSM beauty queen, getting screwed by about 7,000,000,000 of us every day. In these crazy times, she concluded, giving me a pat on the hand and a knowing smile, what could possibly be kinkier than reproducing.

Let’s talk about my sister’s old roommate. Big, bald, tattooed, what some uncharitable people might describe as a bull dyke. One evening I run into her serving drinks, and she explains she’s working three jobs because her and her partner are desperate to have a baby, and artificial insemination is out of their price range. They’ve been looking for a doner, but they are worried that in their circle of friends, picking one might cause complications . . .

I tell her it’s okay, I understand. Two days later, her and her partner invite me over for dinner and drinks. Her partner, a true Grecian beauty, with hips and bosom primed for procreation, pour us drinks, and I sip my nonchalantly as they discuss names. One likes trendy names: Autumn, Madison, Brittney . The other prefers historical names with weight behind them; Joan, Marie. I volunteer Cleo, short for Cleopatra. We all laugh, knowing looks get passed from one partner to the other.

My sister’s former roommate gives her partner a subtle nod, suddenly decides she’s out of cigarettes and has to run to the store for 15 minutes. She gives her partner a peck on the cheek, me a firm hug and heads out the door. Her partner leads me to the bedroom, where her clothes are discarded like inhibitions, then it’s straight down to business. No leather, no leash, her burning desire for a child is the only fetish gear we’ll need tonight. Welcome to the new kink.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/esjo25/welcome_to_the_new_kink