November 26, 2015
I woke up at 4 a.m. with two songs playing simultaneously in my head: ELO'S "Don't Bring Me Down" and Stephen Bishop's "On and On." That probably means something if you were to analyze my subconscious deejay selections. But I'm not going to go there right now.
In bed, trying to decide whether or not I was up or down, I started to think about what I'm grateful for. Well, that's not entirely true. I started to think about coffee, and I realized how much I love coffee, and that morphed into other things that I love.
Which brought me quickly to kink.
This may be one of those segues that really only works at 4 a.m. When you're in bed craving French Roast.
But I am so fucking grateful for kink. And for those clever, creative, concupiscent (Ha! It's a word, and it means "filled with sexual desire, lustful") writers and artists who continually delight me with the way they approach this genre.
After so many years in the industry, you might think I'd become frayed. Jaded. Worn around the edges. (That just described every pair of jeans I own.) But instead, I tend to search out the new, the different, the unique words that toss me into the front seat of a Galaxie 500 and take me for an unexpected spin.
So on this day of giving thanks, I will give thanks for the kinksters:
Writers and editors who woo and wow me with their words. Who lift me up to that incandescent (it can mean passionate or brilliant!) place, that place where I can't wait to see what happens next. Where I can feel the heat between the lovers. Sense their connection. Yearn for their ultimate erotic bliss.
And, of course, there are many other writers—too numerous to name—who lick their fingers and push my buttons. Because what I guess I'm really trying to say is that when I think kink, I am thankful to the bottom of my filthy little core.