The Kink Escalator

An image of an escalator, from the perspective of someone standing at the bottom of it.

I have a real bee in my metaphorical bonnet about linear spectrums.

The most obvious example of this is my distaste towards the idea of the autistic I am as a linear one, starting at “not autistic” and progressing until you reach “really very autistic indeed”. Much like functioning labels, this perception of autism leaves no room for nuance, which in turn leaves little room for self-advocacy. (Personally, I like Rebecca Burgess’ visualisation of the autistic spectrum more than any other.)

Another linear idea I strongly dislike is the idea that gender is a spectrum (correct!) between male and female, or masculinity or femininity, with no genders existing independent of these two categories (incorrect!). It’s true that there are plenty of identities which do fit onto this spectrum, like binary female, neutrois, bigender and so on – but there are also gender identities that exist outside of it, like agender, demiboy etc. For this reason, I really enjoy models like the Genderbread Person.

You can imagine, based upon these examples, that it really gets my fuckin’ goat when sex is treated as existing on a linear spectrum between vanilla and super extra double kinky with cream.

Other people have written better things than I about the Relationship Escalator – the idea that the process of building a relationship is essentially a race from one milestone to the next, moving from acquaintanceship to friendship to a romantic and/or sexual relationship, then to marriage and other major lifestyle changes and commitments. This perception of interpersonal relationships is damaging in a number of ways, not least because it devalues all stages of the relationship other than the “end goal” of marriage etc., and it naturally bleeds into our understanding of sexual relationships too.

Plenty of people find themselves defensively insisting to an uneducated vanilla person that they’re kinky, but “not like, weird kinky” (or some variation thereof). In rushing to justify their own kinks, they inadvertently shame, belittle or otherwise speak poorly of those kinks that are considered a little less socially acceptable.

Erotic-ish media like Fifty Shades Of Abuse Apologism Grey, and less erotic media like sitcoms and cop shows, has helped to bring some kink into the mainstream – but only some, and only under some circumstances. We see a lot of “bedroom bondage” where wrists are tied above heads, ankles are tied down and occasionally legs are restricted; we also see a lot of impact play, and a reasonable amount of negotiated power exchange. Often, this happens with a female submissive/bottom and a male dominant/top, and, whilst I haven’t run the numbers, I think that the nature of mainstream media more broadly means I can safely assume that the kinksters in question are also often white, cisgender and not disabled.

Whilst it’s sort of nice that someone finding your handcuffs is not the instant kick out of the kink closet that it used to be, and it’s definitely nice that we’re starting to talk a little more about kink, female pleasure and masturbation, it seems that people who practice what appears to be “mild” or “moderate” kink are not inclined to discuss or defend the people who are engaging in more “extreme” acts. And I wouldn’t mind so much but, like the first two linear spectrums I mentioned, this one is absolute bollocks.

We can’t say that the Kink Escalator is based upon risk. So-called “bedroom bondage” features risks that most players aren’t even aware of: tying anybody anywhere risks circulation loss and nerve impingement, for example, and impact play is wildly unpredictable to the over-confident newbie – especially where cheaply-made, inconsistent impact toys are concerned. These are concerns that could theoretically send you to your local emergency room. By comparison, a purportedly “weirder” kink like watersports carries only a couple of risks: if you’re not fluid-bonded to the other party, you risk catching any fluid-borne infections they have; if you drink the stuff, you risk kidney problems, because urine gets excreted for a reason (but you’d have to drink it often, without clean drinking water in between).

The Kink Escalator doesn’t seem to based upon the psychological implications of a kink, either. ‘Daddy dom’ kinks, for example, are clearly psychologically weird: they’re based upon a power imbalance related to age and/or experience, and sometimes draw upon childlike mannerisms or directly invoke incest. However, the Daddy kink is so mainstream that you can buy cheeky T-shirts on Redbubble that refer to it, and there was even a kinda-sorta joke about it in the Spongebob Squarepants movie. By contrast, pet play is regarded with fascination and faint disgust by the mainstream media, even though “I sometimes morph into a puppy but I can still talk and do chores” is much further from a possible reality than “A dad-like person fucks me and condescends me on the regz”. Neither of them are inherently harmful, and neither of them should generate shame, but it’s inconsistent and illogical that society is okay with people sliding into a more naive or powerless headspace in a Daddy kink setting, but not in a setting where you also wear a tail butt plug.

Even within the kink universe, people buy into this idea that you progress towards the “weirder” stuff, starting at a bit of impact play and working your way up to scat or scalpels or what-have-you. This puts pressure on people to “progress” and try new kinks at a rate they may not enjoy for the sake of being “kinky enough”, and it also takes the joy out of some of the more “mild” kink acts; how are you supposed to enjoy a spanking if you just see it as a necessary stepping stone before you can receive a flogging? In reality, most people discover and enjoy their kinks outside of the prescribed order of things anyway – I was experimenting with 24/7 power exchange before I’d even had someone else’s genitals in my mouth.

The Kink Escalator, like the Relationship Escalator, is a hugely unhelpful and ultimately sometimes harmful way to perceive the nuanced experiences that people have individually and alongside one another. Being tied up is not “less kinky” than watersports, and pony play is not “kinkier” than being smacked with a kitchen spoon; the amount of kink within an act depends entirely upon how much the participants are enjoying it and how they perceive their own experiences. If something feels super kinky, it is! Step off the escalator and enjoy travelling up, down and all around the Kink Hill at whatever pace you like.

Smut Saturdays #3: Wet and Warm

Every fourth Saturday, I’ll be posting erotica I’ve written, based loosely on my own real life experiences or fantasies, for your wanking enjoyment.
Content note: This week’s Smut Saturdays post is about watersports, or, in layperson’s terms, piss. If that squicks you, feel free to give this one a miss, and come back next Saturday for a regular post or in a month for the next Smut Saturdays story!

PLUS, this week I’ve been lucky enough to be featured over at Girl On The Net, with a piece about my first time doing needle play:

If you’ve got any feedback or requests, put ’em in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @KinkyAutistic!

The bathroom is cold.

I know you could make it less cold. I know that you could turn the heating up with that app on your phone, or that you could shut the bastard window. This means that I also know that you’re enjoying my coldness. I’m completely naked – we’ve even left my collar on your mattress – and you’re in your pristine, drool-inducing suit. I’m on my knees on the cold, hard shower floor, and you’re standing in front of me, hand on your belt buckle.

The hairs on my forearms are standing up, and so are my nipples. I’m not sure whether it’s the cold, or whether it’s the anticipation.

It started innocently enough. I poured you a glass of water and thrust it at you, an act of service not outside the ordinary. Then I sat at your feet, facing away from you and towards the TV, pretending to pay attention to Scrubs while I listened to your sips. You stroked my hair absentmindedly.

Then you set your glass down on a coaster, and I sprang to my feet to refill it.

You caught on then. Usually, I don’t refill things without being asked: not out of laziness or brattiness, but out of an autistic lack of initiative and a my-mum-raised-me-right aversion to waste. My sudden interest in keeping you hydrated raised your eyebrow, and you watched my naked arse disappear into the kitchen again with mild intrigue.

By the time I’d arrived with your second brimming glass of water, you’d figured it out.

“Are you hoping I’ll piss on you?” you asked, smirking because you already knew the answer.

I pretended to be embarrassed. I looked at the carpet and shrugged. But we both knew you were right, and I handed over the glass without a word.

It fills me with glee that I only have to ask. And sometimes, not even that.

I don’t want to misbehave. Even playfully, I don’t want you to frown at me, raise your voice or scold me. I don’t want to feel, even for a moment, even in play, that I’ve let you down. I want to demonstrate, constantly and through action as well as words, that I am devoted to you and to my submission to you. Misbehaving suits a lot of subs, but it has never suited me.

I can be cheeky, I’ll own that. I stick my tongue out and talk back and I plead with you for permission for things even after you’ve said ‘no’. But I follow my rules, and I follow your orders. I try to make you feel spoiled. I don’t want my submission to feel like a struggle. I want it to feel like a warm bath, soothing and surrounding you.

So I truly love that, when I want to be hurt or humiliated, I just have to ask. Or hint. Or bring you a third glass of water.

You ordered me upstairs after that third glass. You had your keys in your fist, and you let me go first, so you could watch my arse up the stairs. I had been naked since before you got home, simply too tired to tolerate clothes, but now more than ever I felt your eyes on my skin.

We reached your bedroom, me still in the lead, and you had me sit down on your bed. You didn’t have to say anything, just pressed your broad right hand onto my left shoulder til I caught on and sat. Then you jangled your keys.

“We’re gonna take your collar off,” you said softly. It struck me how loving you could be, even as you prepared me to be hosed down with your piss. I tilted my head up so that you could slot the tiny key into the padlock glimmering at my throat. “Good puppy.”

I feel as naked as anybody else with no clothes on, but whenever I take my collar off, it’s like I’ve lost a finger.

You must have been aware of this, because you raised the collar to my lips and had me kiss it before you held the bathroom door open for me.

And now we’re here.

Shivers run through me. I’m gazing up at your hand on your belt, unable to tear my eyes away to see your face. It doesn’t matter all that much anyway; I know your sadistic grin well enough that I can fill in the gap where my peripheral vision ends. I’m so cold that I’m almost eager for the warmth of your urine on my skin.


See, the thing I love about piss is that I hate it. You know this, which is why you have your sadist face on. You know as well as I do that the fun of pissing on me lies in the way I recoil from it, the disgust I can’t keep off my face once you start to aim the stream at my mouth. The reason we both find watersports irresistible is its significance: I’ll do anything for you, even this.

You ease your belt out of its buckle and slide down your zip. I watch your hands methodically shift the fabric of your boxers so that your cock can spring out. At the sight of me kneeling, fully naked, at your feet, it’s half-hard.

“You ready?” you whisper, like there might still be time to back out. But you have a full bladder, and the cold bathroom air has hit your dick. I know I could dart out of the way, let your piss run down the drain, but I want it. I want it all over me, making me grimace, making me squirm.

So I nod.

You let it go. I can tell you’re letting it go, rather than pushing it out, from the relief that passes over your face. That’s what I focus on as it pours over my tits, the warmth as comforting as I predicted, the smell just as strong. You look like you’re enjoying yourself, and I feel like a good pup.

I feel like that even more so when you say, “Dirty slut. Open your mouth.”

Instinct tells me not to. I know I hate the taste. But devotion overrides it, and I let my tongue hang out.

It’s bitter, and sort of like beer, and near impossible to describe. Its colour is pale from the water I had you drink, something I feel distantly smug about as it drips off my tits. I scrunch my eyes shut but I keep my mouth open, except when I force myself to swallow a teaspoon’s worth just to prove that I can.

It lasts about twenty seconds, but it feels so much longer than that.

At last, the sensation and the sound of liquid running over me both stop. I open my eyes, and you’re letting the last drops fall off your foreskin, holding your cock loosely, staring at me.

“Clean it up,” you command, so I do.

I suck gently at the head of your dick, my nose wrinkling involuntarily at the taste. I know later you’ll tell me it was cute. I do as thorough a job as I can bear, then pull away.

You look satisfied. “That’s a good little slut.” I glow. “Now, you get nice and clean in the shower. Daddy will be waiting for you in the bedroom.” I must be staring at you blankly, because you explain: “I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”