Using interviews and anecdotes, a sex educator writes about how kinks can create a community

“I’ve never understood the hype behind sex and relationships,” A says exasperatedly. The question has been thrown her way one too many times, and she wastes no energy in masking her annoyance at the thought of sex being everyone’s desire by default. “Growing up fat meant that I was made to feel a lot of negativity towards my body and its worth, and people would imply quite obviously that they didn’t think I could be desired or attract love in my life. I didn’t bother with self-pleasure because I spent most of my early years just being dissociated from my body. It took me years to recognise that I was also asexual to some degree, but before that realisation had kicked in, it was like I was not offered the opportunity to see my body as sexual anyway. Mix these complicated feelings with autism and the end result is this delayed recognition of your own feelings and desires through most stages of life.”

Having grown up in Delhi in an environment that did not talk about the complexities of sex and sexuality in detail but still reiterated how sex was meant to be the norm for everyone, A had never really stopped to think about her own identity. All she knew was that the enthusiasm her friends shared for chasing love, crushes, attraction, and sex was not something that resonated with or made complete sense to her. As a teen, when A did finally move to Bombay, the expectation and overall presence of sexual dialogue around her only intensified.

“I had friends and seniors in college telling me that I should date or they would rave about their sexual experiences, and it didn’t make sense to me or sound appealing. I just didn’t get it – itni bhi badi cheez nahi hai (it isn’t that big of a deal). And even if it had been this great, validating, and thrilling experience for them, they spent so much of their time crying to me about their relationships and having constant troubles with their partners that I simply could not understand why anyone would willingly do this to themselves.”

For years, A refused to date. Not as an act of rebellion alone, but also as an act of pursuing her own authenticity. She didn’t actually like anyone that way and was happy to keep her life free from the drama her friends would often share with her. By 19, A’s parents had begun to ask her about marriage and insist that she be ready to meet guys. A ran away and lived on her own from then on. By the age of 25, however, most of A’s friends had begun to settle down and cement their long-term relationships through marriage or moving in together and A began to feel the pinch of being too different from the people around her. Maybe companionship was what she was supposed to pursue too, she thought, and if the people in her life weren’t the kind that she could see as partners, it was probably time to install a dating app or two.

“It took me years to get on dating apps and sometimes even that feels like a result of this peer pressure to couple up and explore sex,” A tells me. The grief and annoyance in her voice are heavy, even as she speed-runs through her first 25 years of living between Delhi and Mumbai. “Before that, I would have nightmares about being married off to someone without my consent and I would wake up crying. The entire idea was simply horrible to me, but everyone else seemed to prioritise their companions once they had met someone. So I got it in my head that I was probably supposed to do that too.”

Like most people, A did not experience immediate comfort or ease with dating apps. Most chats went nowhere, some dried up or ended abruptly before A had learnt anything about the person she was speaking to, and ghosting was a common occurrence on these platforms. About a year into using them, A finally matched with someone who spoke to her consistently and well and opened up about himself, only to set a date with her and then ghost her right before their evening together.

“Dating apps were really frustrating. I got along with this guy who then came over to my place to hang out and as we were talking, I realised he was engaged and lying about it. Later when I snooped on social media – because who doesn’t master the art of sleuthing once they join a dating app – and I found pictures of him with his fiancé, he looked at me seriously and said par maine toh ring nahi pehna hua hai (I don’t have a ring on though) as though that would make me want to throw caution to the wind and jump him.”

After a few rocky and fairly unsurprising bad dates or dull exchanges online, A finally matched with a guy in Pune who seemed sweet and sincere in his interest in her. The pair talked for a while and got to know each other, and when A felt like there was something worth exploring between them, she planned a trip to visit him in his dorm. They hung out in his room, stepped out, had a great time talking, and as A was about to leave, he asked if she wanted to head back to his place, implying a more intimate turn to their evening. When she turned him down and asked that they continue spending time outside, he gently asked if she wasn’t interested in him.

“He was apparently flirting with me subtly the entire time, but the question came out of nowhere for me. So when I said I needed to stay out and continue to get to know him, it was because I had not really looked at him that way yet. I mean… I’m autistic. I don’t catch these hints, you have to tell me directly about it! You can’t waste your breath on roundabout things with me, if you like me, just say that,” she laughs, visibly exasperated from this happening with one too many people.

“Eventually, we went back to my place and hooked up. He was very sweet about pleasuring me and making me orgasm. He did not insist on us having penetrative sex and that felt really good. That was my introduction to how fulfilling and soft sexual play can be when a partner actually asks what you want or tells you about their own wants without making assumptions or rushing their way through a checklist that goes from making out to oral to penetrative sex. After a while, we did have penetrative sex, and after all those years of listening to people rave about it, lose their minds over it, and just promote it with such fervour, it felt like…nothing. So much nothing. It felt intensely frustrating in that moment, and I remember just exclaiming, THIS IS SO DISAPPOINTING! at the poor guy. It wasn’t any fault of his at all, I just couldn’t believe how much people had nudged me to have this life experience. This partner took it really well though, and he continued edging and teasing my body and pleasuring me in other ways. When we parted ways, he asked me if I would like to be disappointed again another time.”

From there on, the two developed a casual arrangement and friendship where they would occasionally get intimate and hook up, with each time serving as another opportunity to learn some more about each other and themselves. On one of their evenings together, when A was at his place, he had forgotten about having asked a friend to come over. Slowly realising his friend was a minute away, he panicked and informed A immediately while the pair was still undressed and in the middle of an intimate moment. As they rushed to get dressed and not seem out of sorts when the friend arrived, A caught herself feeling turned on by the idea of getting caught in a vulnerable state with her partner. No part of her actually wanted to get caught in that state or by that friend, but the thought alone had felt enticing and provocative. A had felt extremely aroused and desirable at the thought of exhibiting herself. Over the next year and a half, the pair explored sexual conversations in much greater detail with plenty of check-ins after their sessions, blissfully unaware that they had begun practising feedback and aftercare without really having a name for it.

Excerpted with permission form You’re Somebody’s Kink: Notes on Pleasure, Play, and Intimacy, Tanisha Rao, Simon and Schuster India.