1994

The time I thought the thing that'd one day be the best part of my life, was a sin.

This isn’t a new piece; I wrote it a few years ago, on 2nd January, to commemorate one of the worst days of my life, 2nd January 1994. There’s lots I’d change about the writing now, but it’s still basically what I wanted to say. And it’s the reason I’ve dedicated my career to trying to help de-stigmatise being kinky. Enjoy!

I hear the uncertain footsteps of sixteen year old me before I see her. She’s coming down from her bedroom, where she’s just unearthed something monstrously unwelcome about herself. She can’t bear to stay up there any more, and as she comes downstairs, she’s still hoping that she might wake up from this, the worst dream she’s ever had. If she can’t wake up, she’s going to find a way to kill herself.

I know she won’t do this; she is me, and I’m 42 now. She couldn’t find a way to do it without traumatising someone else, and she didn’t want to be cruel as well as deviant. But since I’m here, I want to make sure she doesn’t.

Her eyes don’t register much surprise when she sees me. She takes it as a hopeful sign of still being asleep, still normal. She’s my height - I grew tall young. But she looks a great deal more fragile, despite the muscles she’s gained from spending all her free time on a trampoline/in a gym. She also looks like a sixteen year old who wishes she’d never existed. She looks like she’ll never meet anyone’s eyes again.

It’s awkward; I don’t know how long I’ve got to change things in her mind, so being abrupt is the best choice. “I know what just happened, and it’s ok. You’re ok. There are lots of us. Do you know who I am?”

Her lips press together; she looks up briefly and her eyes return to the carpet. She’s not crying - her shame is too deep for tears at the moment. “You look like me. But old”.

Well, I’m more than double her age. I’m not offended; she’s just being honest. And the way I remember it, she’s preparing to be as dishonest as possible for the next few days, followed by the next few weeks, followed by the next several years. Not about everything, just the important things. It’s going to make her wretchedly unhappy. She’s going to be lonely. So maybe, if we have a few minutes before she chooses the course of maximum dishonesty, I can get through to her that this is not her only choice. But showing her will be faster than telling. I put out my hand.

“Come with me”. She’s young enough, still shocked enough to do it automatically.

And then we’re in 2020, and it worked. We’re in my living room. It’s warm and it smells of baking. I direct her attention to the mantlepiece, where a picture of Hywel and me on our wedding day sits in a silver frame.

“Look. You get married. You think no one will be able to love you now, but you’re wrong.”

Her eyes flick over to my face. “But…does he know?”

“Yes, he knows. He’s kinky too. That’s why you married him. And also cos he’s clever, and kind. You can tell him everything. You’ve told him this story actually; he hugged you for a long time”.

The reality is more complicated, and infinitely better. But I want to be age appropriate, rather than giving her the full list of activities I’ve enjoyed with him. I’m not sure she’s ready for that.

“But what about my family? Do they know? Do they still love me?”

The answer she fears is written on her face. She knows that the answer to one or both of these questions must be ‘no’, and there are tears in her eyes now.

“Yes, honey, they do. You told them all about it when you started doing BDSM modelling. You didn’t want them to find out by mistake. They were fine. Well, some of them weren’t totally fine to begin with, but you got rich as fuck and started buying spare houses. That helped them accept it”.

That possibly wasn’t the best way to put it. Her eyes widen at the bad language - she’s not allowed to swear. And she’s a socialist; she doesn’t like the sound of buying extra houses. Also; she hates maths and it sounds scary.

“Oh relax; I rent them out to people and I’m a nice landlord. And sometimes, money reassures people that you must be ok. I dunno why”.

She’s stopped listening. The thing about being a BDSM model has caught her attention.

“Do you mean I go around doing BDSM at work? With random people?”

I can’t explain this in the living room. I take her hand again and pull her up to the top of the house, to my office. On the wall, to the left of my computer, is a giant cork-board. Every centimetre of it is covered with photographs of people.

“You don’t do BDSM with random people. You do it with your friends. Most of the people here, actually. You don’t do it with anyone you don’t trust, and if you don’t like it, you don’t do it with them again. But these people are all wonderful”.

It’s true, they are. But she’s looking uncomfortable.

“Isn’t that quite, umm, slutty?”

Well, she’s from a fundamentalist religion, I can’t really blame her for being judgemental. Currently she wants to be a film censor when she grows up.

“It isn’t slutty. It’s the best way to produce a wide variety of work. And it’s different with everyone, which makes it interesting; you know how you’re different with different friends who are into different things? It’s like that.”

I’m saying ‘different’ over and over again. It’s nerve-wracking, trying to explain my life choices to my young self; to reassure her that I’ve been a good custodian to my body and my emotions, and that I’ve treated the people in my life with care and respect. She’ll find out eventually, and this conversation is meant to be about her, not me.

But I’ve got a feeling that time is short. I walk her out to the garden.

“Where actually are we?”

“Wales”

Her brow furrows. “I don’t like Wales”.

“That’s cos you haven’t seen the mountains yet. You’ll get to climb them, with Hywel. You don’t only do BDSM together”.

“And he’s a sadist?”

“He’s a dominant sadist. A lot of your favourite people are. You’re a submissive masochist, if having a label makes you feel better. But it’s not going to stop you from being able to function, ok? It doesn’t make you dirty. And that phrase ‘sexual deviance’ in your sociology book? Cross it out. You aren’t dysfunctional. You’re sexually atypical, maybe, but it’s fine. There are hundreds of years’ worth of artwork dedicated to what you’re into. There are clubs. There are conventions. A whole community….”

I’m losing her, she’s fading back to 1994. Quickly, I try to gather all the advice I want to send back through time with her.

“Your back’s gonna start hurting, in about a year. For God’s sake, tell someone and don’t keep training….”

“In five years time, you’ll meet a beautiful man. Don’t believe what he says and don’t try to save him…”

She’s gone. And I know she won’t be able to follow the advice. She’ll injure her back, she’ll fall in love with a beautiful nightmare. She won’t kill herself. And one day, she’ll meet a kinky person who’s braver than her, and it’ll change her life.

***********

*None of this encounter actually happened. Sixteen year old me hoped she was dreaming, then wondered how to kill herself, eventually decided to try to live, and one happy day became Ariel Anderssen. I wish I could go back and make things easier for her. I can’t, so I’m telling you. No one chooses their sexuality. If you deal honestly and respectfully with other people, then you’re doing fine. Enjoy yourself, and enjoy the people you meet who share your interests. Live without shame.

Ariel Anderssen

2nd January, 2026