As writer and curator Anastasiia Fedorova publishes her book about sexual fetishists, Second Skin, she reflects on how embracing her desires finally made her feel comfortable in her own skin
Source: Cosmopolitan.com
UK – In April 2020, I had just turned 31, and it felt like all I had going for me had vanished, replaced by the monotony of, well, hanging out alone in my bedroom. In a way, I wasn’t alone — it was the first spring of the pandemic, and London was in lockdown. I was single after my five-year relationship had spectacularly imploded the year before. It had been heterosexual, monogamous, and pretty traditional, all of which I attributed to why it left me feeling so suffocated. I came out as queer shortly after and found my new dating life immensely fulfilling — but deep down I knew that there was a part of me that I didn’t want to face. Now suddenly in the silence of my room, just me and that shadow presence: my suppressed desires.
It was around this time that my lifelong struggle with anxiety got worse. It was never about overthinking, but a steady tension within the body, making me jittery and nauseous and occasionally manifesting in panic attacks. I was so tired of being myself, with all my unresolved emotional baggage. I wanted to unzip my skin like a suit and step out of it, to find a different way of being.
In my search for a different kind of self, I found kink — or perhaps decided, as the known world around me was collapsing, to finally face the fact that I’ve always been drawn to it.
My first kink experiences, in trademark pandemic fashion, happened online — looking at Instagram pictures of strangers across the globe dressed in shiny latex, and chatting to people on the kink-positive (and now practically mainstream) dating app Feeld. As people shared their fantasies, desires, and past experiences, I realised that some evoked an especially visceral reaction in me — those related to BDSM and kink.
In hindsight, I’d been typing the word ‘bondage’ into the search bar of porn sites ever since I started using them. Plus, I grew up as a nerdy goth teenager who loved vampire novels and black leather. And yet, it was much harder to look directly at the darker parts of sexuality that excited me.
Power exchange in sex — the idea of being restrained, controlled, humiliated, or doing it to others (all of which deeply aroused me) — is still seen as taboo. During my adulthood, I somehow compartmentalised this part of myself as something to be enjoyed only as a fantasy, never to be confused with the real-life intimate relationships with my partners. But suddenly there were plenty of people on my phone willing to chat about actually doing all these things I’d only ever fantasised about.
My kink exploration followed the trajectory of the pandemic restrictions, as conversations online shifted to meeting in person. I met a polyamorous shibari rope top (i.e. a dominant person who practices the art of Japanese rope bondage in multiple different relationships) who lived in south London — he would drive to my house and we would spend the evening together, him tying me up and spanking or whipping me, allowing me to explore, for the first time, playing with pain. Afterwards, we’d share the snacks he always brought; I especially remember eating chocolate-covered pretzels following a particularly intense session.
I then connected with a submissive man who came to my house and acted as a footstool as I answered my work emails. I chatted with a woman locked down in a different country, who asked me to dom her now-long-distance sub for her — in the end, an arrangement that proved to be too logistically complicated.
After I stopped seeing my rope top, I went to classes to learn rope bondage myself, excited by my newfound nerdy obsession. When the restrictions on public gatherings were lifted, I went to my first ever kink party, feeling all tingly and euphoric in the presence of a few dozen strangers dressed in rubber, leather, PVC, and fishnets. It was a whole new world where sex was no longer about just the physical act — and by far no longer about penetration — but a radical new way to relate to people creatively, playfully, and with empathy and vulnerability.
However varied these first encounters were — whether I topped or bottomed, or simply had deep conversations about someone’s fetishes or kinks origin stories — there was one factor they all shared: they required clear communication; being able to verbalise your desires. When I started my kink journey, I was startled to realise that, despite being a writer, I couldn’t find the language to talk about what I actually wanted.
The process of finding words — online first and then in person — for expressing my desires, fantasies, and boundaries had a transformative impact. It allowed me to have better sex, but it also helped me to reframe the way I approached self-care and mental health. I started paying more attention to my emotions and how they manifested in the body; I became more attentive to how I felt as I went about my daily life. As opposed to focusing on tasks; I prioritised my pleasure above pleasing others. I started treating myself like I treated my partners in kink: with empathy, kindness, respect, and patience.
“I started treating myself like I treated my partners in kink: with empathy, kindness, respect, and patience”
By admitting my desires, I began to understand who I am as a person, fully, beyond shame. This self-knowledge brought me confidence and helped me (alongside therapy) to finally keep my anxiety at bay. I no longer dreaded being confined to being me — I knew I had power to change, grow, and live authentically.
Today, BDSM, kink, and fetish are still part of my life, but in a different way than the frenzied, hungry exploration of the early days. Many people experience this at first — the desire to try everything and the fear that you might simply run out of new kinks to explore. It doesn’t quite work like that (or not for me, at least); it is a never-ending journey in which you might fall in and out of love with your obsessions and turn-ons. Life might get in the way, sometimes you’ll be too tired after dinner, and then other times you’ll be inspired by a new partner or a film you watch. As of today, I haven’t picked up my bondage ropes for six months, but I can feel the desire growing once again. It is a process, and it never ends.
I started writing my book, Second Skin, a couple of years after I first discovered — or fully recognised — my interest in kink. At the core of it was that original longing to find the language to talk about desire, connection, and erotic exploration. It started out as a book about fetishism and our complex relationship with objects, building on my career as a fashion journalist and cultural critic. I wanted to investigate our shared obsession with branded goods and how it might be similar or different to an erotically-driven fascination with Louboutin heels, latex gloves, or leather boots. But it took me much further — into my experiences with kink more broadly, to fetish clubs, sex dungeons, libraries, LGBTQI+ archives, and art galleries. It is also a love letter to many people in my life: my friends, my partner, my creative mentors, people I played with or encountered only once, who still changed my life.
Sexuality is a complicated terrain, but one of the biggest lessons I have learned on my kink journey is to trust your desires. The fact they’re there means they have a reason to exist — that they’ve arrived from the shadows or from one’s bodily experience and personal history — even if society doesn’t deem them completely normal. I haven’t regretted for a moment that decision, made alone in my room five years ago, to trust mine — it has only led me to live more fully.
Second Skin by Anastasiia Fedorova is out now via Granta Books
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