BDSM requires us to break free of tradition. As a woman, I only broke free halfway.

As a blogger, I like nothing more than to make readers suffer by misnumbering my lists and Rick Rolling everyone. Laugh if you like, but I do, in fact, have a sadistic streak. It’s not the sort of sadistic streak that could draw blood at the edge of a knife, but it’s there nonetheless. I also love torturing my mentee by forbidding him to use adjectives for intolerable periods of time. Those periods are necessary for his growth, but the gleeful mirth involved is there nonetheless. I’ve never sexualized my sadism. I won’t get off on stealing your Nutella, but I will definitely rub my hands together in abject glee.

Even so, the idea of topping someone in a kink context makes me fizzle away like a snail in salt.

This is because I’m a woman.

Yes, someone needs to take away my feminist card. I didn’t need it anyway.

I often wonder which kink role I’d choose for myself if I were a man. And even though I’m a card-carrying lefty, I have to admit that my ovaries could be the sole reason I’ve never explored the role. Societal constructs are the prison in which I hide all my stolen cupcakes while giggling in the background.

Societal constructs are part of the reason I’m monogamous, too. I’ve never exercised my poly muscles. I’ve never even considered trying. I was raised to donate 99% of my brain to monogamous pursuits, so I never even knew what a “compersion” was until a decade ago. And if I didn’t know what it was, how could I very well learn how to exercise it?

BDSM requires us to break free of tradition. As a woman, I only broke free halfway. I slapped a “monogamous sub” label onto my profile and then added some masochism. And while my submission comes from a healthy place, I find the idea of topping horrifying.

Yes, horrifying. That's the correct word.

Maybe it’s mortifying because I’m just a sub through and through, but it’s equally possible that it’s mortifying because topping doesn’t fit the ancient gender roles I was raised for. I’m Schrodinger’s Sadist, and this thing could go either way. I have no idea which.

Sorry.

I have, however, come to realise that it’s worthwhile to share my secrets because a lot of people are too scared to admit their own. This is my secret: If I were a heterosexual man, it’s quite possible I’d be a sadist, not a subly masochist.

My feminism hasn’t sunk all the way to my roots yet. On an intellectual level, I have all the right beliefs, but on an emotional level, I still haven’t absorbed them into my identity.

My submission makes me happy. It makes me walk tall. It empowers and frees me. I’ve written about it a thousand times. I must still acknowledge that Schrodinger might have a role in my kink life. And just as we will never know if the cat is dead or alive, I will never know if my inner sadist is nonexistent or oppressed.