I just finished a story that is not what I would call pretty. While I hope that it’s beautiful in its own way, I hope even more that it’s filthy. Fucking filthy. I fucking love filth. Filth reminds me that we’re animals and it reminds me that I’m alive.
Someone once told me that one of my kinks is filth. At the time, I didn’t think much of it because “filth” hadn’t registered to me as as anything specific. It was like saying “you like your sex sexy”, which is sort of a given. Since then, I’ve given filth some serious thought (particularly as I use it in my writing) and I’ve realized that the person was right. Filth is one of my kinks, but filth of a particular sort and for reasons that surprised me.
So, what do I mean by filth? I mean dick pics (solicited* only, thanks), cum shots (also solicited), dirty talk, pegging, ridiculously graphic sexting, filthy fucking language, sex and masturbation in public (doorways, stairwells, cars, trains, bars. etc. etc. etc….) and generally doing what you want to do when you possibly shouldn’t be doing it. The list is endless, but you get the idea.
For me, the bigger the risk or disregard for propriety, the filthier it is. The bigger the disregard, the farther outside of civilized behavior you go and the closer you get to animal instinct. And let’s face it kids, we might look pretty, but we’re animals and there’s something carnivorously wonderful about indulging that.
My love of filth goes beyond risk-taking or exhibitionism to encompass something larger though…possibly several somethings larger. It subverts two things that are specific to how I move through the world – expectation (as in, what people might expect from me) and my equally passionate love of very “civilized” things like good food, good wine, cocktails, theater, museums, jazz, the symphony, literature, beautiful clothes, expensive perfume, even more expensive lingerie and very, very nice hotels. To paraphrase Dorothy Parker, it’s too bad I’m not a millionaire because I’d be darling at it.
Wearing a cashmere dress with nothing on underneath, like the protagonist in this story, is pretty fucking sexy, but it’s even sexier when my date is the only person at the wedding, or party, or funeral (sorry) who knows. We might do something about it while we’re out or we might not, but either way I love that raw sexual possibility that underpins what is, for all intents and purposes, a polished, civilized surface. And my surface does tend to be pretty polished and civilized.
There’s a distinction to be made though. It’s not that going bare beneath a dress is filthy in and of itself. It just invites filth. It opens the door to things like sneaking away to fuck in an open corridor or getting fingered in a bar. Any of those things could happen regardless of what you’re wearing, but wearing nothing makes it easier and all the hotter for being unexpected (and thus, uncivilized).
All of this being said, while I love filth, I don’t want debasement or the illusion of debasement (though it too is legitimately filthy and an awesome kink). Debasement has an edge of being ‘done to’ that is extremely exciting for a lot of people, but that isn’t what’s exciting to me. What’s exciting to me is owning my own depravity. Though I get a toothy joy out of writing a character’s debasement, in real life my filth is mine – it’s not something being done to me. So if you come all over my tits in a bathroom, it’s because I want it. I am not being lowered by the act. I am joyfully exalting in the filthy fucking happiness of being alive.
And that’s what it comes down to. Filth make me feel alive. It turns the volume up on living. I feel my mortality knocking on my door everyday. I know that one day I may not have the energy for extended sexting sessions or making a recording of myself coming just so he can hear it (though I hope that exhaustion is decades away). So while I love the subversion of expectations that comes with filthy fucking behavior, it’s also a visceral, unapologetic reminder that I am happy and alive. And I love being alive. I love that filth and depravity make me feel like I’m laughining in the face of convention and death. It is another way of owning myself. I suppose that, in the end, everything is about owning myself. Sovereignty. Sovereign filth.
* Seriously, guys. Unless we’re already involved, don’t send me dick pics or cum shots. I’m serious.
The image for this post comes from the tumblr Old Erotic Art. All (unless specifically noted) of the art on that site is in the public domain and it’s awesome. I highly recommend it – it’s really fun.