Why I Choose to Call Myself a Pervert

I choose the word pervert deliberately. It is blunt, unfashionable and loaded with the judgement many of us were taught to fear. That is precisely why it interests me. When I use it for myself, I am taking a word that has often been used to shame sexual curiosity and turning it into a description of my appetite for intensity, imagination and honest self-knowledge.

For me, being a pervert does not mean being careless, predatory or incapable of ordinary tenderness. It means I am willing to examine what turns me on, what unsettles me, and what kinds of power, ritual and sensation make intimacy feel vivid. My version of perversion lives inside consent, negotiation and trust, whether I am thinking about BDSM, FemDom, fetish, erotic fiction or unconventional relationships.

Reclaiming A Word With Teeth

The word has a long history of being used as a weapon. It has been aimed at queer people, sexually adventurous women, kinky couples and anyone whose desires did not fit a narrow script. Even now, “pervert” can suggest danger before it suggests curiosity. That history cannot simply be erased because I have decided to use the word positively.

Still, language changes when the people being described claim some control over it. I do not use “pervert” to excuse harm or to make a performance of being shocking. I use it to acknowledge that my erotic life has edges. I like the fact that the word carries a little friction. It reminds me that desire can be strange, creative and resistant to respectability.

There is a difference between a private identity and a label imposed from outside. Someone calling me a pervert to humiliate me is making a judgement about my character. Me calling myself one is a piece of self-definition. That distinction matters in the same way that choosing “kinky”, “polyamorous” or “sex-positive” can matter. None of these words tells the whole story, but each can offer a doorway into a more truthful one.

Desire Needs Context And Care

Calling myself a pervert is not a licence to ignore boundaries. In fact, it makes me more attentive to them. The more unusual or intense a scene, fantasy or relationship structure may be, the more important it becomes to discuss expectations clearly. Consent is not decorative paperwork around kink; it is the foundation that makes exploration possible.

I think about negotiation as a form of intimacy. What does someone want to try? What is absolutely off limits? Is the interest in pain, humiliation, obedience, sensation, role-play, exhibitionism or control? What happens if a person changes their mind halfway through? These questions may sound practical, yet they can create a sense of safety that allows people to be far more playful.

Australian conversations about sex can be especially uneven. Sydney may offer visible communities around events connected with Mardi Gras, while someone in regional New South Wales or far north Queensland may have fewer discreet opportunities to meet like-minded people. Distance, privacy and small-town visibility shape how people explore. Online spaces and podcasts can provide connection, but they still need moderation, age boundaries and respect for anonymity.

Kink Is Bigger Than A Single Fantasy

When people hear “pervert”, they may imagine one dramatic preference and assume it explains everything. My experience is less tidy. Desire is a landscape rather than a single switch. A person can enjoy a strict FemDom dynamic in one relationship, tender bondage in another, and a fetish that is mostly imaginative rather than something they practise.

BDSM is often discussed as though it is a fixed category, but it contains many different experiences: sensation play, discipline, service, restraint, authority, surrender and carefully designed rituals. Fetish can involve objects, clothing, materials, scenes or meanings. Erotic fiction can provide a safe place to explore a fantasy without turning it into a real-life plan. Calling myself a pervert leaves room for all those shades.

It also helps me resist the pressure to prove an identity through constant activity. I do not need to attend every play party, own an impressive collection of toys or have a dramatic story for my desires to count. Someone can be kinky and inexperienced, perverse in imagination, or deeply interested in power exchange without wanting a 24/7 dynamic. Labels should expand our vocabulary, not create another standard to perform.

The Ordinary Life Around Unordinary Desire

One reason I keep the label is that it refuses the idea that kinky people live in a separate species of nightlife. I still worry about bills, work, laundry and whether I remembered to buy coffee. I can spend a morning reading about power exchange and an afternoon sorting groceries. Perverse desire does not cancel domestic life; it sits alongside it.

There is something appealing about that contrast. A carefully negotiated dynamic might coexist with an ordinary Sunday ritual, a trip to the markets or baking something for friends. Even a recipe as everyday as this banana bread guide can belong to the same life as a leather harness or a conversation about submission. The point is not to make domesticity secretly erotic. It is to remember that people are never only one thing.

Melbourne’s queer culture, Sydney’s nightlife and Brisbane’s growing alternative communities all have their own rhythms, yet none represents every Australian experience. The cost of living affects access to events, private rooms and specialised gear. Shipping to remote areas can be expensive, and some people need discreet packaging because they share a house with family or housemates. A realistic conversation about kink has to include these material details, not just glamorous photographs and confident declarations.

Pervert As A Relationship Conversation

The label has also helped me talk about relationships more honestly. If I pretend to be conventional, people may build expectations around a version of me that does not exist. Naming my interest in kink, fetish and non-monogamy early can feel vulnerable, but it is kinder than waiting until resentment or secrecy grows.

This does not mean announcing every fantasy on a first date. Disclosure should have context and timing. A person deserves enough information to make an informed choice, while nobody is entitled to the private details of my entire erotic history. I can say that I am interested in power exchange or open relationship structures without offering an intimate autobiography to a stranger.

Polyamory and other forms of consensual non-monogamy require the same attention to agreements and emotional reality as BDSM. There are calendars, safer-sex practices, jealousy, changing capacity and the possibility that one connection affects another. The word pervert, for me, includes a willingness to question the default relationship escalator: dating, exclusivity, cohabitation and permanence as the only respectable route. Questioning that script does not remove responsibility. It increases it.

Ways I Keep The Identity Grounded

A reclaimed label is useful only when it remains connected to behaviour. I want “pervert” to describe a curious, accountable person rather than a costume I put on for attention. These principles help me keep the distinction clear:

• I treat consent as ongoing, specific and informed, with room for a real no.
• I separate fantasy from obligation and never assume a partner wants to enact what I enjoy imagining.
• I discuss safer sex, health, privacy and aftercare before intensity takes over.
• I respect the difference between public community spaces and private sexual information.
• I stay curious about power, including the ways money, gender, disability, race and social status shape a scene.

Talking about these subjects publicly brings another responsibility. A blog or podcast can make someone feel less alone, especially if they live far from Sydney or Melbourne and have no local group they trust. But public storytelling can also expose partners, reveal identifying details or make complex dynamics look effortless. I try to keep that tension visible rather than pretending that disclosure is automatically brave or harmless.

That is part of what draws me to FlossDoesLife: it can hold personal reflection, erotic imagination and relationship discussion in the same space without requiring every story to become a manifesto. Community grows through nuance. People need room to laugh, disagree, learn and admit that their boundaries have changed.

Choosing The Name Without Losing The Person

I do not expect everyone to like the word pervert, and I would never insist that another person use it for themselves. Some people have been harmed by the label, or simply find it inaccurate. Reclaiming language is personal work, not a rule that should be imposed on an entire community.

For me, the word creates a useful tension between pleasure and responsibility. It makes me ask whether I am being honest about my motives, whether everyone involved has genuine freedom, and whether I am treating a fantasy as a fantasy rather than disguising pressure as passion. It also gives me permission to enjoy the fact that desire can be playful, excessive, tender, strange and occasionally ridiculous.

Calling myself a pervert is therefore less about trying to appear outrageous than refusing to edit myself into acceptability. I can be a pervert and a friend, a lover, a worker, a neighbour, a person who worries about rent and makes plans for the weekend. The practical takeaway is simple: use the label only if it feels freeing, and let consent, care and accountability prove what it means.