‘It’s the virginity thing,’ one of my best friends says, when I tell her I’m writing the intro to #KOTW and the kink is brutalism and/or concrete, and although they undoubtedly turn me on, I have no idea what’s behind this kink.
And she’s probably right. After all, nearly fifteen years on I still conjure up the vision of my French Connection cotton halter dress round my waist and the smell of metal railings on my hands when I need a fantasy to make me come.
So it’s a kink fuelled by something known, by a memory, but also, I think, fuelled just as much by the unknown, the unfamiliar. The most common concrete structures are, after all, shopping centres, train stations, blocks of flats. I’ve spent most of my life in the countryside, so those things just aren’t part of my everyday life: they’re the geography of fantasy, the landscape of sexual escapism.
Which isn’t to say you can’t combine the known and the unknown. More often than not, when I summon the mental image of the stranger I lost my virginity to, it’s that same car park, those same smells, same noises. But recently, I was on a train, and it sped past a bleak grey high rise, concrete balconies high above the ground. And since then, I dream that instead: a hand in the small of my back and another in my hair. I dream of being forced and the background is almost always concrete.