[Happy Friday the 13th Y’all! It’s barely been fall around NYC so far this month so today is the first day I’m really getting into the spooky season and I wanted to celebrate with a particularly… festive post. That said, this post deals with some intense and scary topics, it sexualizes killers, and explores things that that my kink brain loves but that make the rest of my brain (understandably) outraged. Here’s your content note that coercion, manipulation, and murder feature prominently and here’s your reminder that this is all fantasy and not all kinks are politically correct. If you need to skip this one that’s okay babes, take care of yourselves and I’ll catch you next week.]
[Oh, also there’s minor spoilers for season 4 of Game of Thrones.]
Teenage Bex loved crime dramas, and I mean LOVED them. To be fair, adult1 Bex also enjoys the occasional crime drama as their preferred genre of media junk food.2 But teenage Bex? I’d watch episodes of Bones on loop and I lived for the times when Spike network would run a CSI marathon. I loved all of it, the horrific ingenuity of the crimes, playing whodunit on my living room couch, trying to piece together the clues – even the pretentious monologues as the protagonist pieces it all together. Especially the pretentious monologues, if I’m being completely honest. My favorite episodes though, were the ones about serial killers.
Their story arcs would span across episodes, or even seasons, growing darker and more twisted as they go. They are cold, calculating, and creative. They were playing a game, manipulating their victims as well as the people hunting them. Leaving just enough evidence to string the protagonists along, but knowing it’s not enough to get caught. Like one giant puppet master they are in charge of the whole game, and while the good guys scramble and panic, try as hard as they can to save lives while it feels like everything is falling apart, the killer couldn’t care less. They’ll play until they loose.
It was kind of hot.
Okay, it was very hot. Regardless of what the killer looked like, who they were, or how gruesome their crimes, I was drawn to them. I couldn’t explain what it was, but from Howard Epps to Hannibal Lecter, men that I didn’t find inherently attractive were giving me chills. It… didn’t seem right.
I’m into a lot of edgy and taboo shit, sex is about experimentation for me, I love looking for new games to play, but this the the first kink I had that just felt wrong. It felt weird, and scary and Not Okay. These were men who were a genuine threat, who I should have been terrified of and disgusted by, but I wasn’t. And they weren’t even pretty. So what was it drawing me to them?
The first person I told was my high school girlfriend, I texted her on my old flip phone from my grandparents cabin in the woods, our conversation somewhere between sex nerding, sexting, and negotiating. “I have… kind of a serial killer kink.” I said, pacing the living room while I waited for a response.
“That’s not that weird.” she responded simply before carrying on to talk about all the other things we find hot. It wasn’t the first time we had talked about kink, we would take turns topping each other as we fumbled our way through a switchy power exchange dynamic and a few weeks earlier she had mumbled something about AB/DL on the school bus. “I’m more AB than DL” she admitted timidly “You can look it up when you get home.”
Despite her simple acceptance we never talked about it again, I never told anyone again, and to be honest, I didn’t really think about it again. I knew it was there, but I never really teased it out or explored it. Whenever vanilla folks would inevitably ask “What’s the weirdest thing you’re into?” I’d laugh and imagine the killers sitting in the back corner of my brain, sharpening their knives.
“Oh, you really don’t want to know.”
A few weeks ago I was sitting on the floor of my best friend’s room listening to Off the Cuffs, a kink and BDSM podcast she had guested on “Did you know Dick has a death kink? It’s FASCINATING!” she told me excitedly.
“I have a serial killer kink” I shrugged, in what might have been the first time I said it out loud. I knew Kate wouldn’t judge me, we’d talked about way weirder stuff before, and she responded exactly how I knew she would:
“Huh! That’s super interesting! You should talk about that!” and for the first time, sitting next to another sex nerd I started wondering why I had this kink.
When I told my Sir a few weeks later he simply nodded, “Yea, that makes sense. It’s a dominance thing.”
He’s right, that’s what it is about serial killers, or at least the ones I always enjoyed. They are so effortlessly and overwhelmingly dominant in all the ways I like. That’s what always drew me to them.
They’re brilliant, if they weren’t they would have gotten caught. No matter how hard I try, how desperately I pour over information and wrack my brain, they will always know more than me without even the slightest hint of effort. They’re just better. They understand the way people work, and can manipulate them. Every step they take is part of one elaborate plan and they’re moving other people around like pieces on a chess board. They’re confident, engaging, clever, and manipulative.
It’s the same reason I’m as fascinated by pickup culture as I am disgusted by it, the idea of being able to con someone into doing your bidding, to practically think for them and have them not even notice, is a level of control that’s deeply hot to me. When Reek held the razor to Ramsay Bolton’s throat, dutifully giving his captor a straight razor shave while recounting all of the reasons he should kill him I found myself barely able to breath. That moment when we knew that Theon was really gone, that Ramsay and completely broken him and made him his, it’s horrifying and alluring all at the same time.
It’s not just their intelligence that makes them powerful, combine that with the characteristic absence of empathy and now this brilliant sadist has no guilt, no shame, no second guessing. They tease and manipulate and terrify for no reason other than “because they want to.”
Maybe they do it to satisfy a deep craving. Maybe it’s visceral and powerful, and they relish in the rush of control that comes with it. Maybe they find a giddy joy in creating the most elaborate horrors they can. Maybe they laugh at your pain while mulling over the many ways they can double it. Maybe they simply do it because they’re curious. Maybe they’re cold and detached, toying with people the way toddlers toy with ants on a sidewalk. Do they run from the sunbeam through the magnifying glass? What happens if I crush one with my finger?
They’re elegant in their cool distance, committing heinous crimes and somehow completely removed from the gruesome horror of it. Like they’re another species simply experimenting on humanity. While everyone around them is overcome by fear, grief, and pain, the source is completely unaffected.
I imagine a dominant engaging with me in much the same way. Experimenting on my body, pinching, grabbing, slapping and choking, filling and stretching all of my holes, all just to see what would happen. They have no interest in how I feel about what’s happening to me, they do it because they want to. Because they’re curious, because it makes them happy, because they crave it, or just because it makes their dick hard.