“My fetish isn’t something I do. It’s something I am.” She later writes:
“I never got to see my burgeoning sexuality in a healthy or happy
light. According to my culture, I was one of two things: a punch line
for a prerecorded laugh track, or a freak.”
Does self-acceptance ultimately require another person, or is there a
kind of love that does not dabble in the dream of a perfect twinship? In
a sobering section about the dangers fetishists court in a stigmatizing
world, Keenan writes, “We take risks because the isolation and
emptiness of the alternative is worse.” She’s right — it is.
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