Hello Pleasure Activists,

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If you listen closely, there is more than one erotic voice inside you.

 

There is a part of you that has been paying attention long before you had language for it. A part that noticed what felt exciting, what felt forbidden, what felt powerful, and what felt tender. A part that learned, quietly and intelligently, which desires were welcome and which ones needed to stay hidden in order for you to belong.

 

Some of these voices are loud and familiar. Some are shy, dormant, or buried beneath years of conditioning. Some feel thrilling to imagine, while others feel confusing, foreign, or even off-limits. None of them appeared by accident.

 

In my clinical work, I often draw from Internal Family Systems, which teaches that we are not one single, unified self, but rather a whole internal ecosystem of parts, each with their own desires, fears, longings, and strategies for protection. Some of our parts are expressive and bold. Some are cautious and watchful. Some want to be seen, admired, and chosen, while others would prefer to disappear into the background and observe from a distance.

 

This is just as true of our erotic lives.

 

I do not believe that some people are kinky and some people are not. I believe that all of us carry a wide range of erotic and kinky parts inside us, and what we get access to has far more to do with what our families, religions, cultures, and communities made feel safe than with anything inherently fixed about who we are.

 

In other words, it is not that you do not have a dominant part, a submissive part, a playful part, a bratty part, a devotional part, a brat tamer part, a masochist part, a sadistic part, or a primal part. It is that some of those parts learned very early that it was not safe to come out.

 

So they went quiet.

They went dormant.

They learned how to wait.

 

This is not pathology. This is adaptation. This is the nervous system doing exactly what it evolved to do inside systems that seek to control bodies and desire. Patriarchy, capitalism, white supremacy, colonial morality, and sex negativity all rely on disconnection from the body and mistrust of pleasure.

 

When desire is fragmented, power is easier to manage.

 

When I was younger, I believed I was not very sexual and certainly not kinky. I had strong opinions about what kind of people wanted those things, and I was deeply invested in not being one of them. I was identified with being good, responsible, and emotionally attuned, and somewhere along the way I internalized the idea that wanting intensity, surrender, or erotic power exchange meant something had gone wrong.

 

What I did not yet understand was that my system was simply protecting me from desires that had never felt safe to explore, name, or embody.

 

It was not until I began doing somatic work, trauma-informed relational therapy, and later spending time in conscious, kink-affirming communities that something softened inside me. It did not feel like becoming someone else. It felt like meeting parts of myself that had been patiently waiting to be invited back into the room.

 

Not to perform.

Not to prove.

But to be included.

 

This is why, when I talk about kinky parts, I am not talking about costumes or scripts, although those can be fun too. I am talking about inner energies, longings, and relational postures that many of us recognize if we slow down enough to listen.

 

There are parts that love to lead, to decide, to guide, and to create safety through clarity and direction. There are parts that long to rest, to be taken care of, and to release responsibility in order to simply receive. There are parts that are mischievous and playful, that want to tease, flirt, and keep things light and unpredictable. There are parts that crave devotion, ritual, and meaning, that want connection to feel sacred and intentional.

 

There are parts that want to serve, to give, and to offer their attention as an expression of love. There are parts that want to be admired, seen, and celebrated, and parts that prefer to witness quietly from the edges. There are tender parts that want slowness and reassurance, and bold parts that want intensity, pain, and edge. There are parts that want to feel powerful, and parts that want to feel protected.

 

None of these parts cancel each other out.

 

They coexist.

They rotate.

They respond to safety, context, and who we are with.

 

And yet, so many of us grew up learning that only certain expressions of desire were acceptable, mature, or respectable. We learned which parts received approval and which parts were met with silence, shame, or punishment. Over time, we identified with the parts that kept us safe and disconnected from the ones that felt risky to show.

 

So we say things like, “That is just not me,” when what we often mean is, “That part of me did not feel welcome in the environments where I learned how to survive.”

 

From an IFS lens, exiled erotic parts do not disappear. They wait. And when they do not have conscious pathways for expression, they tend to surface sideways, through fantasy, through jealousy, through compulsive patterns, or through the quiet ache of feeling underfed and unnamed.

 

This is why I believe so deeply in play as a form of healing.

 

In the Pleasure Liberation: Sexuality Group, we explore kinky parts the same way we explore emotional ones, slowly, consensually, and with deep respect for nervous system pacing. We do not rush to act anything out. We begin by noticing what parts are present, what parts feel tender, and what parts are curious but cautious.

 

I often watch someone name a desire that contradicts how they have always seen themselves, and instead of judgment, the room fills with recognition. One person had shared that they had spent their life being the caretaker, the leader, the emotionally competent one, and that they secretly longed to let go of control. Even naming that desire felt radical, because it challenged the identity that had kept them safe for so long.

 

Another member reflected that they had always been told they were too much, too loud, too sexual, and that they learned to shrink in order to be loved. As we explored expressive and dominant erotic parts, they realized how much of their aliveness had been muted in the name of being palatable.

 

What moves me most in these moments is that no one is being asked to become anything. People are simply allowed to be more of who they already are.

 

From a clinical standpoint, this makes perfect sense. When parts of us are welcomed rather than exiled, they no longer need to hijack the system to be heard. Desire becomes less compulsive and more communicative. Power becomes less frightening and more relational. Pleasure becomes something we can be in dialogue with, rather than something that surprises or overwhelms us.

 

This is deeply political work, whether we name it that way or not. Systems of oppression rely on disembodiment and fragmentation. When we reclaim the fullness of our erotic parts, we are not just expanding personal pleasure, we are interrupting narratives that say power is always abusive, surrender is weakness, or wanting intensity makes you dangerous or broken.

 

Your erotic identity is an ever-evolving conversation of many parts.

 

You are allowed to discover that you like things you never expected.

You are allowed to feel ambivalent and curious at the same time.

You are allowed to explore without having to label yourself permanently.

 

Liberation is not about abandoning who you have been. It is about widening the circle of who you are allowed to be.

 

Your Pleasure Practice:

 

Journal Prompt
Begin by writing the names of several erotic or kinky parts you recognize within yourself, whether they feel familiar, distant, or surprising. As you reflect on each part, gently explore when you first remember sensing it and what was happening in your life at the time. Notice which parts were encouraged, which were tolerated, and which were subtly or explicitly discouraged by family, culture, religion, gender norms, or past relationships. As you write, track whether any emotions arise such as grief, excitement, shame, curiosity, or relief, and allow those feelings to be part of the reflection rather than something to move past.

 

Somatic Practice
Settle into a comfortable position and take several slow, grounding breaths. Choose one erotic or kinky part that feels curious but not overwhelming to explore. As you breathe, invite this part into your awareness and notice how your body responds. Pay attention to sensations such as warmth, tension, expansion, contraction, or shifts in posture. If it feels supportive, quietly say out loud what this part enjoys, wants, or longs for, and notice how your voice changes as you repeat the words. Let the practice be about sensing and listening rather than amplifying or acting.

 

Relational Tool
Practice naming a part of you that is emerging or tender without framing it as a request or expectation. You might say, “There is a part of me that is curious about…” or “There is a part of me that has been quiet for a long time.” Invite the other person to reflect back what they heard without problem-solving, reassurance, or interpretation. Then, if it feels right, invite them to share one of their own parts. Notice how intimacy shifts when the focus is on witnessing and mutual safety rather than outcome.

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Sending All My Love,
Dr. Nicole

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Dr. Nicole Thompson

Sex and Relationship Psychotherapist

Psychedelic-Assisted Liberation

Clinical Psychology