These words wrap around the dust jacket of Anastasiia Fedorova’s debut book, „Second Skin – Inside the World of Fetish, Kink and Deviant Desire“ like a second skin itself. If Anastasiia’s name sounds familiar, it’s likely from her sharp cultural writing in Vogue, Dazed, and other publications, where she unpacks the intersections of art, fashion, technology, and consumer culture, always through a distinctly queer feminist lens.

With Second Skin, Fedorova ventures deep into the worlds of fetish and kink, a territory still largely misrepresented in the media. Frustrated by the overly simplistic and often unfulfilling narratives out there, she offers something more honest and more radical.

Fetish and kink have long been seen as transgressive, but what if they’re more than that? What if they’re tools of resistance, ways to break free from the restrictive, patriarchal scripts that still shape much of our intimacy and desire? Fedorova invites us to look beyond the rom-com horizon and face the uncomfortable truth: not all taboos are created equal. Some are just puritanism in disguise. Others touch on trauma, not pleasure, and learning the difference is essential. 

Editor-at-Large Fabian Hart spoke with Anastasiia Fedorova about the release of Second Skin, the politics of desire, and how deviant worlds might just hold the key to self-discovery, deeper feeling and ultimately, liberation. Dare a little.

TUSH: Second Skin is not just an exploration of fetish culture, but also a personal story. Was it challenging for you to share your own journey so openly, and what kind of personal process did that involve?

Anastasiia Fedorova: I have always used writing to process what I’m going through. I am of a generation which came of age blogging, and I think this also made it more normalised in my mind to share things publicly—as if sharing certain things actually makes them complete. I started openly writing about kink and fetish under my own name during the pandemic—there was this huge sense of urgency, the „now or never“ moment, which initially gave me confidence. I self-published a few essays on the subject in 2021 and 2022 and quickly realised that it resonated with a lot of people and created a lot of positive conversations, connections, and friendships. When I was writing Second Skin, especially the parts which are personal erotic writing, I focused on my feelings—not necessarily what is happening, but how it felt from the inside of my body. I was worried more about maybe sharing too much about others or speaking for them, and this approach hopefully helped me to avoid that. I often mention that coming out about kink means that you tread a fine line between sincerity and oversharing—but I guess if you’ve picked up the book, you’re definitely in for the ride.    

Was there a particular moment when you knew this was a book you had to write?
When I started researching the topic, I was disappointed by books on fetish. I was very inspired by LGBTQI+ leather writing from authors like Patrick Califia or John Preston, but for some reason, when it came to the broader topic of fetishism, most books were dry and frequently pathologised it. I wanted to write from the inside of a beautiful, queer, free-thinking community, but also to look at how much our relationships with objects have changed since the Freudian definitions of fetish, which are over 100 years old—how much we use objects, like clothes, cars, watches, smartphones, to express ourselves and channel our desires.
Also, the idea of writing a book about kink and fetish felt very affirming, especially in the era when these cultures are being actively censored online and on social media. Once you’re holding the book in your hands, its content can’t be deleted because it doesn’t comply with the so-called „community guidelines“.

Many forms of fetish and kink seem to challenge traditional power structures, particularly those rooted in patriarchy. Would you say that deviant desire can serve as a form of resistance, or even liberation?
There is a common preconception of deviation, perversion, and fetishism as something distinctly male. But I write quite a lot about the ways these categories are often used as a method of resistance by those who have been historically othered and repressed by the patriarchal vision of desire – women, LGBTQI+ folk, Black people, people of colour, and those subverting traditional notions of family and monogamy.

If we think of who defines what is taboo or what is forbidden, it is usually the conservative mainstream (which is also becoming more militantly conservative by the day). Second Skin is an invitation to reconsider a lot of our ideas about these taboos, as well as the creative and expressive potential of sexuality and how it can help us live our lives more authentically. At the same time, kink and fetish communities operate based on principles of consent, mutual respect, and open communication, and following these principles can ultimately improve how we relate to others, not only in sex but generally.

Fetish is so often pathologised or dismissed as ‚abnormal,‘ when in fact it simply challenges normative boundaries. Do you think society’s fear of fetish says more about our fear of difference than about the desires themselves?
Human sexuality is fascinating. I think a lot of fetishes are still looked upon as something shameful—but also, paradoxically, the taboo is often what makes it hot in the first place!

I wrote Second Skin to celebrate the kink and fetish community, and there is a lot of tenderness, love, and appreciation in these pages. But at the same time, I didn’t want to ignore the darker aspects of human sexuality. We can be sex-positive and still acknowledge that we are drawn to the dark stuff, to the taboo, to the forbidden, and that shame, fear, and rejection all play a part in what we get aroused by, and sometimes, so does the trauma we’ve experienced. I think our society often doesn’t want to address this and prefers to repress it. I’ve written about playing with taboos but also about the more problematic side of fetish—what happens when we fetishise people non-consensually, when we chase their otherness and dehumanise them, and why this is wrong.

Was there a particular material or object whose history especially surprised or fascinated you while working on Second Skin?
I absolutely loved researching the chapter on leather because it allowed me to delve deep into the history of the leather community, what it meant for the LGBTQI+ movement, and how leather can be a conduit of shared queer memory, queer grief, and queer joy. I also really enjoyed writing about latex, because I am a latex fetishist, and the UK and Germany have a very rich history of rubber fetish—I loved tracing it from 1990s magazines like Skin Two to the contemporary scene at raves and on social media.

I wrote about cars being an ultimate socially accepted fetish, and how car culture has been used for a long time to create a particular narrative of masculinity—I then linked it to my personal car obsession, which dates back to childhood, as well as the work of two incredible artists, Romeo Gatt and Teo Ala-Ruona, who are both trans men using cars in their art (albeit in different ways) as a way to challenge and reinvent gender and the body.

And finally, I have a whole chapter in the book about playing with the animalistic and the monstrous—it ranges from pup play in the gay scene to a more existential idea of transforming yourself into something non-human, a creature or a monster or an animal. I love this idea of trying to transform yourself to this degree—it’s kind of sad because it’s impossible, but there is so much creativity and playfulness involved!

As platforms become more restrictive around expressions of sexuality, while simultaneously promoting hyper-curated gender roles like the ‚tradwife‘, do you think alternative digital platforms are giving rise to new, perhaps more coded forms of kink?
I am generally fascinated with how the aesthetic of kink and fetish is becoming more mainstream while the politics of it remain underground. To me, kink and fetish are connected to queer expression, a more fluid and free understanding of gender and transness, and fighting for sex workers‘ rights—but these ideas are increasingly being suppressed, while the mainstream audience still loves to see celebrities wearing latex gowns and leather thigh-high boots on the red carpet. I am very interested in breaching this dissonance.

At the same time, we are living through a major shift in the way our sexualities are shaped by the internet, especially for Gen Y and Z. Our relationships are technologically mediated through smartphones and webcams. We sext and send nudes. We are voyeurs, archivists, and porn stars rolled into one. There is so much variety of online cultures which revolve around femboys, goth mommies, characters from video games… Of course, this is not a substitute for an adequate sex education, but I feel like, thanks to this, younger people might understand their desires better and accept the general sexual diversity.

When we obsess over limited-edition sneakers or luxury handbags, aren’t we engaging in a kind of socially sanctioned fetishism? How do you see consumer culture blurring the line between desire and fetish?
I think in the 21st century we’re all fetishists! I’ve worked as a fashion writer for about 6 years, so I am no stranger to the intense desire high fashion evokes in us. I think, fundamentally, these obsessions are similar. I seek to transform myself when I put on a Burberry trench coat or Gucci loafers—I feel good wearing them, I believe in their ability to enhance my life. High fashion has capitalised on this desire for a long time by referencing fetish imagery or by employing visionaries like Steven Meisel, who have their own fetishistic perspectives. How is fetish different? When I put on a latex catsuit, I also seek to transform myself, but in a very specific way informed by the erotic—I do not buy into the consumer narrative or advertising, I have to write the rest of the story myself, following my own desire.