Makings of an Aspie Pup

I was always different.

My two best friends, when I was a kid, were sisters whose divorcee mother struggled to make ends meet while she put herself through university. The Barbie Star Traveler Motor Home they pined for one Christmas was out of reach, so I took it upon myself to make them one out of a shoebox—complete with shag carpeting, a velvet-trimmed bedroom and a foil-lined bathroom.

And then I put Ken and GI Joe to bed together. Barbie got the bathtub.

I started riding bikes when I was 5—initially BMXing, later mountain biking and freeriding. In secondary school, I became part of the skateboarding scene. I knew I was gay but I didn’t fit into that ‘box’ during a time when everyone had a box—the skaters, the jocks, the stoners, the geeks. It was a simpler time. I didn’t identify with the gay community—it felt to me like if you weren’t a hairless twink or gym bunny, no one wanted to know anyway. So, I threw myself off stairs and ledges, scraping a few knees and breaking a few bones along the way.

I figured out early on that I didn’t think or feel things like most people. I would be distracted one day, hyper-focused the next. Numbers had distinct personalities and moods. My attention to detail was obsessive. And my engagements in social situations were often erratic, chaotic, conflicted... quirky.

I once witnessed a man die when his scooter was hit by a speeding car and, while I knew I was experiencing trauma and shock inside, nothing showed outside beyond some slight tremors in my hands. I feel—deeply, in fact—but this emotional disconnect has always been a part of me. I often have to ‘act’ to convey an estimation of my emotions to others.

In my mid-20s I was diagnosed borderline Aspie—high functioning, having learned to mask the traits much of the time, but sitting awkwardly in the space between the normies and those with more conspicuous neurodivergence. When I feel comfortable in an environment, or I’m with people I trust, I’m outgoing, confident, friendly. But I’m not good when strangers get in my space or touch me—it’s as though pure, liquid revulsion has been poured into every cell, permeating my body from my core to the extremities of my limbs. I become withdrawn, standoffish, unapproachable. Sweat trickles down my spine into the waistband of my boxer-briefs. I’ll find myself, at times, clasping my hands behind my head, elbows out in front of me, to keep others at bay. That said, I am very independent and love to explore, particularly on my own—I’ve become adept at avoiding the situations and environments that trigger me.

I started pupping on the quiet in 2017. No hood, no tail—nothing but me in my own company. Getting into the headspace provided me some respite from the loud and sometimes overwhelming world around me. It was calming, soothing—a safe, peaceful space in my head, slowing my thoughts and clearing my mind. I didn’t know much about the pup community beyond living others’ lives vicariously through social media—for some, it was a kink with roots in BDSM while, for others, it was a way to connect socially. Regardless, the version of pupping I’d made for myself felt right.

I love colour. My olive-toned skin means I can pull off colours like fluoro green or orange without looking like a reanimated corpse. I’d started working on myself to get in better shape. As motivation, I bought a neoprene harness, collar, shorts and a pair of armbands in lime and purple with the intent to explore my kinky side once I toned up. Wearing the gear was like getting a hug—but I wasn’t ready for the big bad world to see this side of me just yet.

At the beginning of this year, a switch flipped in my head and I found myself not wanting to be quiet about my pup side anymore. I finally got my first hood and started connecting with the local pup community, unsure of what to expect—to me it was more social than sexual and I didn’t know my place. Would I have to choose to be dominant? Submissive? Could I be a stray? Did I need to find a pack or a handler? Would other pups accept me? So many questions and even more anxiety.

Thankfully the world has moved on—the black and white boxes from my younger years are now shades of grey. Likewise, the pup community has evolved from its BDSM roots into an incredibly diverse space. Beyond the givens—respect and consent—there are few rules. Its existence and meaning are unique and personal to each pup.

Arriving at my first pup event—and first public appearance in my harness—a wave of calm hit me immediately as I put on my hood, my fears melting away. I felt focused, confident, like I had found ‘my people’—or pups in this case.

Hoods are a social leveller. In ‘hooman’ form, our fight-or-flight instinct subconsciously evaluates—makes assumptions about—everyone we encounter. This is based on the first thing we usually notice—the face. When everyone is wearing a hood, that evaluation is now based on their chosen colour, style, posture, mannerism and persona.

The persona. Snuggle pup. Alpha, beta or omega pup. Tactical pup. Service pup. Glitter pup. Protector pup. Kinky pup. For many of us, it’s a mix of traits that ties in with our chosen breed—something separate from who we are or wish we were when we’re doing the day job. But if we’re going to do boxes, I suppose you could say I’m a stray alpha tactical Alsatian (German Shepherd) snuggle pup—I have natural leadership tendencies, I’m loyal and fiercely protective of those I care about, I’m athletic and I love a good cuddle. There is also a lot of service pup in me—it brings me joy to ensure the pups I’m with are comfortable, fed, and watered. I’ll even submit, when the energy is right, to a good belly rub or a pull of my collar.

Now forget the boxes and labels. I’m just Pup Gio, doing what comes naturally to me and fitting into the wider pack organically. It’s an ongoing process—these days the lime harness stays home in lieu of a plate carrier, a fitted black tee and a pair of baggy camos. The tactical vibe better reflects who I am inside as a pup, which empowers strength and confidence on the outside, my Aspie traits temporarily gone. My presentation also signifies to other pups that I will do everything I can to keep them safe from harm.

As adults, many of us stopped playing—in the traditional sense—around age 11 or 12. There is something cathartic about being with others—often those we know only by their chosen pup name—to wrestle, bury each other in a ball pit, play catch or fetch, drift off in a dogpile on a mound of cushions... it reconnects you to your childhood, a time with far less stress and responsibility. For me, this respite leaves me with an afterglow of calm and contentment for the next several days—and during this time, my brain puts up less of a fight.

Many of us aren’t looking for handlers/masters or to eat and drink out of bowls on the floor—we want to get together for cuddles, hugs, body contact, belly rubs, video games, films, or just a chillout sesh together in the pup headspace. Between five and eight out of ten pups are on the spectrum, depending on whom you ask, and, for many, the hood becomes a symbol—or even a tool—to distance ourselves from our autism. A way to communicate (verbally or non-verbally), socialise and, ironically, have human contact. A way to let our inner selves come out to play. Like our bio counterparts, the urge to pull together into packs is strong—for many, strong enough to at least loosen the shackles of neurodivergence.

Having gone into the pup community as a stray by choice, bonds have inevitably formed during the past few months—the pack instinct is impossible to resist. Most are casual friends and acquaintances but, out of the noise, four of us have come together into something deeper, stronger—an unofficial pack of sorts. A connection of love, respect, support and companionship, in many ways a familial bond—one I feel intensely loyal and protective toward. Away from the inevitable politics of the wider London pack, we meet up often for pup days around the city, travel to events in other cities and, most importantly, we’re there for each other through good times and bad.

I was connected to a community—and ultimately to people I care for deeply—thanks to a few pieces of neoprene sewn together from a pattern with roots in BDSM. The gear is by no means a must but, for many of us with neurodivergence, it can be—symbolically and physically—a way for our inner selves to shine, and an enabler to connect with others in a more basic, fundamental, sometimes primal way. Sometimes it takes a hood to remove the mask.

The pup community which, from the outside, is viewed by some as deviant or sordid, has done more for my mental health and wellbeing than any prescription drug or therapy session—it has given me joy, value and a sense of self.

Imagine what a better place the world would be if we were all a bit more dog.