A couple months ago I went to a BDSM workshop at Ottawa’s Venus Envy. It was extremely enlightening on both the magical world of kink and fetish as well as the act of dominance and submission.
While discussing the latter our teacher brought up some of the intricacies of constraint and punishment. She explained how any type of BDSM play should be anchored in trust and respect. For some reason this idea threw me off more than the array of whips and restraints laid out on the table before us.
Consent is a key word when talking about BDSM, but who would consent to being humiliated, beaten, or bitten? What I learned during that Wednesday afternoon would come back to me sooner than I’d have expected.
Unfortunately it’s a pretty standard story. I went to a party, it was a friend of a friend’s. I woke up the next morning and didn’t remember how I got home, how much I had to drink or where my clothes were. I didn’t know why my back and neck ached or where my wallet had gone.
I knew he hadn’t used a condom and I knew that I didn’t want him touching me.
I had a cluster of purple blooms on my right thigh, a starburst on both arms, freckled by teeth marks, and then again on my ass.
What I didn’t know was whether I was wrong to feel this violated. I wouldn’t have had sex with him had I been sober, but I had never said no.
Could you consent if you couldn’t walk straight? Why this time was different from any other one-night stand, I have no idea. He had meant me no ill will, in fact he asked me out afterwards, but in that moment I loathed him and that anger and fear stayed with me.
Less than a week later I went on a date with a very funny and intelligent guy. It went well and by the end of the night he asked me to come back to his place to hang out. Alarms went off in my head and I refused repeatedly, not wanting to deal with any of his expectations. I agreed on the condition that he drive me home and I refused to sleep over.
We drank our coffees and chatted quietly in his basement apartment before it happened. We had been on a couple of dates already and were attracted to each other but I told him I wasn’t in the mood to have sex. His kisses became more urgent as I pulled away, and when he kissed my neck I turned my back.
He traced his fingers along my shoulders, whispering that he really liked me and that it wouldn’t be a one-night stand. I could see it in his eyes, that earnestness, but I could barely choke back the bile. I was quickly becoming frantic, and the more he tried to comfort me the more hysterical I became. I backed to the edge of the bed, teetering, and took off my shirt.
My eyes were glassy, my breathing shallow and my lips trembling. If it wasn’t for the stink of fear, I might have looked like a woman on the edge of release. Instead I was a woman on the edge of a cliff.
I was a mess of hurts, of wounds both superficial and farther-reaching. Needless to say I ran out and shut down.
I have been bitter and hostile towards men I don’t know.
Even now I don’t like when men walk too close to me or sit next to me on the bus. I am embarrassed by this terror, ashamed of my instincts to flee.
I have come to terms with that night in the ways in which my mind can handle it. I am wary of men, but I still have faith in the men in my life. I have many male friends, and though it may take longer, I am open to making more.
I know now that there was neither trust nor respect that night, and I have begun to see that what differentiates pain from pleasure isn’t the absence of collars or gags, but merely of consent.
—@alejandranikola
