On BDSM as an escape

From the bottom of my heart and my work-related burnout, here's an essay on using BDSM as an escape – and whether his idea is even ethical, relevant or hot. Also: post-digital identity fatigue, filth as mindfulness and the meditative joys of having your fingers down someone's throat. Thank you for your support, now more than ever <3 

In the last few months, I had to deal with a lot of work-related stress. After yet another 11-hour day, I sometimes wished I worked in an office with a nice corporate-looking bathroom I could cry in. At some point I realised that nothing cuts through this stress anymore – not sleep, not meditation, not therapy, nothing apart from a release you get after doing a very hot BDSM scene. 

For the first time in my life, I could truly relate to one of the most enduring BDSM stereotypes: that person with a stressful job, the politician or venture capitalist, who absolutely has to have their fix in the dungeon on a Friday night. It made me think of the narrative of BDSM as an escape – and why do we love to think of the lifestyle as the world beneath the looking glass, an antithesis to daily life and its worries. And are these ideas, as enchanting as they are, still relevant? 

The other week, while looking for a low-effort way to relax, I drank a bottle of natural wine by myself and rewatched Nick Broomfield’s 1996 “Fetishes” documentary (which is available for free here). Filmed at Pandora's Box, one of New York City's SM/fetish parlours, “Fetishes” is an entertaining watch, although not without some narrative flaws. The narrator tirelessly hammers on the stereotype of the “male professional” and their “escape” in the dungeon – every single one is introduced by the job, as a broadcaster, a financial broker, an owner of the real estate film etc. Most of them confess that no one knows about their journeys into the BDSM world. Pro-dommes in the film appear to be much more multi-dimensional characters, and pretty fluid in terms of the role BDSM plays in their lives: a lot of them are bi, play for pleasure, or admit that it’s part of their authentic sexuality worth being celebrated. 

It’s pretty clear that “Fetishes” is not representative of the complete demographic of the NYC BDSM community at the time – because it has to be a fairly narrow group of people who could cash out 200 dollars per hour in the mid-1990s. So of course, along the way, BDSM got cemented as a sweet release which commonly goes hand in hand with stress, status, prestige and wealth. 

But let’s backtrack for a moment and think of BDSM as an escape on a slightly deeper level. What happens in a hot scene which separates it from most other experiences in life? Riding a long and sexy high of adrenaline and endorphins. Looking in the mirror and almost not recognising yourself in your topspace or subspace. The moment of slipping into latex or leather which momentarily hits pause on whatever else. A safe space to try risky things out, a space where sometimes you can experience states, emotions, thrills that are so much bigger than you. It’s all heavy breathing, sweat and extreme intimacy. After a good scene, it can take some time to come back. 

The duality of kink and vanilla lives is something that doesn’t need to be explained much. Most kinsters know the feeling. We all have to check our coats in the cloakroom when we enter the kink space, and leave behind some parts of our personalities too. A lot of my friends keep their kink identity a secret from their colleagues and bosses. For me, as someone who is pretty public about it, it’s slightly different.

 My need for escape is directly connected to the digitalised nature of our social and work lives. I often suffer from identity fatigue – being tired of being myself, or more precisely performing as myself online and offline. I get tired of performing as a curator, a writer, or generally as someone who has an informed opinion on things. Sometimes I want to stop talking, throw my identity out of the window and put on some latex instead. 

In these moments, I want to do things that I would be embarrassed not only to share online, but even write down on paper. I want to feel thrilled, or excited, or scared, or at my limit or at someone else’s limit as I put my hand on their month – not because it looks good, or because I’m supposed to do it, or because it's cool but simply because it feels amazing. 

Sometimes when I talk to very vanilla people about BDSM, I tell them that it’s like an extreme form of mindfulness and meditation – and then enjoy them looking very baffled. During a hot BDSM scene, you’re completely present in your body and the moment. There is no need to respond to any messages, look at your phone, deal with anything that our hyper-anxious lifestyle throws at us. When you’re in the middle of a hot scene, it's all perfect and surprising and radiant and euphoric. Do I tell them it usually involves my latex-covered fingers in someone’s throat and an intense eye contact? Not really.  

In the end, the narrative of BDSM as an escape culturally tends to be hierarchical and binary – simply because not everyone gets the luxury to retreat into the normative or “professional” lifestyle after the scene is over. Not everyone needs to aspire to it either: some of us have neck tattoos, some of us are sex workers, some of us just enjoy being open. 

There is no such thing as a complete separation between the scene self and the daily self – because sometimes we learn things there that change us. We learn mental and physical endurance, we learn pleasure and boundaries, we learn kindness and empathy, we get to know ourselves better. Maybe the intensity of play can only exist in a contained time and space – but it certainly impacts our lives well beyond the escape. 

Image: still from "Fetishes" (1996), courtesy of Nick Broomfield