Engaging in BDSM as a Pro-Feminist Cis Man: it’s Not as Easy as it May Seem.

image: dommez.com

A foreword is required: this is not an attempt to engage in kink-shaming (although some readers may find it to be one), and neither is my intent to try to steer the conversation towards controlling women’s sexuality. Rather, this is an outline of my personal experience that I believe is quite pertinent to my engagement with feminist ideas and theory. Also, reader discretion is advised: this piece engages in a discussion of disturbing topics such as sexual violence and mistreatment directed at women, uses sexually explicit terminology, and contains other details that may not be appropriate for some readers.

It’s a sunny day outside. It’s our third date: we met on Tinder, and it was going well. We took a liking to each other, and things were heating up. We were kissing. Suddenly, she said something that would come to define our sexual life for the next few months: a request.

— “Choke me”.

Introduction

Google “feminist sex” or “feminism and submission” and you will find dozens of articles, all in agreement: enjoying sexual submission as a woman is compatible with feminism. There are many arguments put forward as to why it is. A short list:

1. Sexual submission in a consensual relationship is the expression of a woman’s desire. It is her choice: in a way, through relinquishing agency, she acquires it. This is further amplified by an undeniable focus on consent in BDSM circles: safewords and trust in your partner are key.
2. Women’s sexuality is taboo: women in our culture aren’t supposed to express sexual needs and wants. Traditional sexual and gender roles, while depriving women of agency, also deprive them of their sexuality: women aren’t supposed to be sexual. Insofar as they are, it is to satisfy their partner, and not much else: an extension of their subordination.
3. It just plain feels good.

Are these good reasons for engaging in BDSM, as a woman? They may very well be. Disagreeing with even one of these points would seemingly put us at a disagreement with some feminist ideas.

Hearing about feminist perspectives on submission in bed is… a bit weird. At least some ways it’s talked about are, and I don’t think many would disagree. Submission is liberating. You gain power by giving up power. It is by no means meant as an attack or denigration of the subject: certainly, something as complex as our sexuality is sure to lead us on a complex intellectual path, full of twists and turns. In other contexts, many feminists would find these theses absurd on their own.

The reason I mention this is because I have come to think that there is another thesis I’d like to add to the conversation, one that would baffle many feminists no less if it were taken on its own: the male perspective here matters a lot, and needs to be heard. And it’s certainly not for the lack of male perspectives on, well, everything.

— That was… intense.

— Yeah, I can imagine that. So, I take it you’re a masochist?

— Kind of. I never thought of myself as a masochist, but I guess you could say I have a penchant for being dominated by my partners.

— So, are we going to be acting this out now? Do I get to call you daddy’s little cumslut or something now?

— *Chuckles* Yeah, daddy’s little cumslut. Sounds nice.

My experience

I am a cishet man in my 20’s. I’ve never been keen on the idea of dominance in the bedroom. I’ve never found anything exciting about the idea of a power imbalance in sex. As a result, it has been easy to conceptualize men’s dominant behavior as learned, and not innate: after all, the desire to act this way was alien to me.

For me, witnessing examples of male dominance was almost always associated with negative experiences, at least when evaluated from a feminist standpoint. When I heard my male friends talk about sex, there was always a glint of misogyny present. Some of it was blatantly sexist: talking about how to best get sex at a party (obviously, the answer is when the girls got drunk enough), or how to best turn a “no” into a “yes”. And some of it was grand tales of their sexual escapades: how they got amazing blowjobs, or how they “got their dick wet” in a mind-blowing way. In my mind, the two were indistinguishable: like two sides of the same coin, the expression of disregard for women’s autonomy coincided with a fixation on fulfilling not just their own desire, but to fulfill an image widely spread throughout our culture: of a man who fucks, and one who fucks like a man is supposed to.

Then, I happened to get into a sexual relationship with a woman — one who enjoyed being submissive in bed. At the time, I did not know how I felt about BDSM. My partner’s pleasure was very important for me: empathizing with them is part of the emotional aspect inherent to sex. As a result, the first lesson I learned in that relationship was: if I wanted to fully satisfy her desires, I had to learn to perform as a dominant.

There are only two sounds in the room: the rough ring of leather hitting the skin, and moans of pain and pleasure in indistinguishable proportions. She asked me to punish her, and the joyful look in her eyes urged me on. I got no pleasure from this except for my partner’s satisfaction: but wasn’t that the important part for me?

Next time we met, she had heavy bruising. Despite my concern, she said it was nothing to worry about.

Gender essentialism and modern misogyny online

Before I self-identified as a supporter of feminism, I have been quite active in the ‘manosphere’, a misogynistic online community that is characterized by a distinct view of female sexuality from a gender-essentialist perspective, viewing women as naturally submissive. This community encompasses many sub-movements, ranging from pickup artist communities to the ironically named ‘MGTOW’: “men going their own way” — and, of course, incels.

Abandoning these perspectives and engaging with feminist theory constructively is quite the path. Suffice it to say, it was very challenging.

Modern misogynists at least like to think that they view sexuality and gender relations through the lens of evolutionary psychology. It’s a perspective that relies heavily on ‘evolutionary’ logic: mate selection is informed by a reproductive imperative to secure the best genes for your offspring. It just so happens that this perspective is also heavily prescriptivist: people with penises and vaginas approach sex differently because their reproduction is informed by different starting positions: a person with a vagina is faced with the prospect of pregnancy, while a person with a penis is not. And this means they have to act in different ways.

This informs partner choice: people with penises have an imperative only to inseminate partners and thus procure offspring, while people with vaginas seek to secure a mate who will provide both for them and their offspring during the vulnerable time of pregnancy and child-rearing.

This perspective is logically valid, but it is not sound. It ignores the multitude of advances that have been made in the realms of sociology, anthropology, and other social sciences, which illuminate how diverse and complex human behavior and motivations are. Nevertheless, this view poses a clear prediction: women (reasons for cisnormative language here are presumed to be self-evident) are regarded to be submissive since their sexuality requires them to be in a position dependent on their partner. And the more dominant their partner, the easier it will be for them to secure resources and social standing that will produce the best circumstances for their offspring.

It is also evident that sexual submission is an essential part of this worldview: in fact, without it, the neat picture that is constructed by misogynists collapses. Too many contradictions arise.

The point of delving into this topic is not to enlighten the reader to the vile beliefs of modern internet misogynists, but to show the role sexual submission towards men plays in shaping and informing these beliefs.

Misogyny is not static. Today’s society, in most of the world, is far from the picture one would see hundreds or thousands of years ago. And, as women’s (and other minorities’) position in society changes and improves, so too change the views of modern misogynists. The traditional patriarchal model of total social submission is no longer workable.

How to engage in wax play safely:

1. Be mindful of your surroundings: fire safety is important. Make sure your surroundings are as non-flammable as possible. Make sure your candles are never out of view. An open flame is a serious fire hazard, so be responsible.
2. Not all candles are suitable for wax play. Some types of candles are made out of materials that melt way too hot: if you choose your candle improperly, it could cause burns and serious damage to your skin.
3. Always try the candle on yourself first. You have to make sure that the heat is tolerable, so as to not cause injury to your partner.
4. Learn proper technique. Don’t hold the candle too close to your partner, make sure that you only drip wax on areas that are not too sensitive.
5. Have fun!

Consent: is it enough?

One cannot overstate the importance of consent. Consent is what differentiates r*pe and a mutually enjoyable sexual experience. It’s what separates sexual harassment and playful teasing. It is, after all, what separates abuse from BDSM (which is why practitioners of BDSM rightly place a lot of emphasis on it).

But is consent everything? Certainly, this turn of phrase is not uncommon when talking about BDSM and sexual submission in general.

Think about it: just because you like being touched a certain way during sex does not mean that you want people to touch you that way when you’re on the bus, or making dinner, or reading, or doing whatever else. This can’t be repeated enough — consent is the key. — The Link newspaper, “Feminism and Sexual Submission Aren’t Mutually Exclusive”, emphasis mine.

I don’t disagree that consent is key, insofar as we determine which social interactions merit intervention. No one disputes that a person’s right to their body is paramount: if they are being harassed, acted violently upon, or otherwise suffer at the hands of a person who mistreats them, they are rightly entitled to protection — social and legal. Which is why we prosecute r*pists and people who sexually harass others.

But once consent is there, does further examination of an act cease? It would seem that it does not. There is a multitude of consensual acts that feminists would find inappropriate and/or problematic. Sexual objectification, which does not necessarily always manifest itself in violent ways (sometimes, it is an issue completely confined to how a person views and interacts with the world: it may lead to horrible acts, but ipso facto the belief itself is what we take issue with) is one example. Problematic cultural phenomena which we witness daily is another: an actress may consent to be filmed in a movie which objectifies her or promotes a misogynistic view of women, and no one is acted violently upon per se — but I would argue that this type of media is still problematic and something which should be critically examined. I think few people would disagree with me. There are those who would, though: I would call this attitude cultural libertarianism (note that this does not have much in common with what’s come to be recognized in the United States as political libertarianism, and many political libertarians, ironically, would not be cultural libertarians by any means due to their attitude of cultural conservatism).

Cultural libertarianism can be further distinguished as vulgar cultural libertarianism and intellectual cultural libertarianism.

If we put forward a definition of vulgar cultural libertarianism, it would be the maxim “as long as a practice is consensual and is a free choice of some person, it is allowable and good”. It is hard to overstate the importance this simple maxim has played for many marginalized groups: just because I call it vulgar does not mean that it is a bad thing in itself. I believe that this plays a big role in acceptance, and is how many people first come to empathize with others and accept their points of view, however different.

Intellectual cultural libertarianism, on the other hand, is just a more sophisticated version of the undistinguishing vulgar cultural libertarianism: rather than giving a sound endorsement to consensual practices, it seeks to examine them with a more critical eye. This isn’t usually a point of contention: as I wrote above, some prima facie consensual acts turn out to be suspect when examined closely.

My personal experience with a partner who desired to be dominated by me has led me precisely to such an examination.

Maledom sex is an act whereby that woman or those women offer and provide with carnal pleasure to that man, as expressing and showing that due to their female inferiority, their carnal bodies are the best thing they have to offer and to correspond with to the best man; and, additionally and as a complement, that woman or those women wish to be hurt, maltreated, degraded by, and wish to get pain, both physical and moral, from that man, to make it clearer and more evident that that man’s pleasure is the only and supreme goal of that sexual act, and that unidirectional carnal pleasure toward that man is the best way that woman or those women can correspond to that superior man, due to their female inferiority

BDSM: the (cis) male perspective

I must confess that I have little experience with men who engage in a dominant role in BDSM and are sympathetic to feminism. I think it’s reasonable to think that many feminist women who engage in submissive roles in the bedroom also have partners who are sympathetic to feminism. But what is it like: to be a man who supports feminism and to play out a dominant role?

Consent, as I wrote above, is of supreme importance. But it is not a black-and-white picture: below consent and non-consent there lurks a deeper aspect of human sexual interaction, and its name is desire.

My relationship has taught me a lesson I will never forget that distinguishes the two. I may have consented to the role of a dominant in my relationship, but I did not truly desire it. What I desired was my partner’s pleasure, and my dominant role happened to be the best way I could provide it. I thought that it was a simple matter of adopting that role. It was not.

What it was, rather, was a grueling and emotionally exhausting experience. I’ve had to willingly inflict pain. I’ve had to demean my partner in ways that were unthinkable to me before. I’ve had to, consensually, play out the role of a misogynist that I couldn’t imagine myself ever being. And it has been traumatic.

It was horrible to think that, over my whole journey on the road to feminism, to empathizing with women’s struggles, after I understood the emotional weight of everything women have to suffer at the hands of men, that, in bed, nothing made my partner happier than for me to act out the same role of an abuser that I’d come to despise in my life. The key, as many wrote, was consent, but it did not change my attitude.

The reason for that was precisely my lack of desire: not sexual desire for my partner, but the enjoyment of the act itself. It was not abuse, because it was consensual, but it sure felt like it. Just because I was consensually play-abusing my partner, rather than abusing her outright, made no difference to me, on an emotional level.

I do not know whether men who engage in BDSM and have views aligned with feminism view this. I don’t know whether people who seek out dominant cis men as their sexual partners think about this much. But leads to a question that, seemingly, cannot be resolved without hurting someone in the debate.

— Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Are you, like, ok with all of this? I mean, I called you a slut, a whore, I hit you, I mean, I even dripped wax all over you. You told me about your fantasies of being helpless in front of your professor and him taking advantage of you sexually. I don’t mean to be judgemental or to offend you, but you understand that this is… weird for me. Is it for you? I mean, what excites you in all of this?

— Honestly, I cannot say. It’s just a fantasy I’ve always had. It’s what turns me on.

— But, like, it’s a mirror image of abuse. Some women suffer in these situations. How do you reconcile that?

— Well, I think there’s a boundary there. Some women may be pressured into situations like these, and it’s definitely not OK. I think it’s good to educate them on how safe relationships work, where consent and non-consent are. Some, who are pained by the circumstances they find themselves in, need help and awareness that there are other ways to live their life. But personally, I don’t appreciate it when people lecture me on what I should and shouldn’t like. I’m fine with it, I like it.

Is BDSM compatible with the feminism of both partners?

This might be the most controversial part of this piece because, at this point, I cannot say in good faith, based on my previous experience, that it is.

This section serves to tie together everything that was written previously. I cannot imagine what it is like to want to hurt my partner. Since I am cis and heterosexual, in my mind that desire would be inextricably tied to misogyny.

I tried to think of it differently. I tried to think that, if something satisfied my partner, then it wasn’t wrong. I’d enjoyed consent, and I liked to see that my partner enjoyed everything that was happening, that part was real. But the feeling that I’d have to have somewhat of an abuser in me to truly enjoy what was happening was very real too. And the fact that I had no desire for acting out this way, and yet still did, had left me traumatized.

Let’s go back to the reasons why women’s sexual submission is said to be OK that I’d listed before. A small reminder:

1. It’s an expression of agency
2. It’s a way to express repressed sexuality in a patriarchal world
3. It feels good

Let’s work from the bottom on this one.

I hope I’d convinced you earlier on the inadequacy of vulgar cultural libertarianism, at least insofar as it goes towards truly discerning what is truly problematic and what isn’t. So, with all due respect, just because something is consensual and feels good doesn’t mean that it doesn’t merit a closer look.

The second point may be a miss on my part. The debate over women’s sexuality should always take women as its main focus. I cannot presume that I can speak for women’s experiences in our world, and I cannot dictate how women should best act. I can only offer my thoughts, and I think that this point presumes an outdated view of patriarchal control of women’s sexuality. Since the sexual liberation, women have enjoyed greater sexual freedom: constraining women in their sexualities has become much more challenging, and so men endeavor to get as much pleasure from this newfound freedom as possible, rather than try and control it. I cannot say whether this is accurate or not, but on its face, it seems like a counterintuitive way to deliver men in the patriarchy what they want, even if it requires doing something a person wants to do anyway.

Nevertheless, we go back to consent and desire. Of course, sex requires interpersonal connection and interaction. And when one dominates and one submits, there’s always the second side to the story. If a woman desires to be dominated, it may say nothing bad about her personally; but, in our culture, which fetishizes (through porn and popular media) male dominance and sexual scenarios where men have power over women, what does that say about the man? Is a man’s desire to hurt his partner consensually just a happy accident, serving to make them both happy?

There’s also the question of, if it’s the second, whether we find it an accident or a social phenomenon. Implicitly, I’d assumed the former; In an earlier section, I’d outlined that gender essentialism is quite a popular viewpoint among misogynists. If it is indeed a cultural phenomenon, should we ignore it, or should we direct a closer and more critical view towards BDSM and the dynamics of dominance and submission in general? Or is it not as simple as an essentialist/constructivist dichotomy?

I don’t presume to have all the answers. I certainly don’t have the capacity to speak for women on the matter. But my journey and personal experiences have left a deep mark on me, with many questions that cut deeply at how we view sex and gender relations in the bedroom. There’s definitely a place for further debate and dialogue on the matter. Nevertheless, here’s hoping that everyone, no matter their gender identity, expression, or sexuality, can live a fulfilling sexual and romantic life if they want one.