Conventions of Sin
A peek into some of the largest BDSM gatherings in North America
It’s noon on Thursday afternoon in Denver, and you can positively smell the leather. It creaks in every folding chair, shines with a post-boot-black luster, and fills the air with the rustic smell of polish and musk. Nearly 600 sadists, masochists, and overall wonderfully perverted people are fidgeting and chattering excitedly, while all around us a massive 40,000 square foot dungeon is being erected in sections of medical tables, St. Andrew’s crosses, spanking benches, and rigging areas.
Thunder in the Mountains is about to begin.
It’s my first year, and as a new attendee I’m filled with all the buzzing excitement of finally seeing what the hype was about. I’d been surrounded by gasps and exclamations of “You’ve never been to Thunder?!” for nearly a year, and now I can finally join the ranks of the initiated.
A salt-and-pepper gentleman stands before us on the podium: “Denver, are you ready to get fucking kinky?!” he cries, and we all whistle and hoot in response. “Fuck yeah! But first, we need some ground rules.”
What follows is a list of dos and don’ts — never bring your phone into the dungeon, do utilize the medical care stations and free condoms, don’t engage in kinky stuff or underdress in the hotel lobby, do notify event staff before fireplay scenes, and so on. The Aftercare Room and classrooms are dutifully pointed out, as are locations of the class schedule. We conclude with a cheeky send-off and then they begin to usher us out the door.
I’m frozen in my seat. I don’t know what to do. There’s so much going on, so many things to try. My friend grabs me by the hand and drags me out of the room, saying, “Come on, or we’ll miss the TNG meet-and-greet!”
TNG, or The Next Generation, is the catch-all term for groups responsible for organizing events that are for kinksters 35 years old and younger. At 25, I certainly fit into this category, and it seems a good place to start.
Wandering into the room, I feel myself immediately relax. Except for a few decidedly older faces, these are the friends I regularly see on my Tuesday and Saturday night play parties. We rally for introductions of our local community leaders, name a few TNG-specific events happening at the convention, and break for food and chitchat.
Thus begins one of the most magical and magnificently mad weekends of my life.
Over the course of the next three days, I wake up in the mornings to do clothing-optional yoga, followed by a class and a lunch break. Usually, a nap is in order at some point, since the amount of sleep we’re getting on any given convention night is minimal. The evening consists of more classes, a dinner break, and finally, the play party.
Class offerings are something in the vein of:
- Consensual non-consent
- Florentine whipping and flogging
- Needle play 201
- How to give a proper blowjob
- Basics of fireplay safety
- A million variations of shibari and kinbaku for various levels of experience
- Proper leather care
- Spirituality in BDSM—a discussion panel
- Anal training basics—from fingers to fisting
And so on…
People bring notebooks to class alongside their toy bags. We queue up at the door, eager to be let in, and nearly bound to our seats in anticipation to hear what the teacher has to tell us that day. Had I been half as focused in school, my GPA would surely have always exceeded a 4.0.
There are little pauses throughout the day. I sit in a crafting circle during a lunch break and watch two men braid whips until it’s apparent that I’m near bursting with curiosity and they offer to show me how they do it.
Sometimes I trawl the vendors' hall where both submissives and wallets tremble in fear and anticipation. Custom-made harnesses, specialty whips, canes, pony masks, and lovely soft kangaroo leather floggers stand next to clinically bright medical supply tables and stalls full of shining steel adornments.
The days are spent in blissful learning, and my brain is stuffed by the time I reach dinner. Visions of strap-ons dance in my head. Ideas spring up from each new piece of information I glean.
And the nights? Oh, the nights… The nights are something else entirely!
The first thing I notice isn’t the sights or smells, but the sounds. Slaps, screeches, moans, cracks of whips, low grunts, and laughter filter through from every corner of the room. Two large curtained areas designate female-identifying only and male-identifying only play spaces. The rest of the dungeon is an open smorgasbord of sin, with every delight laid out before us.
The aisles are wide enough that you can stroll through play areas without being hit by a stray whip. There’s a large pony play cart track in the corner of the room, with human ponies pulling their masters in a circle. A puppy play pit is lined with floor mats for sensitive knees, and pup enthusiasts growl and play tug with their favorite toys as their masters stand next to the pen, chatting about pup gear and training techniques. Flames flicker by a small area of tables overseen by a staff member manning damp clothes and an emergency fire blanket.
The central area is thousands of square feet of benches, tables, cages, and crosses waiting to be used. It flanks the most central structure of the room, a humongous medical station. Bowls of condoms and candy dot the station throughout, and the dungeon monitors sit mildly discussing this or that as they keep a keen eye on the goings-on of the play areas. A few will occasionally get up and exchange making rounds with others.
In the back, farther than I can properly see, is what I know to be the rope bondage area. Steel scaffolding and frames create a latticework of weight-tested hardpoints for riggers to tie up their writhing bottoms.
All of these play areas are packed, with people in anything from full-body latex and leather to completely naked, indulging in their deepest desires. All stops are pulled, all the special tricks and toys and attire are here to be used and displayed. Everyone is eager to put their newly-won knowledge from their day’s classes to the test, and the result is magnificent.
I’m in heaven. I never want to leave.
My friend turns to me and asks, “So? Where should we start?”
After the whirlwind weekend, I walk away with many thoughts and not a few bruises. I head home, take a long bath, and drink cocoa until the sun rises.
It took a few days for my brain to reassert itself into the settings of the normal world. They call it con-drop, and it’s a very real feeling. The benefits were undeniable, however. There were things I learned through my time at Thunder that I did not expect to be part of the takeaway.
The first thing I noticed is that communities standardize safety. Seeing how such a large gathering of wildly different people could all agree on the same ground rules, even though they were not from the same play circles, was heartening. The standard being set meant that I knew every person in the dungeon was an asset to my personal safety because they already understood the overarching limits in which I was playing. By a broader extension, the understanding of these limits across continents and between countries gives us a strong foundation for future encounters across the globe.
The other was seeing community leaders actively being involved in BDSM. There are known names within any activity-based group, small or large, and some cover entire continents. North America, Europe, and Asia have always had a strong presence in BDSM culture and they have strong personalities heading that presence. But seeing those faces and names actively take part in teaching, sharing, engaging, and playing was something that inspired me greatly.
Lastly, I saw play that I don’t often get to see at my local dungeon. Playspaces can be limited in, well, space. They may have neighbors who complain about noise or regulate things to the taste of the playspace owners. I don’t often get to do a flying flesh hook suspension or be whipped florentine-style with two nine-foot bullwhips. There just isn’t the capability for most small clubs to host that kind of play. But in a place where there are masters of their craft exhibiting skill without the limitations of smaller dungeons, you wind up surrounded by amazing and devious scenes you wouldn’t see elsewhere.
And here I thought the classes would be the educational part.
I’ve continued to attend conventions since my first, although I’ll always hold a special place in my heart for Thunder. Kinkfest in Portland, Oregon is also a well-known class-based convention with a nightly play party and expansive dungeon. BED (The Bondage Expo series) brings together people primarily interested in rope for workshop-based exchanges, as does Eurix in Berlin. Smaller conventions give more locally accessible debauch and fun while keeping things manageable.
If you want to discover events near you, my recommendation is to peek at the event listings on FetLife or visit the BDSM Calendar. They are often organized by region and will give you a description of what will be offered.
Feeling overwhelmed? Understandable, but don’t let the sheer size of the event put you off. In terms of information, exploration, and meeting those as freaky and perverted as yourself, there’s nowhere in the world that’ll offer as much as a convention.
Hope to see you at the next one!
Remember, be safe, sane, and consensual, but most importantly, be yourself.
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