Photo: Lucy Davies at Crossbreed.
It’s no secret that the British tabloids are particularly bloodthirsty, but in November 2019 they surpassed themselves. That month saw the Grace Millane murder trial: a case in which a British backpacker strangled to death in a New Zealand hotel room prompted headlines such as “Grace Millane: British backpacker gave list of fetishes to man on BDSM website, murder trial told”, “Grace Millane belonged to BDSM sites and asked ex-boyfriend to choke her, defence claims” and “Grace Millane ‘naive’ when messaging in online BDSM communities”. The incident whipped up a media frenzy due to the assailant’s claim that Millane’s death was inadvertent and caused by her request that he choke her in bed. The details of Millane’s sex life quickly seemed to become subject to more scrutiny than the actions of her murderer.
The genuine debate over whether someone can “accidentally” choke a sexual partner to death during breath play seemed to spark a thousand think pieces, avidly circulated across Mumsnet, about “the hateful rise of choking during sex”. It seemed that the tragic events did nothing but bring anti-BDSM sentiment to the fore once more, with some feminists reading sexual power play as a transliteration of our wider culture of misogyny. It goes without saying, but conflating the two issues is erroneous and dangerous. To make it clear: Grace Millane’s death was a murder where a woman with an interest in BDSM fell foul of a predator; in a BDSM scenario this wouldn’t have happened, given the importance of consent and safety within the subculture.
According to group We Can’t Consent To This, the assailants of 59 murdered UK women have also used a “sex game gone wrong” defence in court, some to the effect of having charges downgraded or dropped completely. Truly dangerous sex is not what BDSM is about and it is concerning that is being confused as such. Sex subcultures place particular emphasis on consent, and safe words and aftercare—where a dominant partner bestows time and care on their submissive partner(s) after a session—are standard.
Photo: Lucy Davies at Crossbreed.
The public’s general lack of awareness of the role of ethics within BDSM—or the existence of philosophies such as risk-aware consensual kink—not only means that abusers are able to use BDSM as a smokescreen but paints submissives like Millane as somehow out of their mind and “consenting” to attack. This kind of misreading just harks back to the kind of outdated attitudes that confused kinks with mental health disorders, something which couldn’t be farther from the truth.
There was a collective horror felt by many women at the revelations of the Millane trial. It was so affecting because it hammered home a fear that many of us feel. In the early days of online dating, it was common to joke about being murdered by a sociopath you met off an app or a dating site, and many women still carry around the anxiety that we’re never a hundred percent safe with the people we meet off the internet. In Millane’s case, her interest in kink was viewed as something that put her in further danger; taking the ordinary risks so many of us run and multiplying it tenfold.
What’s ironic about this for me, besides the fact that BDSM is more common than people think, is that powerplay and kink have been integral to helping me regain a feeling of safety in sexual encounters. After being sexually assaulted by a stranger on the street, and being told by a close female friend that it was my fault for drinking too much, I found it increasingly difficult to be vulnerable sexually—it felt like my body was no longer under my control. It’s through submission, being able to negotiate the perimeters of a scene and learning that when I vocalised my boundaries they were actually respected, that I began to feel a sense of trust with partners again.
"In short, kink is sexy because it’s safe; not only to enact your desires but to share them in the first place."
In turns out that I’m not the only for whom BDSM, in particular the emphasis on consent, served as a lifeline. Alex Warren, a London-based DJ and the founder of queer, kink-positive rave Crossbreed, has a similar story to tell. “When I came across the BDSM scene, I was in a very difficult stage in my life. A couple years earlier, my then-best friend had raped someone close to me and a few years before that it had become apparent that a close role model of mine was guilty of serious sexual abuse,” he explains. “As such, a lot of my friendships broke down, I didn’t trust men, and I started questioning my own motives and sexual desires.”
However, his involvement in kink helped show that an awareness and respect for consent needn’t be a rarity. “When I found the London kink scene, I found a group of people who not only understood consent, but actively and openly spoke about it. I started to build relationships with men again and began to forge bonds and trust that I still hold firm today. The scene, and specifically the friends I made at that time, saved my life.”
Others I spoke to from the London scene echo Alex’s sentiment, with sub David* stressing that “BDSM is about exploring an unbending imagination of sensation, with a universal acceptance of consent given a shared respect for the forms this can take amongst people.” In short, kink is sexy because it’s safe; not only to enact your desires but to share them in the first place. It’s this mutual trust that informs a successful sub/dom dynamic, as Lucy* a dom tells me: “I’m into dominating other women because it allows you a sense of intimacy you can’t get anywhere else; they’re letting you witness this really vulnerable part of themselves. It’s this closeness, more than the sex, that turns me on.”
Photos by Lucy Davies.