Read this if you wonder why Black folks need safe spaces—even at play parties.

cw: racism

In the small space of time between the turning of the leaves and the surge of the Omicron variant, I managed to attend a sex party. I went with my anchor partner, Alex, which made the experience feel like we’d come full-circle. The first time we had attended this specific party, we had been together for about three weeks. I’d been back in New York for about two months, and I was still living with my father way out in Queens. I was bookending a pretty wild birthday week that had me traveling from Jersey, to Philadelphia, back to Brooklyn in the span of a few days. I was full of love and fervor, feeling like I was finally living the dream little fourteen-year-old me couldn’t have ever imagined.

I had been so shy upon my first entry. It must have been endearing for others to watch. I’ve never really been a risk-taker. I think about things a lot. I consider all possibilities. It can be quite exhausting, but thankfully now I take medication for such things.

That first time, when Alex asked if I wanted him to flog me on the St. Andrews Cross, I balked at the idea of being watched by a bunch of strangers. It was something I’d never done, and I was afraid my anxiety would get the best of me. So, I declined. He didn’t push. We stayed in that spot watching as a lithe, white domme flogged a short Asian woman. My eyes naturally caught on not only the scene, but the intentionality of the outfits: for the domme, a nude, latex skirt with a dark thong pressing against the material from beneath. For the bottom (who, I’d later learn was also a pro-domme), a simple black lingerie set, made with the kind of quality material you can spot from ten feet away.

“Do you wish that was you?” Alex asked me as a particularly brutal-sounding lash was laid out against flesh.

“Kind of,” I admitted.

Which was hilarious, because when they were done, the woman who had been bottoming walked up to me. “Do you want her to flog you? She’s very good at it,” she said, glancing back at the woman who had topped her. They traded something like a mischievous grin, and that was when realized this was their thing.

So what did I say? “Oh, no, I don’t think I could right now.”

Yes. I was a dumbass, but I was being honest. Twenty-four-year-old me couldn’t quite handle that—I wasn’t ready to push myself in that way yet, especially because I’d never been properly flogged before. While it wasn’t my first sex party, it was my first kink-focused party. I could barely handle the conversation, stumbling over my words and talking about how I bartended at a little Mexican joint in Forest Hills. I was too afraid to embarrass myself.

Which, honestly was a pity, because two years later, at twenty-six, I would swoon at the idea if it were ever presented again.

Being back in that space was nostalgic—I was two years older now, entering a place with folks who felt more like my colleagues and community, as opposed to pure strangers seeking carnal delights. I did not feel like a voyeur. I felt like a participant.

While many go to sex parties to indulge in aspects of group play I tend to stay close to home. My partner and I are always aware of where each other are, even when we’re mingling with other folks. It’s helpful that Alex is an extrovert—I get to lean on him when I have trouble striking up conversations or dwelling in small talk. Still, I was admittedly a bit more anxious than usual.

We mixed. We mingled, mostly staying within our small circle. Alex had mostly come to the party to indulge me, because I’d been pining to go to a play party for a while. As I began to warm up, we decided to play. First with hands, then with implements. I was still a bit anxious and shy, but impact always tends to relax me.

After some flogging and some putzing around with a violet wand that was FAR stronger than I was prepared to use, Alex and I found ourselves conversing with a friend-of-a-friend. Alex was returning a flogger to him. Kinksters are all nerds at heart, so we got onto the topic of implements in general, and the friend would go back and forth between his literal roll-up of toys to explain an implement here or there. Eventually, he asked me what kind of pain I liked.

“Do you like stingy or thuddy?” This is actually a pretty common question.

“Mmm, probably stingy,” I said with a shrug.

“Okay, I’ve got something you might like.”

Alex and I watched him go back to his roll-up and when I saw what he brought out, I immediately shook my head. It was a whip.

Now, here’s something I didn’t really mention before: this party was very white. Among the less-than-a-hundred people in attendance, there were maybe fifteen people of color. Maybe. It’s something that always dismays me about the community, but it’s something that I’ve begun to understand has a lot to do with the fact that I was introduced to many of these people via my white partner.

So what do you do when a white man approaches you with a whip, insinuating your white partner use it on you in front of a room of (mostly) white people? The answer, for me, is to say absolutely fucking not.

“Oh no, I can’t use that,” was the way it actually came out.

“Oh, no, it’s really not that bad!” He said, mistaking my apprehension for fear of pain. “It looks worse than it is, plus it makes a really sexy sound.” Then, of course, he snapped it.

“No, no thank you,” I repeated. That is when Alex caught on, so he echoed my sentiment as well, saying, “she doesn’t want to use it.”

“Are you sure?” He asked. A last-ditch effort. I could tell he was disappointed, but at that point, I was scrambling internally, trying to figure out how to get out of this conversation without bringing up the word slavery.

“I’m sure. I don’t want to use it,” I repeated. He shrugged and went to put the whip away. I looked at Alex, wide-eyed. When the man returned, we shared a moment of silence. Alex tried to continue the small talk in an attempt to save the mood, but I turned to him and quietly said, “can we take a step away?”

We found ourselves by the coat rack, near the entrance of the party. My eyes drifted over to a friend of mine, hanging upside down by rope as they casually have a conversation with their girlfriend. It’s a sweet moment that left me nostalgic for the beginning of the evening, when I had wondered if we’d finally hook up that night.

Alex asked if I was okay. I tell him I’m not. I desperately, desperately wanted to save the evening, but I could also feel the panic attack coming. It’s like a vibration underneath my skin. It shortens each breath. I needed air.

We put on our coats and exited, sitting in the car in silence. When the radio came on, I turned it off. “I’m just trying to calm down,” I told Alex. He waited, concern coming off of him in waves.

“I really don’t think he—”

“I don’t care,” I snapped. “I just didn’t want to have to explain two hundred years of slavery at a fucking sex party.” I was staring out the window. I was cold. I was hot. Thankfully, at least, my heartbeat was slowing down. “I think I’m also freaking out because coercion is a trigger of mine.” Having to say no multiple times brings me back to a place I don’t want to be. “And like, fuck, even just thinking about how loaded that shit is pissing me off. Like, it’s not fair. If there wasn’t a bunch of history attached to a whip, maybe I’d enjoy it. But I can’t. Because of all… this.” I flailed a bit to prove my point, then turned quiet. Alex watched me because he knows silence is the best option in these situations.

I wanted to go back in. I wanted to enjoy my night in spite of everything, but I know… at this point, I wouldn’t be able to bounce back quickly enough.

I looked at my boyfriend. “Can we go home?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

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