I’m a black American woman, and I identify as a “slave.”
Yes, the word is fraught with shameful history, but it has another meaning—one that’s sexual and freeing, rather than oppressive and controlling. As a longtime practitioner of BDSM (bondage, discipline, dominance and submission), I see slaves as people who willingly surrender control to their partner or “master.” As a descendant of African-Americans who were legally enslaved for centuries, however, the word also conjures up violent images of my ancestors’ pain and suffering.
For 18 years, these two definitions clashed in my mind, so I denied being a slave. But now, at 36, I’ve finally embraced it. The impulse to offer myself completely to another person is too overpowering to resist.
My first experience with kinky sex happened at 19. Back then, I was dating an older man whose particular taste included darker fetishes I had only read about in Anne Rice’s erotic stories or my mom’s porn magazines.
Standing 6-foot-4-inches tall, with medium-brown skin, Devon* was in his late 20s. He wasn’t my first sexual partner, but I had many firsts with him: the first time I climaxed without penetration; the first time I discovered my spine could be an erogenous zone after he trailed a riding crop down my back; the first time I was flogged from my thighs down to the soles of my feet.
Then, there was the first time Devon wrapped his hands around my throat.
I felt terrified, but didn’t stop him. Sensing he had full control, I submitted to Devon’s command, and discovered what remains my primary kink: erotic asphyxiation. As he cut off my air supply, waves of an intense orgasm coursed through my body. I remember the initial, instinctive fight to live, as my body felt on the brink of oxygen-deprivation. I recall his soothing words: “Relax, baby girl, it’s going to be okay. Just relax.”
I didn’t tell anyone what had happened because I was ashamed. As a young black woman trying to find herself, I wondered if enjoying these acts somehow betrayed my blackness.
My family and friends often joked about the weird things white folks did, and twisted sex acts—like incest, bestiality, and golden showers—was one of them. Growing up, I had no real contact with white people, outside of teachers, police, and retail workers. My experience, then, seemed more like some kind of taboo reserved for white people than anything I should be doing.
So, how does a black person identify as a slave, given its historical connotations? Photos of enslaved Africans bound by chains and covered in whip marks provoked a visceral horror in me. But when I saw similar items used in the consensual kink realm, I would become curious and highly aroused.
Being in a master-slave relationship makes no sense to outsiders who don’t feel the same compulsion I do. That’s why—although it seems counterintuitive as a black feminist—I’m open about my experiences, and encourage others to explore their desires to be “owned.” But even after nearly two decades in the BDSM community, I haven’t figured it all out. Occasionally, I do a self-check to make sure this still feels good and right—and every time a strong hand grips my throat or a paddle whacks my backside, it always does.
I’m at my freest as a slave.
There are days when I feel like the entire world expects me to be strong, simply because that is what’s expected of black women. We must solve every problem, cook every meal, dry every tear, and make everyone else’s lives happier. But sometimes, I don’t want to make any decisions. Surrendering to my master, then, means momentarily unburdening myself from the weight I carry as a divorced black mother. My obligations are so draining, I relish the comfort I feel when I can safely give myself over to someone who respects, loves, and values me.
In bed, everything happens on my terms, which is especially empowering on days I feel like the world is beating me down. Even when my master is restraining or flogging me, I’m still in control. Slavery is a refuge that helps me escape my problems and my life.
Fourteen years after my first kinky encounter, I entered a relationship that helped me grow as a submissive. In such a power dynamic, the “s-type” relinquishes complete control to their master in ways that go beyond what is typically expected. I wanted to do more than just kneel and call my master “Sir”—I wanted him to have complete control over my life, from dictating what I ate to choosing what I wore. I craved this in ways I gave up trying to understand long ago, and as my desires grew, our relationship evolved into a master-slave dynamic.
It was important for me to serve an intelligent, hard-working, charismatic black man close to my age, so I could feel safe. I’m not into “race play,” and would never be a consensual slave to a white male master. Instead, I needed someone who could relate to my struggles as a black person, and understand the freedom I experienced when indulging in more risqué sexual acts. This man wanted to be my master as much as I wanted to be his slave, and in each other, we found the ideal partner.
When I finally uttered the words “I’m a slave” for the first time, I paused, exhaled, and smiled. It just felt right.
In 2014, I published a fictional story about a black couple involved in BDSM, and it gained popularity among people of color who longed for increased representation in this mostly white community. In the already marginalized world of BDSM, white members are also fighting for acceptance of their alternative lifestyles, but minorities are even further marginalized.
Oftentimes, though, it’s other minorities who are the first to call kinksters of color demented or disturbed for enjoying sex acts they don’t. As I became more vocal about my involvement in BDSM on social media, I noticed that black people would frequently shame me for my preferences. Even within minority BDSM spaces, there are heated debates about what constitutes “rational” kink or doesn’t.
Being a person of color who enjoys BDSM can be an isolating experience—but that shouldn’t be the case. We have the same right as white people to indulge in our deepest sexual desires.
Today, it’s clear to me that I can never settle for “vanilla” sex.
The sting of each lash set me free all those years ago. I now weed out potential partners who balk at the idea of choking me to near unconsciousness, or using riding crops, belts, and paddles to cause me the pain I crave. Over the past 18 years, I’ve also discovered a love of knife play, wax play, interrogation scenes, and domestic servitude.
I’m no longer ashamed to identify as a slave because liberation to me, as a black woman, is about living my truth.
*Name changed to protect privacy
