Kink Is Care: How BDSM Made Me Realize I Deserve Better

I've always had a hard time acknowledging my needs as legitimate. Part of that comes from having always been surrounded by people who treated my needs as an imposition and inconvenience. It wasn't until I joined my local kink community that I realized how things could, and should, be different.

My first scene ever took place at a play party with someone I had just met that night. I introduced myself to this person, complimented their lingerie, and we got to talking about our kinks and experiences. When I mentioned that I was curious about rope, they offered to tie me up and give me a little taste, and I agreed. The first thing they asked during our negotiation: Do you have any injuries or mobility issues I should be aware of? took me by surprise. I know these are things that a responsible, ethical top (or anyone, really) should ask their partners. But having someone—a stranger, no less!—ask me that question put into clarity just how little importance I gave to my own physical needs, and how much discomfort I had put up for much of my life to placate others.

As I continued to explore the kink world, I encountered many more of these experiences. Each time, they surprised me, and they also began to shift the way I thought about myself, my needs, and my relationships. Those in the kink community know that you can't have ethical and responsible BDSM without communication and clear boundaries. We have rules, structures, and norms to that effect. For a person like me, who tends to minimize my own needs for others' comfort, the norms that come with kink have been life-changing.

You mean it's a requirement that I state my needs, and the other person has to respect them? And they're not supposed to push me by saying things like, "Why not?" or "Come on, just try it"? And I'm not going to be seen as a buzzkill for having hard limits or changing my mind? And we're expected to negotiate all of this upfront and lay everything on the table, including our aftercare needs? And this is a standard procedure, for strangers and established play partners alike? Life. Changing.

These rules and structures protect me and encourage me to center my needs in kink spaces. But in the rest of my life—whether it's with work or with personal relationships—things get kind of muddy. If someone asks me for a favor, and I don't want to do it, how do I say no without sounding like an asshole? Am I valid in wanting to say no, were they asking for too much, or am I just selfish? If I'm out with a group and I want to leave early because I'm uncomfortable and tired, am I going to be judged for being no fun? These are the kinds of doubts I have in my everyday social interactions.

Kink has opened my eyes to all the ways that I've let other people's wants and needs override my own. And, painfully, it's also opened my eyes to how many of the people in my life—people who I considered friends—failed to consider my needs at all. If literal strangers that I meet at play parties can ask me if I have any injuries or pain issues and whether I'm comfortable standing for the entire scene, why can't my friends and family give me that same care, and more?

I think back to all the times I've been in physical pain, hobbling several paces behind my friends, walking to catch a bus or a train somewhere, because they didn't want to call an Uber because the place was "so close." I'm clear about how much I'm willing to walk and how fast, and it's never respected. I can't count the number of times I've been told, "Maybe you just need to walk more so your feet get used to it." And these comments come from (former) friends who consider themselves inclusive, who make fun of those who say, "Have you tried yoga?" to disabled and chronically ill people. But when it's me and I'm the one in physical pain, that never seems to warrant their consideration. Because I'm being needy, I'm killing the vibe, and I'm not spontaneous or fun or down.

I used to believe those negative things about myself. But over time, as I'm exposed to more and more people—mostly in the kink community—who don't make me feel that way, who don't treat me like a burden or a killjoy simply for having needs and the audacity to advocate for them, I now see that I was wrong. I was wrong about myself, and I was wrong about the people who I thought cared about me. What does it say about our friendship if literal strangers are treating me with more thought and care than they ever did? What does it say that it took being around these kind strangers to make me believe that my needs are real and valid, that I have the right to take up space, when all the years I'd spent with the people I called my friends had led me to believe otherwise?

There is bitterness in this realization, but it's mostly in the past now. I've done my grieving for these relationships, and I've let go of that weight. I know to expect and demand more from others now, and I'm already having much more fulfilling relationships where I feel seen and heard and fully able to be myself. And I know without a doubt that I have the kink community to thank for that.