We pull up to the community center and Moose begins unloading supplies: bottles of water, badge tags, gift bags of promotional materials, wooden paint stirrers printed with the name of a local BDSM store, condoms from STI testing facilities, and pamphlets on BDSM safety spilling out of the trunk of his car. While Moose is unloading, James takes Emma to a park across the street. After being confined to a seated position for so long she needs to run. I grab a coffee at the café next to the community center and check out the space in which we will be teaching.
As I sip my coffee, I wander through the halls of the community center, a bustle of activity. Volunteers fill the space in a race against time to set up for the weekend-long conference. I find a chair and sit down in the corner to watch the community come together. It’s a preconference hustle that I am very familiar with after ten years of organizing LGBTQ programming at my own nonprofit arts organization, Femina Potens. I watch the various supplies and literature for the conference being distributed. Dental dams, gloves, and condoms fill clear plastic containers on a display table. Three women behind the table unload boxes of badges and begin printing nametags to slip into each plastic case. The next morning, those badges will dangle from attendees’ necks as the rooms fill with a diverse crowd seeking connection, community and education to better their relationships.
During the conference the attendees might not exhibit much fanfare, with the exception of the presentations. The attendees and presenters could be mistaken for those attending a technology conference: average in appearance, perhaps with brightly colored hair, but often simple enough not to draw the attention of coworkers at their day jobs. The presentations could incorporate kinky, feminist porn projections or demonstrations in which a nude woman suspended by rope is pierced with needles or whipped while she releases high-pitched screams. There will be first-timers, young women who parade into the conference in a corset-inspired top from Hot Topic or a naughty schoolgirl uniform; there would be the elders of the leather community, dressed in leather vests, leather pants, or leather corsets and decorated with pins and badges from past events. For the most part, BDSM is not about pageantry or plumage. It’s about action, interaction, and experience.
I thumb through the conference catalog of the weekend’s events, workshops, and roundtable discussions. “Rope Torture as Spiritual Cleansing” by Boss Bondage—his picture is a blue-collar hefty gentleman wearing a trucker hat, focused on complex knot work that he is using to rig his female submissive. Another class, taught by a butch woman in a denim jacket, is enticing people with the title, “Care and Feeding of the Top: Now that You’ve Caught One, How Do You Keep It?” A sexy silver-haired transgender man named Mac offers a class on “Tenderness and Discipline: How to Balance Them as a Daddy.” Our good friend and colleague Lochai has photo and class offerings staring at me from the opposite page that make me smile as I recall the shoot that Lochai’s presenter’s photo was taken from. You can partially see my naked and bound body bowed in the child’s pose position in the picture. Lochai is wearing a nice blue button-up shirt with his favorite kilt and looking straight into the camera, rope falling from his hands and looping toward the lens. He is honest and solid, an unwavering rock of support.
Lochai, James, and I were all educators and artists before we became performers and directors. In our porn work we had tried to gracefully bring the authenticity of the BDSM community forth for the masses.
“I’ve been making toys for the leather community for the past fifteen years. I do it all by hand. This is naturally dyed leather.” I watch as a local leather maker sets out her wares on the table: hand crafted strap-on harnesses, paddles, and floggers. She picks up a reddish-orange leather paddle, “This one is what I call the real Canadian experience. It’s dyed with red maple leaves.” She beams with pride in her craftsmanship. I’m impressed. It reminds me of the difference between this community-focused BDSM conference and the industry-focused fetish conventions that I frequented in the years before I became a mother, when I was still searching for my career path.
At a fetish convention, the main attraction is the stars of BDSM and fetish-related erotic DVDs and sites. They sit at booths and take photos with huge numbers of fans, sign autographed photos of themselves where they appear bound in advanced-level yoga positions that look like a dirty adult circus—contortionist meets aerialist. Attendees circulate in lavish costumes that include leather chaps and vests, superhero outfits of latex and rubber, Bettie Page look-alikes wielding whips, and, of course, Bernie the pink bondage bunny. Bernie is a furry, an individual with a kink for dressing up in fursuits. In Bernie’s case his fursuit of choice is a giant pink Easter Bunny in a red rubber ball gag, leather collar, and wrist restraints. He annually attends fetish conventions and poses in candid photographs with his favorite fetish performers and kinky porn stars.
In the chaos of commercial fetish conventions, I was always the exception to the rule. I make feminist pornography. I listen to women and couples and they tell me their fantasies and I create a safe space for them to play out those fantasies. My focus on genuine pleasure, empowered performance, and positive relationships made me an advocate for authenticity in a world made of plastic; in that world, I was an organic farmer among McDonald’s cheeseburgers. I always felt tired at those commercial conventions. I would inhale the stale smell of the convention hall air and look around at the familiar sights: booth babes, fanatics, people running from one table to another, giddy as schoolchildren to show off autographed photos of their favorite stars.
Thank goodness that’s over. Now I feel at home among a community of familiar faces that facilitate pleasurable and healthy relationships within BDSM. I’m not the only organic farmer at this market, and that feels pretty damn good. Moose puts his hand on my shoulder breaking me from my reverie, and I look up.
“All ready. Let’s get you and your family back to the hotel for an hour of rest before the presenter’s dinner.”
Moose sweeps me up and leads me out to the car where we find James buckling Emma into her car seat while she nibbles on half of his grilled cheese sandwich. She opens her mouth wide to sink it into the toasty wheat bread and gooey cheese, then rubs her tummy, making a monster sound.
Rainy night falls on the city, and James and I are standing in the hotel suite with Emma and the babysitter. Emma is running around the suite exploring every crevice, opening every drawer. James pulls some rope out of his kink bag and ties the drawers closed before Emma can smash her little fingers rolling the dresser drawers open and closed, open and closed. Daddy ties them closed. No more open.
James gives Elizabeth, our sitter, the run down. We have to explain the details of Emma’s dinner, bottle, bedtime, and books ritual. Emma, freshly bathed and in her pajamas, is clearly excited by the new environment.
“Make sure to keep the bathroom door closed. The bathroom can be dangerous,” I say, nervous. On the television, Canadian children’s program, Max and Ruby, is playing.
I quickly slip into a black Marilyn Monroe-style cocktail dress and black patent leather high heels, which I’d kept after a shoot for Shoe Sex, an erotic film for the true high heel fetishist.
I perform my five minute makeover: pull my hair back, apply classic red lipstick, a quick dab of concealer under the eyes, a puff of talc-free powder foundation, a smudge of pink crème blush on my cheek bones, a whisk of the waterproof mascara wand and presto chango, Mama’s ready for a night on the town. “How do I look?”
“Beautiful. Are we ready to go?”
“Let me give Em a kiss goodnight. Mama loves you, Emma. We will be back in a little bit,” and we’re out the door. It’s the first time we’ve had an evening to ourselves in six months. With a baby, an arts organization, and a brutal economy, we needed to cut our expenses when Emma arrived. Date nights were put on hold and we moved from urban life in San Francisco to live with James’ brother in a large suburban house in Southern California. We know o
ur move is a temporary one, but the lack of privacy is frustrating. It isn’t really possible to receive a nice hard flogging or loving lashing with James’ brother in the other room zoning out to Dancing with the Stars. We had been looking forward to this conference not only as a re-entry into the kink scene after our parental hiatus, but also as a moment to get lost in each other and reconnect, in an effort to release some of the tension that’s built up over recent months. We love Emma with all of our hearts, but Mommy and Daddy need playtime, too.
Andie, the coordinator of the BDSM conference, is driving us to the VIP Meet the Presenters dinner. A sweet woman in her mid-twenties with dyed red hair and glasses, Andie is short, round, and anxious.
The wet cobblestone streets make Vancouver feel both exotic and quaint, with humility quintessential to Canada. After Andie circles nervously around the downtown streets several times, she pulls up to a little alleyway with a discreet restaurant sign. Linked arm in arm, wearing clothing that we hadn’t worn since our pre-child days, James and I walk under the cover of an umbrella into the warm, glowing light of the restaurant. In four-inch heels, I have to navigate carefully while we make our way downstairs to the room where the party is being held. Daddy holds my hand to help me balance. Vibrant music and amber lights warm the space where fifty people are sitting around a large table engaged in conversation. Several of them get up from their seats to greet us before we can sit down, welcoming us with a chorus of compliments. As a couple, we are rarely sighted, celebrated icons of dominance and submission that have primarily been in hiding since the birth of Emma.
“We’re so happy that you could make it!”—“I’m such a huge fan!”—“Your work on Training of O opened my eyes to the world of dominance and submission!”—“Wow! I can’t believe it’s Mr. Mogul and Madison Young!” It was strange to hear fans refer to James as Mr. Mogul. It originated as my pet name for him, and only after we began performing on camera together did fans and other models started calling him Mr. Mogul. The name still felt intimate between me and my dominant—Mr. Mogul and Slut: names that used to be used in private. I still winced when I heard them in public, part of me resented that strangers had appropriated our private experience into their own fantasies. But I had to come to terms with slices of our private lives becoming public consumables. After all, being integrated into others’ fantasies is part of my job.
We took seats positioned next to Lochai and his Little Girl Amy, a twenty-five year old psychology major. Amy had a kink for age play and winning her Daddy’s nod of approval. We hadn’t seen Lochai since he was fired from KINK over a year ago. Leaving KINK is never easy, whether it’s your choice or the company’s. KINK is a Disneyland of adult BDSM debauchery housed in an old armory modeled after a Moorish castle. The surreal workplace and production studio is a world of its own, a bubble of myopic disillusions located in the gritty hipster-laden Mission District of San Francisco. Once you’ve adapted to the all-encompassing work-life of KINK, it’s challenging to re-enter the world outside of those walls. Lochai had taken some time to adjust to life outside of KINK, first as a substitute teacher for special needs classes, then in a more permanent position with an insurance company. It was good to see him. Lochai might be an insurance salesman by day, but in Vancouver he was a superstar of the bondage world. James and I, too, had handed over our work-at-home mom and stay-at-home dad badges at the door. We were allowing ourselves a moment to bask in the gratitude and fandom that we earned through years of trying to bring authentic moments to the once void adult industry.
Our waiter circled around to take our drink order. The restaurant was primarily meat, cheese, and wine—a challenge for a sober couple, and for my vegan diet. I settled on a fizzy, sugary drink, a mocktail with pomegranate juice and soda water. The table of kinksters was buzzing with excitement. Most of the attendees were local to Vancouver, but some had traveled from other parts of Canada or driven in from Seattle for the weekend-long event. Many of the submissives wore collars, a symbol of commitment and service. Earned leather fastened around a submissive’s neck, leather full of charge and meaning, leather that the submissive had worked for—not just bought with money, but earned through devotion. Some flagged their sexual and kinky preferences through handkerchiefs that were tucked into their right or left back pocket (left signifies a top, right signifies a bottom). The ‘hanky code’ is complex, with over forty colors and preferences to flag: gray for bondage, green for Daddy, it’s a whole language. Green is my favorite color, though there is no longer any need for me to flag for anything or anyone. My Daddy is here, sitting beside me, his hand up my dress.
The woman across from me looks young and shy, but still listens intently to the conversations buzzing around the table, waiting for the right moment. Below her dark brown hair lays a simple, silver locked collar and a low-cut black party dress that looked like it came from Forever 21. Her push-up bra presents plentiful breasts and draws my attention when she timidly opens her mouth to speak. Her name is Abbey. A young college student majoring in gender and sexuality, Abbey has taken up moonlighting as a fetish model to help pay for her college education and to explore her fetishes onscreen.
“Can I ask you a question? How did you come out to your parents? You know...as kinky...and as being a fetish performer? I just don’t think my parents will understand.”
I take a sip from my cold drink and slip into the mode of sex educator. This is what I love: coaching individuals toward better communication around sexuality. I am familiar with the situation that Abbey is in; I’ve been there myself.
“They might not be supportive at first. That’s a risk we take. I come from a pretty conservative family so it was challenging at first to talk with my parents about my sexuality and my choice of work. But I didn’t feel like I could hide it from them either.” In truth, I had left home and was 3,000 miles away in California before I felt courageous enough to start a dialogue with my parents about my identity as a queer kinky woman and my choice to pursue a career in sexuality, a career that didn’t just involve talking about sex but also performing in front of the camera.
“You’ve been in the industry a long time now, though?” Abbey asks. I detect a hint of self-doubt in her questioning.
“I’ve been in the industry for ten years, so my family has had a long time to digest and become used to my way of life. My mom was furious when I first told her. I think her mind just raced to the worst possible scenario, a fictitious world of guns, drugs, and illicit crime that she thought her daughter was immersed in.”
To my mother, performing in porn was an act of desperation and not a position she ever wanted to imagine her daughter in, but she was coming around, slowly but surely.
“You know Abbey, it’s not always easy, but I just keep talking with my mom about why I chose to step in front of the camera. I tell her that, you know, what I do is a different kind of pornography.”
“Yeah, I think it’s so much more powerful when I watch porn with real couples. Like your Training of O series with Mr. Mogul…wow! It was like a romance novel come to life. It’s a love story.” Abbey adjusts her strapless party dress, which has slid down to reveal a peek at her large areola. She tucks her dark brown hair behind her ears, a little embarrassed by her outward display of excitement, and quickly changes the subject: “So what about kink? How did your mom take that?”
“Well, when I came out to my mom as kinky, I faced a lot of the same obstacles.” I took a sip of my mocktail and placed my hand over Daddy’s hand. I love the look of our hands coupled, and I looked admiringly at my gold and diamond rope ring, remembering the special meaning behind it. I am his; the jewelry is a constant reminder of my service and dedication to our relationship.
“Did she stop speaking to you?” Abbey asks, digging for more information. I’m exhausted and want to bring my attention back to my Daddy.
“No, no. Nothing like that. I guess my mom was concerned primarily with my safety
. We all want to know that our kids are safe, physically and emotionally.”
After eighteen hours without sleep, I am no longer able to compute or articulate my theories, or solve the problems of the world. It is time for someone else to take charge, to take care of me. My Little Girl wants to play with Daddy.
“But you know my mom and dad probably won’t even find the movies that I perform in,” she says. “It’s not like they are into BDSM.” She laughs at the thought of her parents hiding handcuffs and paddles under their bed.
I lean away from my Daddy for one final bit of advice, “Abbey, everything is accessible on the Internet. If you’re going to do it, be committed enough to talk to your parents. I have a motto: Reveal all, fear nothing. Just know your true voice and follow that in everything that you do, and you’ll be fine.”
At 9:30 p.m., dinner is coming to a close. The presenters, conference organizers, and VIP attendees gather their belongings. Some people are headed home to rest for the next day’s full schedule of workshops, and some are going to a private bondage play party to celebrate the kickoff of the weekend-long conference. Elizabeth, our sitter, is only scheduled to watch Emma until 11:00 p.m. so James and I have about an hour to play before we turn back into pumpkins. The bondage party is only five blocks from the restaurant, so we decide to walk in the rain together. I take off my high heels and chase after Daddy, skipping and running through the wet cobblestone streets.
“Wait for me Daddy. Wait, Daddy. You’re going too fast!”
Daddy turns around, runs back to me and, swooping me up in his arms, kisses me deeply.
“How is my Little Girl?” he asks, looking into my eyes and grabbing my hair, pulling me along the cobblestones.
I gasp with pleasure, “Ah...very good, Daddy. I’m very wet! But I’m a happy Little Girl. I’m excited to play.”
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