In culture, kink clubs are a somber business. In practice, people trade barbs between whippings. Kawai Shen takes us beyond the BDSM aesthetics and shows us why laughter is an erotic release.
Why do kink clubs always look the same in the movies? You know what I'm talking about. The camera dollies into a dark cavernous space while moody industrial beats throb in the background. Everyone is done up exactly the same—like they've just come off a photo shoot for a latex fashion brand, their faces still donning camera-ready, dour-model expressions. These films would have you believe kinky people are so serious, so aloof, so invulnerable.
Where are the clubs that look more like cheesy sets for LA porn studios? Where are the shiny medical rooms, the cushiony Victorian boudoirs, the old-school, grade-school classrooms with green chalkboards and tablet arm chairs? My favorite BDSM party room, one that never failed to make me smile, was an over-the-top occult lair with a massive pentagram painted onto the creaky floorboards of one of Toronto's now defunct kink venues. Suffice it to say, kink filtered through the lens of cinematic glamour can be a very different beast than the quirky erotic world of actual BDSM practitioners.
I get that no one wants to see a room full of horny nerds in costumes getting it on; we already have Comic Con for that. I also understand that more elegant representations of a maligned practice like kink can make it feel more approachable and acceptable. Kink stereotypes that appeal to the vanilla imagination tend toward excessive gravitas and rely on markers of class privilege as a shield against its more unsavory or threatening elements; if you're going to consent to being annihilated, better the slinky seductive vampiric dungeon full of airbrushed models baring skin and teeth, or a tricked-out mansion with wait staff serving hors d'oeuvres to wealthy patrons in Venetian masks, or maybe you're Maggie Gyllenhaal in pearls and back seam stockings crawling on plush carpets. Nothing silly, please.
What I find most troubling about these imaginary spaces of perversity is not so much the aesthetic uniformity or even the classism. It's the insinuation that in the kink world, no one is laughing. I'll concede that when you're at a BDSM party, yes, there are going to be deadly serious deadpan scenes with unsmiling tops. But everyone kinky knows there are also going to be scenes where people are pretty much chortling with glee. Because, you have to admit, pain is fucking funny.
I once saw film director Jordan Peele say in an interview that the difference between comedy and horror is the soundtrack, and in this way kink isn't all that different from cinema. At the parties I've frequented, the first edges attendees are playing with aren't someone else's yellows or reds. Instead, we're all walking a tightrope together between being intimidating and just plain ridic. In kink clubs, people have license to be more cringe than in vanilla spaces. Tits are swinging freely everywhere. To your right, some weeping bottom has ribbons of snot dangling from their nostrils. To your left, there's grown ass men wearing gimp masks and the black rubber equivalent of tighty-whities. Perverts come out to pervy parties to have their buttons pushed, and for that to work, they need to relinquish their self-consciousness. And maybe their dignity too. I'm not just talking about subs. Never trust a top who can't take a joke.
Honestly, if you can't get a good laugh out of me while I'm beating the shit out of you, if we can't trade jokes with each other, we're probably not all that compatible. I mean it's not a great sign. Maybe I'm unwilling to let my guard down; maybe you're just boring me. In so many of my scenes, there's a lot of playful banter. Often, it's about giving and receiving pleasure. Sometimes, I'm introducing a little levity to convince someone to commit to something they're afraid to do. But whatever the reason, underlying all this is the fact that a lot of good humor is good precisely because it's mean.
Rapier wit and clever quips, irony and non-sequiturs, scathing sarcasm and friendly insults, these all have their place alongside a dominant's physical gear. They're disarming forms of cruelty, and because of this, they're a way to Trojan Horse in more hurt. One of my favorite things to do is to make my bottom laugh and, if they don't see it coming, I'll smack that smile right off their face – my preferred version of a punchline. It's more amusing if you don't know whether I'm going to follow up with a wisecrack or a whip crack. Humor can be an incredibly versatile instrument.
What I'm trying to say is that the resting bitch face dominatrix fantasy is cool, and you'll certainly find these doms if you go looking, but don't be surprised if you also find your share of shenanigans along the way. Like comedy, BDSM is where we can test how far we can push limits. It's a way to fool around and experiment with things that are too taboo or challenging to just play it straight. It's where we can discover that we don't have to choose between comedy and tragedy, silly and serious, pleasure and pain.
These days, I've been especially grateful for the lessons that kink has taught me about the affinities between humor and horror and the topsy-turvy nature of opposites. When there is so much polarization, suffering, and absurdity in the world, it can be difficult to know how to respond. The prospect of tuning out and playing dead can be tempting. But there is a need, now more than ever, for us to shake off that sense of feeling backed into a corner, of being stunned and paralyzed. And sometimes, the only way to start moving again is to laugh so hard it hurts.
