Playing on the Edge: Sadomasochism, Risk, and Intimacy (3 page)

If a community is a structure of social relations that produces collective action (Calhoun 1980), Caeden can be understood as a community on other levels as well. First, although the scene is not uniformly activist in intent, there is a vital and vocal activist contingent among its members. The ties between the Caeden scene and the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom
4
are strong, and the impact of the members of Caeden in the national leather scene is significant. The Caeden community, through discourse, interaction, and shared space, gives

voice to the political activism and hence constitutes a structure of social rela- tions that produces collective action in the conventional sense. Secondly, beyond the overt activism of the community, membership in it—and indeed engage- ment in play itself—can be understood as collective action, given its marginal position and the sexual-political context in which its members understand it.

Apart from these unifying characteristics of the SM community in Caeden, though, other experiences of outsiderness connect the members of this commu- nity to one another. Prior to entering the SM scene, and often before identify- ing an SM interest, many people in Caeden lived on social fringes for reasons that would seem to exist entirely independently of their SM interests. These sources of marginality are strikingly common in Caeden; SM identity is linked to marginality more broadly. This overarching marginal identity shapes the role of the SM community in the lives of its members, as well as the meanings they make of SM itself.

Play

Though the community holds meanings for its members that extend past SM itself, it is also built around the facilitation of, education about, and partici- pation in SM interactions. These vary in kind, practice, and meaning. Nev- ertheless, play generally adheres to a particular structure, utilizes particular symbols, navigates and negotiates aspects of gender and power ideologies, and illuminates various social scripts.

In an SM context, “play” is a complex word. It references recreation and lei- sure and evokes a romantic sense of innocence and freedom from encumbrances. This romanticism resonates strongly for SM participants, many of whose lives outside the community reflect a worldview devoid of perceptions of obligations that govern more conventional lifestyles. From relentless adherence to uncon- ventional career paths and work hours to the ubiquity of catastrophically messy living environments, the members of this community actively privilege leisure. Yet play is not a simple pursuit. It requires a significant amount of education, both formal and informal. It is exhausting, often physically, emotionally, and psychologically. Play encompasses a wide range of leisure activities and intimate interactions. It is a hobby and a lifestyle rife with political, social, and sexual implications. Community members often liken SM to extreme sports such as skydiving and rock climbing.

On one level, the discursive connections between SM and theater provide access to the ideological (and emotional) defense that SM is somehow not quite

real. (SM interactions, for example, are also called “scenes.”) On another level, for many people in this community, the fantasy element connects SM to other fantasy interests, such as science fiction novels, films, and role-playing adven- ture games. From this perspective, SM is more easily understood as an all- encompassing lifestyle that represents liberation from the oppressive plight of the everyman and nurtures identities of marginality. This community is built around play, and it is through play that community identities are constructed, sustained, and nurtured.

Backdrop

Sometime circa 1994, I was taking part in an animated discussion that was, on some level, the inspiration for this book. I was an undergraduate, talking with one of my favorite sociology professors. She had long been tolerant (remark- ably so, in retrospect) of my “anti-feminist” proclamations. Long before Rush Limbaugh and his “femi-Nazi” slurs, feminists all over the country were finding that the term, and the movement, was alienating the first generation of women poised to profit most easily from its legacy. Women in my genera- tion were, for the first time in history, dangerously inclined to take previous feminist strides for granted, and thus among the first to view second-wave feminism as anti-feminist. I had proudly identified as “anti-feminist” one time too many for my professor. She was out of patience, and she set me straight. I was, she argued, a feminist—just the kind that would soon become widely known as third-wave.

In graduate school, still struggling to make sense of my gender politics in the context of broader feminist thought, I discovered
Against Sadomasochism
(Rian 1982), and afterward, the book that had inspired it: the lesbian/feminist celebration of SM,
Coming to Power
(SAMOIS 1981). Reading these for the first time fifteen years after they had been written, I wondered if their moment had ended: Was this even happening anymore? Had it been a concern only within the lesbian community? Were only lesbians doing this? Even if only lesbians were engaging in SM in 1981, I figured straight and bisexual women were doing it by the late nineties. If feminist theorists were so passionate about the role of the patriarchy in lesbian bedrooms, what did they think about women who were doing it with
men
? That seemed like a reasonable thing to study if we were concerned about eroticizing male dominance. If there were women out there doing this now, who were they? Were they drug addicts? Did they live the lives of victims? Were they prisoners of false consciousness?

I wanted more insight into the topic, but few people had actually studied SM as it happens and where it happens, or as Robert Zussman phrases it, “people in places” (2004). When I began this project, more than two decades had elapsed since the few pioneering participant observation studies of actual SM communi- ties. Most of this literature focused on gay leathermen (Weinberg 1978; Weinberg and Falk 1980; Kamel 1980), with the exception of Charles Moser’s retrospective account of SM interactions at a play party twenty-five years earlier (Moser 1998). Gini Graham Scott’s research (1983) confirmed for me that some semblance of sadomasochism was happening outside gay and lesbian communities. It focused on women “dominating” men; clearly there were straight women (and men) out there who were eroticizing female dominance. If straight women were “submit- ting” to men somewhere, I wondered whether anyone would even admit it.

When a member of my graduate school cohort introduced me to the World Wide Web, I began searching in earnest. Leafing through
Against Sadomasoch- ism,
I typed words into the search engine.
Sadomasochism heterosexual. Power exchange straight. Sado-masochism women. Sadism women
. . . I found myself fervently hoping that the department did not monitor our computer activity. Finally, I found a discussion list for “submissive women and dominant men.” After a lengthy debate about research ethics with my colleague, I joined the list and lurked.

The women on the list seemed articulate and educated. They seemed to hold professional positions. Most interestingly to me, they identified as feminists. They discussed whether, or how, it was possible to reconcile submission with feminism. They debated whether the attempt to make such a reconciliation was in itself feminist or anti-feminist.

I wondered whether these were discursive strategies, unsupported by their everyday lives. I wondered whether any of this was even happening in their lives; perhaps this was merely a discussion-list fantasyland. I wondered whether they were all really men. As a pilot study, I conducted a content analysis of (ostensibly) women’s posts on the list. The ubiquitous term “power exchange” stymied me; no one was able to explain what, exactly, that was, and how it happened. Subsequently, I became interested in what I suspected was a ten- sion between community discourses about interpersonal power, and how power “worked” in SM play. Because this was a national list, though, there was no site to investigate. Besides, I was skeptical about whether the people on this list actually participated in the lifestyle they claimed as theirs. Armed with my increasing proficiency on the Web, I learned more about the real-life SM com- munity, and I began to consider an ethnographic project.

There were several SM organizations near enough for me to undertake eth- nographic research. Joining any one of them seemed simple; I would need to pay dues and attend functions. Assembling a dissertation committee could be a bit of a challenge, I quickly realized; one faculty member whom I had thought might be interested was willing to consider it only “as long as I don’t have to look at pictures.”

My institutional review board approval was unproblematic, at least beyond what it would have been for any ethnographer going into any field. Research at my institution involved a good deal of medical research, and the process reflected this. I was approaching my fieldwork as an ethnographer; I intended to immerse myself in the subculture and see what came out of it. I had no way of knowing the size of the community or how long I would be there before I was comfortable conducting interviews, or what my questions were going to be. I did not know what I would do or not do in the field; I could only assure them that I would not have sex with minors, medicate anyone, or keep bodily fluids in my refrigerator. Ultimately, the fact that I would be researching sadomasochism appeared less troublesome than the fact that I could not easily predict how many people would be in my “sample” or how many people I was going to “interview.”

As I prepared for my fieldwork, I grew increasingly concerned about safety in the field, for no reason other than the stigma of SM and my own ignorance. I purchased my first cell phone. I considered carrying pepper spray. I had little idea what, or whom, I might encounter in a pansexual urban SM scene.

In July 2002, my partner accompanied me to the corner across from the site of my first meeting at an SM organization—“just in case.” My heart pounded as we neared the street I would need to cross to get to the building. As long as they hadn’t yet seen me, I reasoned, I could change my mind. As we drew close, though, a mob of people stood outside the building. They were all wear- ing black. I glanced at my watch and wondered why they were all outside. I looked at the crowd more closely. There were maybe twenty-five people or so. Other than the prevalence of black clothing, they looked, in truth, nothing like I had expected.

The scene looked confused. A chubby middle-aged man was on his cell phone, pacing back and forth from the door of the building to the curb and waving his hands in the air in what looked like frustration. Some people leaned against cars chatting, and some stood in small circles and smoked cigarettes. Some were laughing. The meeting should have begun, but they all remained outside.

We watched for about ten more minutes. Suddenly, the group erupted in loud applause. The catalyst seemed to be another man hurrying down the

street, his shaggy long blonde hair flapping behind him. He walked up to the door and opened it. Nervously, I crossed the street and began my fieldwork in the Caeden SM community.

Methodological Notes

The SM scene in Caeden is deeply immersive. Weekend nights at a club gener- ally began with dinner at a nearby restaurant. Often, this was followed by six hours at the club, and then followed by another several (usually between two and five) hours of socializing over breakfast—which sometimes spilled over into lunch. Other activities occurred on at least three evenings during the week, usually informational meetings and educational demonstrations. These were also normally preceded or followed by dinner. Additionally, I maintained near- constant contact with community members throughout the week via email, telephone, Web blogging, and instant messaging. I attended multi-day events in Caeden and other cities. During the first year I spent most waking hours in the field in one capacity or another. It was not uncommon for me to spend over one hundred hours per week at scene events or in the company of community members elsewhere.

I disclosed my identity as a researcher to everyone I met, normally upon introduction. I was usually warmly welcomed, but a few people maintained a cautious distance.
5
My acceptance changed immediately and significantly after I participated in my first public scene, a few months into fieldwork. Over a short time, my role as a participant seemed increasingly more salient in the community than my identity as a researcher.

I wrote my field notes as soon as possible after the events I was describ- ing, which sometimes meant during activities and sometimes meant a few days later (as in the case of weekend-long events). When I was unable to write copi- ous notes, I often relied on jottings on scraps of paper and phone messages to myself in order to remember observations in detail. (Most nights, I took multiple trips to the rest room in order to accomplish this discreetly.) I usually wrote full notes from these jottings when I arrived home. When I suspected I would be too tired when I made it home in the morning, I dictated notes into a recorder during the drive home.

Although I initially intended to avoid affiliation with one particular SM orga- nization over another, I became much more closely affiliated with Horizons. Within a few months, it became clear to me that Horizons very nearly constituted the Caeden SM scene, while EPP overlapped to no small extent with the Caeden

swinger scene.
6
Although this was not how EPP marketed itself, the demographic of the membership (straight male dominants and straight female submissives)
7
as well as the attendance, conduct, language, and activities at their events, parties, and demonstrations, rendered them less representative of the SM scene than of the swinger scene. This, combined with the realization that I was less comfortable in that circle,
8
led me to become more involved in Horizons than in EPP.

After approximately six months, I began conducting interviews. I began with people in my closest circles, waiting until I had established strong rapport with potential interviewees. In most cases, by the time of each interview, my respondents and I knew each other well. The interview conversations flowed reciprocally, and as has been noted elsewhere (Berger 2001), I found that my own disclosure and self-reflection often enhanced the interview relationship. In a few cases, respondents were direct and specific about their interest in this mutual disclosure. In the context of these highly intimate and sexualized rela- tionships, they shared their life histories, and we used our SM experience— common and uncommon—to inspire reflection and discussion.