I’m 38 years old, South African, male-flavoured and of ambiguous brown-ish ethnicity. I say these things not to brag (although, phwoar) but to provide some context. I spent most of my adult life in Cape Town before moving to London in 2012 and realising that I’m hella queer and hella kinky. This took me by surprise way more than it should’ve, but it’s hard to know yourself without the crucible of experience.
This slow-burning epiphany unfolded over the course of many parties and was facilitated by the patience of generous partners, and has led to some pretty seismic shifts in my understanding of myself and the ways in which I interact with the world. This self-discovery is ongoing in a way that I feel profoundly grateful for, and has instigated to some gentle self-interrogation of what it means to be a brown person in kink spaces.
As anyone who’s not white will know, being the only POC in any given space in the western world is not an uncommon experience. The extent to which this affects us as individuals varies but I can assure you that, most of the time, we know that we’re in the minority. This is exacerbated in homogenously pale kink/queer spaces where being a constantly visible anomaly can be draining. As someone who’s relatively straight/cis-passing, I can choose how to present my queerness, based upon how I feel at a given time. This is not the case with being POC, where being visible is not an act, but a fact.
Being described as ‘exotic’, being asked where you’re from (“No, like, where are you really from?”), being asked how you got your hair to look like that, being asked is that your natural skin colour, being complimented on being well-spoken… None of these are things we choose to have strangers approach us with but it happens with depressing regularity – even the parts that seem ridiculously stereotypical.
Navigating this minefield of asininity takes a thick skin, self-awareness and lots of experience.
I remember my first kink party was at a now-closed pub called the Flying Dutchman in South London. I was nervous as all hell, dressed up in the off-cuts of my white partner’s wardrobe. She was a bit more experienced in the kink world and did her best to help me to relax. Everyone was super friendly, older and just plastered in PVC. Everyone was also super white. As far as I could tell, I was the only POC in the place.
I went as a sub, in cute hot pants, sexy make-up, and a studded collar and leash. I felt hot and we had a great time. But something felt stuck in my craw for a while after that night, and it was literally years later that I realised what it was…
It was an interaction that lasted at most five seconds, in passing. I was kneeling at her feet, an adoring sub on my best behaviour, and someone complimented her on “what a good little slave” she had as they were walking by.
Now, my ancestors were slaves, kidnapped by white colonial terrorists and taken from their homes. I knew this about myself my entire life. But even so, I was blind to the semiotics of wearing a chain and calling a white person “master”.
Since then, I’ve been to more events, gathered more experience and felt more at ease. I know myself better, which has helped me realise I was allowed to assert boundaries for myself. I’ve also got better at finding the spaces that are more welcoming to POC.
Some big parties, like Crossbreed here in the United Kingdom, are great at explicitly centring POC and other marginalised folks in ways that don’t feel pandering or alienating, including socials and parties aimed specifically at the melanated crew. I’m also tangentially involved in a crew of POC who run ethically non-monogamous social events under the name of Serotonin, and we’re having our first play party soon (yay!).
It's been a long journey to this point of self-recognition and self-determination regarding My Horny Self, and the revelations will no doubt be ongoing. Thank fuck.
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