„Ah, knew I would find you here.“, he said cheerful. 

Grumpily, I sucked in air and puffed out my cheeks.

„That is not an appropriate greeting, young man.“ 

I stared at him.

He stared back and then leaned slightly towards me. 

„Well, how about ‚Ah, nice to see you too. I appreciate you being concerned over me.“

After a couple of second he sighed… „Alright. How are you?“

„Bad.“

„Figured that much. Wanna tell me why?“

I grumbled again, not sure where to start…

„I did something stupid. And now I am facing the consequences of it and it truly sucks.“

My uninvited visitor sat down on the reclining bench next to me and put his feet up. 

„Go on.“

At first I didn‘t. I wasn‘t keen on telling him the same story I went over and over in my head, bending and twisting it, in the hope that I had overlooked something. But no. I had to face it: I had fucked up.

„Well, did you ever say something that wasn’t entirely a serious answer and then somebody took it as one and then got angry?“

„No.“

„Well, good for you because I have.“

„Why are you not going to the person and telling them?“

„Too late… and by now the situation is too serious to make ‚jokes‘ about it.“

„Was it a joke?“

„No! I was just insecure, alone and had no idea what I should say… and I panicked and I was stressed and time seemed to matter. So I had to answer urgently and didn’t feel like being able to sleep a night over that problem…. I hoped that if I would propose something we could work out something together, and instead… well, I might have lost a potential friend.“

„And that is what’s bothering you?“

„Yes and no…“

„Go on.“

„No…“

„No? Why not?“

„Because it is selfish…“

„It is selfish to have feelings?“

„No. But it is selfish to self-center yourself even though you are the oppressor and part of the problem and not the victim.“

„Ah… but you are still sulking.“

„Yes.“

„Then stop sulking.“

I grumbled again. I didn’t want to stop. I sighed—why was this so hard?

„Well, maybe if you tell someone you will stop sulking. If I’m not the one, then so be it, but then find someone else…“

I expected him to get up and leave annoyed by my behaviour, but instead he just tilted his head back thinking.

 Silence. 

The longer the silence lasted, the more uneasy I became. Was his plan to say nothing until I told him more? I automatically furrowed my brow. Did I want to give him what he wanted from me? On the one hand, I wasn’t thrilled about giving in, but on the other hand, I partly agreed with him. I had to tell someone, and who better than someone who was freezing their butt off with you by a river in the darkest night? „Fine you got me… one person or maybe several… I don’t know for sure. Anyway, they accused me of taking sexual harassment lightly.“

For a second, I could have sworn a small smirk flickered over his face. Then he turned to me,“ Do you?“

„Fucking hell, no… but apparently it seemed like it… and now I don’t know how to fix it.“

„Apologize?“

„Already did.“

„Well, you can’t do too much about it. Because now the other person has to decide if they want to forgive you or if they can or even want to engage.“

„I know. Doesn’t make anything of this easier… It is just… I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like to be the oppressor. I don’t like to be the perpetuator of continuing systemic violence. You know what my biggest fear was and still is before I transitioned? That one day I will be one of these old white powerful men that don’t care about anything else than themselves and getting even more money… and now I am one.“

„No, you aren’t. You made a mistake, you care, and you want to fix it.“

„Yes, but do I want to fix it because I want to stop being upset or do I really care?“

„Can’t decide that for you… but my impression is that you aren’t that selfish.“

„No, I do indeed care and I really see where I fucked up. It is just… suddenly I realize how my world turned. Like, as if I am on another side… but also not quite there…. what hurts the most is that someone assumes I take this lightly. I don’t… it is just unfair. It is not like I or actually more like us hadn’t seen it coming. I mean… it was just a matter of time and now everyone makes a shocked Pikachu face after it happened. It is so frustrating. And the people who should actually be affected and interested in what they did (or did not do) in the past are no longer involved and therefore no longer have to take responsibility. It’s frustrating. At the same time, there are also people who helped to hold up the non-existing standards by not helping, and they are still not helping and just shrugging. Absolute indifference pisses me off.“ To emphasise my words I kicked a tiny stone down the steps. It rolled down the first step, then the second step through the grass before disappearing into the darkness. „It is like talking to a child. ‚Attention, the stove is hot, don’t touch it.‘ Several times and the child still touches the hot spot and burns themselves. But none of those who were involved were children, which makes it even worse. Plus the worst is, the ones who were affected ranted about the incident on social media. No names were named and everything was coded, but still. Another friend read it and liked it. And then I talked to them about it, because at least I intended to give a full picture of the situation… but they wanted to remain neutral and I respect that. Still, they appreciated that it was openly communicated… I told her I didn’t or we didn’t due to the pressure. And that we had way too few facts. I can emotionally understand why, I would have probably done the same… still. There is a part of me which feels betrayed by everyone. Like first your concerns don’t get taken seriously, then people don’t do the work, you do the work, then fuck up because I am human and I make mistakes and then I need to fix it which I am trying but arg… I am not the cause. At least I don’t feel like being…. But I am also sure, the other person also thinks they didn’t do anything wrong…“

„Sure, but let’s stay with you. Why do you feel betrayed?“, our eyes met. 

„What do you think?“, I aksed him in the hope he would take over some of my emotional striptease. 

To my disappointment, he just shrugged, „I have my suspicions, but at the end of the day, I’m not you. Only you know.“

I stared at him. Sometimes he really was a pan in the ass, a helpful one, I had to give him that, but still… damn him, „I feel like… as if womanhood had turned against me? Or at least all the other queers? It is not true… but it feels like it. It hurts when someone directly says to your face that you don’t take their sexual assault seriously… How can I take them not seriously? I didn’t live through 24 years of misogyny to just shrug if someone comes to me and gathers the strength to talk about the issue. My mom trained me in the evenings on how I could escape from a man when he grabs me from behind. She also trained me on how I can escape from under a man, how to fuck up cars if a man stalks me… I didn’t just get several times in my life a slap on my ass in public without ever figuring out who it was because the idiot disappeared into a crowd of people. One guy tried to pressure me into smoking weed with him, another guy just assumed we were together although he never asked me and just told everyone. In addition, I didn’t just read through the rape threats of a friend of mine with …18 and shrugged them off like nothing. I was pretty terrifyed back then.“

Silence again. Now it was really his turn to say something. I had absolutely no intention of revealing more of my feelings. 

And again, he took his time. In the meantime, the wind had picked up, making the already cold air even colder. My teeth began to chatter, and I pulled my hands deep into my sleeves. My counterpart didn’t seem bothered by the temperatures. Thoughtfully, he scratched his chin and then took a sip from a bottle. 

I frowned, „Uh, since when do you have that?“ And immediately came to mind. What was that about not talking again?

 „Guess you should pay more attention to what your brain is doing in all areas instead of focusing on just one big ball of hurt.“

„You mean, I should stop sulking?“

„Yes and no. You still feel all the feelings through, which is good. You shouldn’t shut them down. You also called me, which is also good so that you aren’t entirely alone… but maybe talk to someone real.“

„You are real.“

„Someone with a physical form.“, the last two words he emphasized particularly clearly.

I had planned to, but now that you insist, I don’t feel like it anymore.

„Just to piss me off? Are we feeling dramatic again?“

I crossed my arms, pouting. „You can’t make me.“

„No. But I would appreciate you not hurting yourself. It will bubble up anyway sooner or later, hm?“

„Hm.“

„Is there anything else? You still seem… grumpy.“

„Well, it didn’t help that the whole thing heated up further on social media.“

Now he sighed.

„Yeah… the girlfriend of the person concerned vented her feelings; we suspect that she is also affected, but since no one is talking to us… we don’t know. Apart from that, the conclusion was: none of those affected (whether in the second or first row) have any specific requests for improvement… their dream would be to have an organization without cis men. Which is understandable but also strange. On the one hand, the person who caused everything was not cis, and the cis male organization had nothing to do with the whole thing that happened at the regulars‘ table.“

„And this upsets you?“

„Well, not so much the critique, because there are enough cis men who are part of the problem and just don’t do anything. I am upset that they implied that they don’t want to have cis men there. Which means, I will be immediately clocked as trans in the future… it reminds me hard of those women, lesbian, inter, non-binary, trans and agender circles. So yeah… I mean, I wouldn’t mind staying away from the gathering anyway, but hearing this from a fellow trans person sucks again. Like every media has such a hyperfocus on trans women—either they see them as sexual predators or as the most vulnerable group. And although the latter is true, it feels weird to get thrown under the bus. I feel like if I would write about my own personal experience on a bigger plattform, then social media would start yelling at me to shut the fuck up because trans women have it worse. I know that… and I wish they wouldn’t. No one deserves to suffer… okay, some perople really do, but that’s besides the point.“, my voice trailed off.

He nodded. 

„Being invisible is sometimes really frustrating and makes me feel lonely. Yesterday S. asked me if I would help her set up her booth at the Christmas bazaar. I had of course agreed, until I found out that it takes place in the women’s center and I then asked her if I was even allowed in there and she had to look it up. Turns out: I’m not allowed in. Of course I totally understand and respect that, but at the same time it does hurt somehow? Because, sure, there are women’s shelters for a reason… but where should I go if I am ever threatened? This world suddenly feels very scary.“ 

„You know? Just because you feel it, feelings aren’t true. There are people who care about you. And you aren’t as invisible as you might think.“, he tried a reassuring smile, but even he couldn’t quite manage it.

My thoughts started spiraling again, „What about the prisons? I never planned to go to prison ever, but I am not sure about how cis men would treat a trans man if they found out.“ 

„I don’t know either, but this is also not your problem at the moment and not your problem to solve. Let’s stay in the here and now, do you have a plan? You always have a plan…“ 

„Waiting? Waiting for possible answers? Otherwhise, trying to create a safety system for all people that might attend our group in the future… maybe, I added ina secretive tone, we even might be able to remove the cause but not the symptom.“ 

Now he looked at me completely confused and raised an eyebrow, „Care to explain?“

„Sure, but first let us get going because I am done with freezing my ass off.“ 

How can I be silent when I live in a country…
… that is obssed with destroying cultures since no time has passed since 1904–1908; 1915 or 1941­­­­–1945?
… that releves in continuing turning the Mediterranean Sea into a mass grave?
… that has a chancellor, who never worked a single day of his life, but wants to reimplement the 50 hours work week?
… that loves its dead jews, but not the ones who are alive?
… that hates its youth so much that warfare is once again normalized as a valid option?
… in which living is the most expensive hobby?
… in which children under 18 are the biggest minority nobody listens to?
… in which it is just a matter of time before medical assisted suicide is allowed by law to kill people who are to exepensive for the state?

But you can’t change anything anyway, can you? Why get upset? Concentrate on the things you can change…

What things can I change?
What soya yoghurt do I buy while billionaires blast thousands of tonnes of CO2 into the air with their private jets and yachts?
Yes, the youth are screaming. Marginalised people are screaming. We are screaming.
We also scream for those whose voices are not heard or who are denied the right to a voice beforehand.

They will continue to say:
Your rage about the people who hurt and wronged you is valid, but don’t act on it…
Your anxiety about your potential lost future is valid, but don’t act on it…
Your grief about loosing your friend is valid, but don’t act on it…

But what if I don’t want to make the world a better place anymore?
What if the chance for building a better world is long lost?
What if I want to thrive in the act of breaking a bunch of noses?
What if I need to see the 1% burn like they make the planet burn every day?

Well-meaning intellectuals support the youth, who have other plans than war…
I pause and think for seconds and then minutes? Do I have other plans besides war? Do I even have a future in this country? Because the politics of this country make it clear that it doesn’t want a future for its young people. It doesn’t even want to organise the retirement of people who have worked their whole lives for this country.

Why convert the phrase of passive resistance I would rather not to an active one?

Yes, I have two wolves in me. Both are afraid. And while one of them whispers in costant repition: I shall not hate the others one is gnraling and showing its teeth. because this is the the only thing it can do.
Why not set the world literally on fire because this world is one fire anyway? Better an end with horror than horror without end.

But desprite the gnarling, the rage, the grief, the exhaution of simple existing in this world the wolve(s) won’t bite.
Why?
I don’t know? There are enough reasons for it.
But they stay put.

And. I. Hate. Every. Second. Of. It.

It wasn’t so long ago that I really devoured everything on the subject of kink and sexuality. This included the podcast ‘Why Are People Into That?!’, also known as ‘Ya(P)->T?!’. Once a week, producer and sex worker Tina Horn interviewed her respective colleagues from the BDSM scene. Each episode focussed on one topic relating to sex, kink and gender. The best thing was that the podcast was not ashamed to address kinks, which even kinksters prefer to keep quiet about, such as cannibalism, fascism/Nazis, clowns, piss and poppers. But there were also episodes on erotica, trans porn, how sexy books can be or which BDSM comics people can recommend in the podcatcher. As you can imagine, I was a little sad when I had listened to all the episodes and realised that no new episodes were being produced. From my point of view, I still had a long way to go and the topics were far from exhausted.
But people move on, find other projects, and I didn’t have to wait long before I received the announcement that Tina Horn would be publishing her podcast as a book in the near future. I’ve been waiting eagerly ever since, and suddenly the time had come. The wait was partly worth it…

The actual meat

The book consists of nine chapters (plus Intro and Outro). Each chapter (similar to the podcast back then) deals with a main kink, which sometimes also functions as a hook, which Horn then uses to roll out and explain further topics.

In the first three chapters, Horn uses the more well-known kinks such as Feet, Impact Play or CNC as an introduction to possibly pick up the fresh meat of the kink scene and to discuss the basics of the BDSM scene. What does BDSM mean? What are misconceptions? What are the basic things to bear in mind when practising BDSM etc.? The CNC topic in particular serves to explain why communication, check-ins, consent models and yes-maybe-no lists are important.

After that, it quickly gets down to business. Six further chapters follow, in which the sex worker explains her relationship and the cultural significance of the following kinks in essay form: fisting, cash, cannibalism, sploshing, bimbofication and orgies. There are also explanations of vore, ageplay, mommy/daddy, fauxcest, sex parties, poly relationships, masturbation and porn.

To be honest, the book doesn’t really pick up speed until the fourth chapter. The basics are ticked off and Horn finally dives into the world of kink, without any additional explanations or comments on safety, but instead it’s finally all about kink and the cultural readings and interpretations of it. Only then does Tina Horn mention more colleagues and other publications that deal with the practice and cultural history of BDSM. If you’re as much of a book nerd as I am, you’ll be delighted with the many small footnotes and the final bibliography.

Each essay is fluid, the subdivisions that sometimes pop up sometimes come up a little short. What takes centre stage is narrative prose; the academic explanations with the help of Sigmund Freud, Judith Butler or Julia Kristeva are brief and provide more of a supplement than the focus of a chapter. Which, to be honest, I very much welcome, because the last thing I want to see in my kink and in a BDSM book is psychoanalysis (I have a deep aversion to it).

Nonetheless, the book isn’t perfect. I know that book titles, like blurbs, don’t necessarily have to come from the author themselves. Once the author submits the manuscript, the publisher will do everything possible to edit the book so that it sells well. Of course, the author can object, but in the end it’s the publisher who decides whether the book is published or not. In other words, the title of the book is completely misleading.

This book only deals with the US BDSM scene. Other continents or scenes such as in Germany or Japan do not appear and are not mentioned. What’s more, yes, the book only touches on psychoanalysis, while at the same time empirical studies on sex, kink and gender are missing, and anecdotal evidence is the unit with which the book works. On the one hand, it is understandable that a sex worker does not have the academic resources to administer various studies. However, as a really successful and established sex educator, she would have the social connections to possibly access them, provided they have been published. And even if there aren’t many studies on BDSM, they do exist. The fact that they are missing here is a shame and a waste of potential. (My personal go-to would be the Pubmed platform or the personal website of a sociologist called Slut, PhD whose studies deal with the topics of sex, gender and BDSM. If you still haven’t had enough, you can read up on TASHRA [The Alternative Sexualities Health Research Alliance] or even become active in the organisation yourself.)

Furthermore, the first three chapters really dragged on. I know that safety, consent etc. are important in the BDSM scene, but I would really like a kink book that doesn’t take me by the hand like a small child and explains the basics to me again in great detail. There is enough introductory literature for that.

All in all, the book is suitable for advanced beginners who would like to take a closer look at the subject of kink in their free time. For all humanities scholars who are also kinksters and thought that this would be their publication, I’m sorry to disappoint. You are really better off with the podcast of the same name. Nevertheless, it was enough for at least two new favourite quotes and because you’ve held out this far, you can read them now:

„Fetish is an aesthetic of intrigue. The fetishist obsesses. The fetishist experiments. The fetishist explores the limits of what the object of their desire can do when it is inserted, compressed, or drenched. The fetishist is driven to experience how their lust loses and maintains its form, in ways that are mundane but unexpected, like a foot pressed against a transparent windshield. But just because fetishists are interested in one thing, that doesn’t mean they’re indifferent to everything else.“

„Those of us who have never had access to those things love cash because it’s freedom we can touch and smell and stack. Interest rates and the price of gas and the promise of student loan forgiveness may fluctuate, but with cash stashed in your boot you can get at least some of what you need to survive another day. Maybe that’s how money can make us horny: by alleviating anxiety so that we can enjoy life for a moment.“

Book data:

• Author: Tina Horn
• Year of publication: 2024
• Publisher: Hachette Book Group, Inc.
• Language: English
• Number of pages: 320 pages
• ISBN: 978-0306832567

]]> https://barksandscales.com/2025/02/09/review-time-why-are-people-into-that-a-cultural-investigation-of-kink-by-tina-horn/feed/ 0 https://barksandscales.com/2025/01/12/how-i-became-an-anal-slut/ https://barksandscales.com/2025/01/12/how-i-became-an-anal-slut/#respond Sun, 12 Jan 2025 07:00:08 +0000 https://barksandscales.com/?p=239 This will be less of a ‘how to anal sex’ guide and more of an ode to sex with the part of the body that concerns us all: our bums. Everyone has one, and since everyone has one, regardless of their gender, butts are totally inclusive and don’t even let bigots take them for their crude views of the world. Furthermore, they belong to our more fleshy body parts. You can grab it, slap it, photograph it, worship it, paint it, lick it, bite it, pierce it, massage it, caress it, put it into plaster, spit on it, sit on it, trample on it, hold on to it, write on it, use it as bongo drums or as a base for your tablet or eat directly from it etc. All in all the ass, ass cheeks and the asshole provide a wonderful base for further exploration and perverted creativity.

The (queer) history

Another reason to try anal sex is the ‘Gotta Catch “Em All” of sex practices that used to be considered sodomitic. The fact that only homosexual men were, and presumably still are, labelled ‘sodomites’ is a fairly recent development. Christianity in particular was a master at framing all sex practices that did not fall under reproductive sex as sodomy and therefore as sin. By the earlier standards, almost anyone who has sexual intercourse today would be a sodomite: mutual or solo masturbation, oral sex, the use of sex toys, grinding, frottage, lesbian sex, etc. While I imagine the non-queer population of this country has definitely masturbated, performed oral sex or possibly even used sex toys, anal sex is not on the list for many. So buck up and contribute to the already loaded history of anal sex to make it even more loaded.

Pegging

I’m a big fan of equality, which means that everyone is allowed to top or be the bottom (if they want to). At the same time, I’m a big fan of the British sex historian Kate Lister, who wrote an excellent article called ‘Why all straight men should try pegging once’ – and to be honest, I completely agree with her.

The main points are: Although pegging is always portrayed as a heterosexual practice, anyone can be pegged or pegging. All you need is a strap-on, a dildo and plenty of lube (there’s never such a thing as too much lube!).
Secondly, the more people (especially heterosexual cis men) embrace pegging and enjoy the truly powerful orgasm, the less homohysteria and bottom-shaming will be accepted and hopefully they will begin to disintegrate like other forms of discrimination.
Thirdly, destigmatise male health care! Prostate cancer is the most common type of cancer in men in both the UK and Germany. According to the Robert-Koch-Institut, around 65,820% of men are diagnosed with it every year. Why? Because men don’t go to the urologist and have their prostate examined. Despite sexual education, the critical masculinity movement, feminism and greater acceptance of homosexuality in society, cis-hetero men are still afraid of someone sticking their hand up their bum. Sure, the first time isn’t pleasant, but that’s why it’s worth thinking about pegging. On the one hand, it trains the sphincter muscle to relax; on the other hand, you are less embarrassed during check-ups. Granted, getting fucked in the bum is still more pleasant than a medical examination, but dear men, you get the idea, don’t you?

Queering the prostate tissue

So far, so good. So far I have found that anal sex is usually accompanied by some form of prostate stimulation. Sometimes just stimulating the anus with tongues or fingers is enough, but even here: You get the principle. Now there are exceptions, and that exception is me. So not me, but trans men or any person who undergoes gender reassignment surgery that involves testosterone. In 2020, The American Journal of Surgical Pathology published a study that found areas of partially advanced prostate tissue in the vaginal canal of a total of 7 out of 8 trans men who received testosterone and four intersex people who had an excess of endogenously produced androgens. The scientists concluded that our bodies are much more flexible in the expression and development of our sexual characteristics than previously assumed. This makes sense when you consider that the respective primary and secondary sex organs only begin to form in the sixth week – there is no difference before then. So I may have several mini prostates in my vagina. Sadly, I can’t feel a difference between my sex life before being on testosterone and now.

The actual meat of

Ever since I made the conscious decision to join the dark side and allow myself to be corrupted (there wasn’t much left to be corrupted), this has been an important part of my interests. But the practical realisation was not so obvious. I lived with my parents for a relatively long time and had a lot of questions about the subject anyway, which is why I was happy to put it to one side. I had a lot to consider: hygiene, training and the appropriate aids, which I didn’t have the money for. I also had health problems that came up at random. The questions about suitable products and methods remained unanswered. My former partner was able to answer some of them for me, but the complaints remained. The idea that intimacy should not be work also left its mark on me. All the effort involved in healthy eating, hygiene and training was five steps too many in the heat of my newly discovered feelings.

Then I moved out, had my own four walls, my symptoms disappeared, I started hormone therapy and discovered cheap but good products. However, nothing changed at first. I didn’t have anyone who wanted to get intimate with me for the first time, and even the people on Grindr weren’t keen to be my first experience. Lube was essential by now anyway, but suitable aids for beginners were still not in the budget. I tried a few times with a relatively small toy and it hurt so much that I didn’t try it.

Then my accident happened. I was not allowed to have penetrative contact for six weeks and my involuntary celibacy and suffering took its course. After four weeks, I developed detailed techniques to climax through external stimulation alone, and it wasn’t long before I was really considering the legendary ‘special climaxes’. I told my girlfriend all this while she showed me her adjustable toy, which unfortunately was far too big for me. She turned to me, gave me a long look and said, ‘Too big isn’t the problem, I have some smaller ones too,’ and with that she presented me with three tools just the size of my finger. Before I could even protest, I was lying on my back like a defenceless bug, my legs were folded upwards and with a lot of lube and an uncomfortable tug, something was suddenly stuck inside me. ‘Well, that was fast and… unexpected’ was the only comment my brain could come up with. There I was, lying in a double bed in a basement flat somewhere in southern Germany, having a light-hearted conversation about intimacy that escalated within seconds. The feeling was… strange. The first few minutes were not pleasant, it felt more like I had to go to the toilet very urgently and couldn’t. A bit of walking around worked and relieved the tension, but in the end I was interested but not yet convinced. When I got back home, my curiosity got the better of me and I tried it out. In the meantime, I had two smaller aids, a small toy and a normal-sized toy, which at the time was practically the final boss for me.

I quickly realised that there is no such thing as too much lubricant. Erotic media helpes, as does external stimulation, as does relaxing beforehand and – even more difficult – staying relaxed while being penetrated. (If anal sex is particularly painful to you, you might wanna look into your pelvic health.) With that, a practice routine was found, and soon I had worked my way up from finger-wide to small to long-thin to my final boss. Which not only (shamelessly) boosted my ego, but also satisfied my cravings, stimulated my digestion (yes, too much information. I don’t care), gave me intense climaxes, I slept better and gave my purple toy a second raison d’être, as I could no longer use it for my go-to-routine. To all people, who are new to testosterone vaginal atrophy is a bitch and every vaguely realistic dildo with a slightly bigger corona glandis will be a pain to insert, therefore just don’t do it. It is not worth it in contrast to good anal sex.

Non-fiction book

– Ever Since Darwin: Reflections in Natural History by Stephen Jay Gould

Queer content

„You can borrow it if you want.“, she shrugged.
I smiled, „Sure, thanks a lot!“
I wasn’t so sure after all, but you must start somewhere and getting a hood for free for a few days seemed a pretty good one to me.

A few weeks later I had my own, which fitted more my vibe. A few months later I sat in a dark cellar in the south of Germany barking, growling, and cuddling other puppies, predatory cats and kittens. Lucky me, I finally found a place, which gave the impression of something worthwhile pursuing. Of course, these are just a few snapshots but for the moment the people that I have met feel less judgmental and more welcoming than folks that are just strict into power dynamics…
I am probably not the only person who noticed that although BDSM is always mentioned in the same acronym, the communities vary. Like Sadomasochism and power play are often combined, but if you are just into one of them it gets very hard to find a partner who is willing to just be the top, a sadist on the lesser extreme end, or if I want to tip my big toe into power play impersonates a more caring dome. This gives rise to the following problem: How to have completely deranged and very queer sex without any committed partner that fits one’s own current needs? Right, you can find the answer in the paragraphs above.

Despite that, no it is possibly not the most deranged sex that someone could have, but it is the most deranged sex that is accessible for now to me.

The “other”

Pet play has several advantages for me. One of the biggest would be that it is not dependent on the gender aspect. The role models of pet players are not Christian Greys in suits, private helicopters and millions in bank accounts, but pets, usually in the form of dogs and cats. Those who insist on an upgrade call it animal play and sneak through the dungeon as a tiger, fox, wolf or snow leopard. Unlike humans, animals only have genitals and reproductive organs but no gender. Quite apart from that, there are plenty of animals that change their gender during their lifetime, without any psychological expertise, letters of indication or everyday tests. You would have to be a clownfish or a ray-finned fish… or not. I have no desire for scales, gills or fins, but the feeling that my reality is not completely trans male, but rather remains trans male and something else.

This ‘something else’ is the crucial sticking point, because as a teenager I realised above all that I was many things, just not female. But I wasn’t male back then either and so I was forced to make myself comfortable somewhere between these two poles and far beyond. But there was no room for ‘in between and beyond’ in my social circles and so I remained emotionally and physically resistant. Try as I might, I didn’t fit in anywhere and everywhere I went, sooner or later I was exposed as a ‘weirdo’ and either merely tolerated or actively ridiculed. At some point, I decided that it was all too stupid for me and stopped trying to fit in. Instead, I mentally sought refuge in the animal kingdom, because animals cared very little what others thought of them, they were wild and free. For me, all of this was reason enough to fill the hole inside me that I knew existed, but didn’t know how deep it really was, with these animal characteristics, because the human ones didn’t do anything for me, nor did they seem to be valued by others. Being or trying to mimic normal human beviour made me feel bad and not myself, so it seemed very easy to just disregard the human aspects that I needed to keep holding up for pleasantry.

Admittedly, feral, menacing, entertaining an affinity for morbid things, prefers to communicate in hellish screeches, would love to be able to manipulate my own skeletal structure as a means of combat aren’t necessary the average needs of a human being or a pet, they are simple my needs. But to close the circle, my own mask, which I bought myself, is not a baby dog mask, but that of a hellhound. Ein otherworldly being with several heads and sometimes a huge appetite for blood. When I am fussy, my Pet Play unites less me being a pet and more me exploring transcending my gender into different realms of possibility for example mythology.

Ah yes, the non-toxic masculinty

It is not just about my gender identity but also about the performance. I won’t stop being adamant about the fact that not every dom has to desire being Christian Grey. Yes, „50 Shades of Grey“ fulfilled a lot of women’s fantasies and empowered them to pursue the start of their BDSM journey. But how many Christian Greys are there outside? Maybe even way too many, especially if you look at Christian Grey’s abusive behavior. Nevertheless, I personally don’t strive to be one.

I will never be a millionaire, I hope I will never turn abusive, and especially, I despise suits and the aesthetic of BDSM. Don’t get me wrong, black and red are fine, but not everything. Suits are, for me, the epitome of „professionalism,“ but a professionalism that is rooted in racism and ableism and denies people the right to wear their cultural equivalents of professional dress and denies neurodivergent and chronically ill people access to workplaces or higher positions. Anyway… back to the topic of „pet play.“

The pet play community is not without its faults or free from the stereotypical idea of the ‘manly man evil dom’. It exists here too, just usually in the form of the big bad wolf, the dealer in unimaginative GEAR Berlin get-up, the leather daddy à la Tom of Finland, the leather/latex dominatrix or the conniving cat lady. However, and perhaps this is due to my kink circles, the practice here is far less anchored in the norms of fixed cliché thinking of roles and positions and hard rules. The fun aspect tends to take centre stage, service tops are more accepted and things are generally more playful. For me, this means that if I ever top or domme, there is no pressure to fulfil an expectation or stereotype, which in turn makes it easier to get started.

The last (plus) point is that Pet Play leaves more room for fashionable ‘deviance’. The two-coloured Mister S masks still dominate the community, but even these are not necessarily black and red. More and more often I see homemade masks made of neoprene or an attempt to find a middle ground between the grim, dark cliché and the exact opposite of the rainbow-coloured unicorn.

As soon as you undergo training to become a poll worker, you are told that you should not wear any objects, clothing or symbols that could suggest a political affiliation while on duty on election day. As I don’t own a Circle-A or a hammer and sickle and was able to leave my numerous rainbows at home, the issue was quickly resolved. Or so I thought, because suddenly I was confronted with the question: What makes a political symbol a political symbol, and to what extent was the stereotype of a queer guy with piercings, alternative clothing and dyed hair already an indication that you most likely wouldn’t vote for a conservative party? How did a guy with baby beard shadow, who was clearly having a voice change, had too expressive gestures for the stereotypical cis guy and whose binder passed as a crop top because it was simply too hot for more clothes? What were binders anyway? Medical gear or a matter of self-expression? When did self-expression and personal style become political? I didn’t know, but apparently my grey trousers, black t-shirt, colourful bandana, lots of jewellery and face fuzz weren’t political enough to be sent home. Gender Fuckery was tolerated as a poll worker.

»Horniest« – Grant

Last time I wrote briefly about the problem of how difficult it is to find the right penis for you. If your own isn’t enough – the clitoris also grows on testosterone, and sometimes not even a little. However, this also means that you suddenly have growing pains in places that I, at least, didn’t realise were even possible. But growth isn’t the only thing that hurts there, it’s also the days when your libido shoots through the roof so much that it hurts between your legs, and it hurts hard (pun intended). There have also been days when I couldn’t sit up straight, and there were days when masturbating didn’t really solve the problem. Now I can at least understand a little bit why male teenagers want to shag everything that’s not up to scratch. Perhaps young people should be encouraged at their confirmation or consecration not to use the money to buy expensive clothes or a computer for gaming, but to invest in good and, above all, quiet sex toys.

My libido wasn’t the only thing that went through the roof. My kink did too. Whereas I used to be quite picky about my kinks, I now have days when I could easily tie an orange hanky to my trousers and scream it out to the world: I am ready for anything at any time! Don’t be shy, be nasty!

The bigger picture:

To this day, I’ve hardly told anyone from my home town that I’ve started taking testosterone. The last time I visited them, it was still up in the air whether my wish would really come true and since then we’ve hardly had any contact with each other. Very few of them are active on social media and writing to each of them individually seemed far too strange. I don’t have to explain anything to them, I don’t owe them anything and I’m also of the opinion that testosterone only changes me in the sense that I’m finally a much happier person who likes his body and has left the depressed teenager behind. I don’t think I need to come out for that.

The few people who know that I am now on testosterone are happy for me and otherwise nothing has changed between us. Only one friend was very confused at the beginning because he found me extremely attractive and through a chain of unexpected circumstances, one day he asked me if I would marry him and I said yes because I would marry all my best friends as opposed to my sexual partners. That really threw me for a loop, he didn’t understand my understanding of marriage, nor had he ever identified as bisexual. At the same time, it also made him feel guilty, because for both of us, his behaviour implied: In what way was I man enough for him? Obviously not enough, because to this day he still describes himself as heterosexual.

I couldn’t care less about the sexuality of this friend, but one thing does annoy me: that my gender identity is still dependent on how much I conform to the conventional image of a cis man. I’m not (yet) a fan of genderfuckery in the sense that I would walk around in a dress, but I still refuse to wear the black, white, grey and beige colour palette of the men’s department in department stores. Instead, I’m currently making myself comfortable in a bright and colourful alternative style of dress and hope that this already confuses people enough to cause social irritation.

I wish I was liberated enough to be above my own (non-)passing, but unfortunately my euphoria about being read as male is too great for me to trade it for deconstructing gender norms. Which leads me to the next question.

The „feminist“ conundrum

How can trans men be feminist without being reduced to being trans? A trans woman said in my indirect presence: ‘I’m glad I took the step. Testosterone is a real poison.’

Neither my brain nor I could necessarily agree with the statement, even though we both knew that testosterone had probably had more advantages than disadvantages for her. Furthermore, I knew that I would probably never be able to make such statements as ‘oestrogen is a real poison’ in future as a male-read person (I wasn’t planning to anyway). Why? Imagine a cis man making that statement, something like that would scream misogyny, wouldn’t it?

Apart from that, I can report for myself that after coming out to myself as a trans man, slogans such as ‘For the critical examination of masculinities from (pro) feminist perspectives’ have a different effect. As a woman, I was given all kinds of offers to strengthen my self-esteem and self-confidence, to demand my right to opportunities, resources, participation and self-determination, but as a (trans) man, all of these offers suddenly fell away. As a trans man, I avoidably move from the group that is affected by sexism to the group that is socially privileged, at least when it comes to wages, social recognition, leniency for my own misbehaviour, tax law, medical care, everyday self-realisation. Yes, I could go on with the list and yes, I am aware that intersectionality plays an important role in the points mentioned above.

Before I write an eternally long and nuanced argument about what and how anti-transmasculinity manifests itself in society, I would like to take this opportunity to point out three essays by the blogger S. L. Void. The first essay deals with how the identities of trans men and trans women are often played off against each other, the second essay deals with how trans men are socially and politically invisible and the third essay deals with the fact that not all trans men have always been men from birth, but that ‘being trans’ or rather ‘becoming trans’ can be a process.

In the end, what matters to me is that I personally am a fan of having something like a backbone, and my backbone means that I don’t behave like an arsehole. Above all, this means that I hold values such as: A person’s dignity is inviolable, integrity and morality.

At the same time, I also know that most of my character traits (enthusiastic, solitary, sprinkles of being self-righteous, easily bored, weird bursts of courage, perfectionist tendencies, sometimes cynical, fashionably angry, doesn’t buy bullshit, CHAOTIC, loyal towards friends) are only charming as long as I’m read as female. Because in the end, women who display a certain cheeky impertinence continue to be less ‘threatening’ than men. Does the idea of one day becoming one of those toxic old white men scare me: yes. Is the answer ‘then just don’t become one’ helpful? No, because the fear remains that I could fall into these traps of ‘toxic behaviour’ without realising it. At the same time, purely cis male-dominated spaces such as football stadiums, barber shops, pubs or stag parties seem like predator cages to me. As soon as you show vulnerability or weakness, you’re finished…

What remains

Despite all the thoughts and doubts, I wouldn’t change anything. I know you should never say never, but at that moment, no one could convince me to just stop taking testosterone. I stopped surviving and finally started living and thriving. I look at myself and think I’m sexy. I run around grinning so much that people think I’m crazy. If I could, I would continue to skip through the streets singing and dancing like in one of Disnes‘ older live-action films. I think these are all things that continue to show me that I was right in my decision to transition.

I sweat, therefore I am

Maybe it’s all the food, maybe it’s the accelerated metabolism, maybe it’s a mixture of both or something else entirely… Since the temperatures have been above 8°C, I’ve been walking around in shorts. The last time I actively froze was just before Christmas last year and that was still pre-transition. Sometimes I wish I could wrap myself in a silver-coloured rescue blanket. However, these thin sheets are neither particularly resilient nor stylish. Instead of waiting for my dream role as a tin man, I gave my flat a new flair consisting of rescue blankets.

They have the advantage of being much cheaper than the special window films that offer sun or UV protection and even let light through. I don’t sit in the dark during the day, but in a golden yellow glow. If you want it to be darker or are often away from home, I recommend shielding blankets for the car windscreen. Both in combination with a fan in constant use make the flat bearable at 30°C outside.

When it comes to clothing, I take the less is more approach, which is probably only half right and not necessarily the healthiest option. Sun cream or not, a full-body condom made of light cotton clothing would probably be more appropriate, but I sweat so much that even the most loose-fitting clothes would turn into a sticky mass within minutes and if there’s one thing I hate more than the feeling of my skin burning away, it’s clothes that stick to me. Bandanas, shorts, tie tops and sandals are my faithful everyday companions.

A similar rule applies to my bags: as little contact surface on the skin as possible. Strap rucksacks or messenger bags therefore have to wait for winter in the wardrobe, but the alternatives are: trolley, wheeled suitcase, bike bags, shoulder bag, briefcase, canvas bag, or fannypack or the good old trouser pockets.

What I advise everyone to do is to switch from a deodorant to an antiperspirant. I can hardly imagine that I prefer both without an artificial odour, my own is enough for me, although it has only increased slightly and I used to have none or very little.

The bathroom „panic“

There are countless trans memes that deal with life with binders, packers or the infamous toilet issue. Many of them come very close to reality. Because when it comes to public toilets, I also ask myself which one I should use, or rather which one is safer for me. There is less chance of problems at university than in a small shopping centre in a small town in eastern Germany. It’s similar with changing rooms, although I’m certain that I won’t set foot in a cis men’s sports changing room until I’ve had a top surgery.

Even university is not an inclusive paradise. Yes, there are gender-neutral toilets, which are also the disabled toilets. There’s nothing wrong with that to begin with, because to be honest, the disabled toilets are the only toilets here where you have a decent amount of space to coordinate yourself and your rucksack, including your winter jacket. The real problem is the door mechanism. As the toilet is designed for people in wheelchairs, the door opens with the help of a switch. So far so good, but unfortunately this automatic door makes an incredible amount of noise and it opens completely every time. If someone wants to use the disabled toilet, firstly the whole building notices and secondly the door also blocks part of the corridor to the lockers, which is heavily frequented.

Call me paranoid, but since the disabled toilet is the only unisex toilet, using it as a person who is not disabled is tantamount to coming out, because why should people who are not in wheelchairs make such an effort to go to the loo? Right, they have to rely on this toilet for a different reason… How could the problem have been solved instead without remodelling the toilets in the university? Right, just remove the gender signs and replace them with ‘sitting loo’ and standing loos, or put a short description of the toilet facilities outside on the door. Both are much more precise anyway.

Otter vs. Twink?

Not only peeing is political, but also body hair. Everyone has it, and no matter which sociological category of analysis you apply to it, it makes sense. In society at large, there is still a perception that ‘real’ men are hairy and ‘real’ women shave. Consequently, athletes in (Olympic) disciplines such as swimming, wrestling, gymnastics, high diving and water polo are not ‘real’ men, because the highest of hairy feelings there is armpit hair. While I can still explain the lack of hair in water sports by the reduction in water resistance, I suspect discriminatory beauty ideals in all other sports. At the same time, I am in favour of more otters and bears deserving to take part in competitive water sports (the vanilla ones for once).

For me, the only question that remains is how much otter or twink vibe do I want to allow myself? Sure, body hair can be sexy, but testosterone doesn’t just give you hair on your lower legs, forearms or a happy trail; testosterone gives you body hair everywhere, even in places where I wouldn’t have expected it. My interim solution consists of ‘partial shaving’. The beard fuzz doesn’t look good (yet) anyway, and since I wear shorts but no hot pants, most people can’t see that I’ve shaved my thighs but not my lower legs. So I still have a feeling of smooth skin, which I like, but also a slightly more ‘masculine texture’ due to long and coarser lower leg hair. Even when people notice that I have quite a quirky shaving pattern, no one has commented on it.

About the binders you won’t find in office shelves

The trans state of one’s own consciousness is known to play its own game. But above all, this also means that you become aware of yourself, and unfortunately not in a positive sense. Realising that you are trans is one thing; accepting the resulting consequences and actions is quite another. As socialisation and societal ideals would have it, trans people are not immune to emulating beauty ideals or gender stereotypes – (un)consciously or as a survival strategy. The high-femme trans woman, the very masculine trans man and the androgynous non-binary person – but an ideal is an ideal, and often one’s own body or the lack of clothes, hairdressers and make-up puts a spanner in the works.

Because, as we all know, women can’t be tall and have a deep voice, and men are neither short nor do they have breasts. Even I am not immune to having a wide selection of binders in my home. Not only because you sweat in them and you can wash them straight away after putting them on once, but also so that I feel my identity is taken seriously and so that other cis people take my gender identity seriously. Because at the end of the day, I know that I am male or that I have my own interpretation of masculinity, and nobody can talk me out of that. I’ve had enough therapy to tolerate my breasts. They’re just there, they don’t get any more attention from me. What helps is that they are very small and have shrunk even more due to the testosterone. If I already had the feeling before that they were just sitting on my body and not part of it, the effect was intensified by the testosterone.

The phenomenon is called ‘phantom flat chest’. In this sense, I feel best when I’m not wearing a sports bra or a binder, but either walking around topless or just wearing a T-shirt. Believe me, just feeling fabric and not some weird polyester-cotton blend is great. Except it doesn’t help you fool people into thinking you’re a 16-year-old cis boy and not a mid-twenties lesbian tomboy. Which is why I know the days when I have to actively plan my binder usage, or turn around again in the hallway because I realise a t-shirt doesn’t fit enough, or that my passing is more important to me than ‘fighting’ active gender norms.

The (missing) visit of Aunt Irma/ shark week/ THE time of the month or Bloody Mary

I was one of those who were freed from the cycle in the meantime. My periods stopped immediately, which surprised even my gynaecologist. For me, this meant less suffering in everyday life, but disadvantages when inserting the hormone coil. Just because menstruation stops, it doesn’t mean that trans men can’t still get pregnant. Surprisingly, my eggs are still working hard according to the ultrasound and don’t even think about stopping. It came as it had to, after eight months I did get a (small) part of my periods back and I really didn’t miss them. I was prepared for this eventuality in terms of product technology, but not for the emotional or psychological strain, not to mention the pain.

There is a claim that men are less sensitive to pain than women, but I think that’s a lie. Not only because cis women regularly survive their periods and give birth less regularly, but also because even with two painkillers I was still lying on my bed in the foetal position and thought someone was ripping out my intestines. So much for ‘strong men’. I wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone. I don’t know what will happen next, as no one can say whether my period will stay away forever or whether it will come back from time to time.

„Dick I choose you!“

‘What’s in your pants?’ is one of those famous corrected questions on dating platforms that many trans people don’t want to hear. ‘What’s in your pants?’ is often followed by a statement along the lines of ’You Gender is what’s in your pants.’ Which is bullshit, because none of the trans men I’ve met in my life are socks… nor are the two cis genders of our planet called ‘penis’ and ‘vagina’. It’s especially funny when you realise that there are now packers who don’t imitate human penises. Accordingly, the default gender would be: werewolf, alien or centaur.

So far I’ve only had to have one such conversation, but having something other than a sock or nothing at all in my trousers would definitely improve my everyday life. Unfortunately, this is a long-term project, because packers are not only incredibly expensive, but also so ‘numerous’ that you are spoilt for choice.

Realistic penises, different skin tones, various materials, different widths, lengths and shapes. It’s not uncommon to have up to five different penises in your wardrobe, depending on their use: Sex, work, sport, etc. The same question applies to all of them: How do I find THE right one? And above all, what is the right size? The answer to both questions is: fuck around and try out, which will take (a lot) of money because there is no size chart for packers like there is in many online clothing shops.

The remix consisting of muscle growth and lost hips

Technically, I knew that the testosterone would change my body’s fat distribution. But I had no idea of the practical effects until I stood in front of the mirror one day and realised that all my trousers were baggy. The little bit of hip, I had, had disappeared. Belts only help a little with trousers that fit differently and as I don’t have the money for a tailor, I bought a multipack of boxers and currently wear all my summer shorts baggy.

The Good, the Bad, and the Weird

The Good  

In addition to introspection, there is also interaction with the outside world and that can sometimes be quite exciting with mediocre passing. So I thought I’d share some situations I’ve experienced over the last eight months. I was standing at the counter of my GP waiting for the receptionist to give me my fourth annual referral to my endocrinologist. While waiting, the following dialogue unfolded:

You: ‘Tell me, Mr. X… that was a cardiologist, wasn’t it?
Me: No, an endocrinologist.
You: Oh yes, right, I can never remember these specialists….
Me: Never mind, it’s more of a niche problem.
You: You’re funny, you know… There are so many people who have thyroid problems. They just don’t talk about it…’
It took me a moment to realise that firstly, she was serious and secondly, that I didn’t understand at all that I didn’t need thyroid tablets, but testosterone. So much for the niche problem…

Another time, I was sitting on a bench outside the same GP waiting to be called in. Two ladies were sitting in front of me, another one had just joined them. The new one wanted to know who exactly would be in front of her, the lady in front of me just pointed at me and replied, ‘Him’, then she looked at me repeatedly and said, ‘Or her… Excuse me, what are your pronouns? I’m not sure right now and these days you sometimes have to ask.’

I replied and my pronouns were accepted without question. No funny looks, no questions, nothing. If this elderly lady has grandchildren, you’ve done a great job, if not kudos to her.

The Bad

Sexual harassment in the form of stupid chat-up lines or groping is unfortunately still the order of the day for many women today. In 2023, there were 12,186 reported cases of ‘rape, sexual assault and sexual assault in particularly serious cases, including with fatal consequences’ in Germany, 10,160 of which were solved. I feel that every sexual harassment is one too many, but I hope that the number of unreported cases in this area will shrink in the future.

Although society, the media and institutions are increasingly having to deal with the issue, the perpetrators are also becoming more creative and younger. I was taking an unsuspecting walk in our park one sunny afternoon when I heard teenagers on an e-scooter approaching me from behind. Nothing unusual so far, until I heard a loud ‘SMACK’, my bum burned and then the e-scooter with two young boys whizzed past me. The driver of the two turned his head back towards me and gave me a big grin before they turned a corner and disappeared.

That’s when it dawned on me that the arsehole had knocked me on my arse at full speed. Still too stunned by what had happened, I just looked after him, perplexed by his audacity and insolence. Especially as the two of them were barely older than 14. Unfortunately, I missed the opportunity to give him the middle finger.

I know that he doesn’t know how gay this sexual harassment has actually made him, but that doesn’t change the fact that he was displaying shitty behaviour. The fact that his mate held him tightly from behind during the ride so that he wouldn’t fall off the speeding e-scooter didn’t make me feel any better afterwards.

The weird

The last situation happened one afternoon a few days after a local election. The electoral office rang me and asked if I would be willing to take on the role of secretary rather than deputy secretary at the next election in a few days‘ time. The election office wanted to fill the position of deputy secretary with a woman, so I had to give way. On the one hand I was happy about the promotion, on the other hand I wondered why I should be the secretary and not the (new) woman.

I knew that I was listed as ‘Mr’ in the register of election workers, but at the same time I knew that my passing was almost non-existent and that it was only thanks to my election supervisor that everyone, without exception, had gendered me correctly on election day. So maybe it was this ‘male privilege’? Simply being promoted even though you hadn’t done anything except your job? And the women or the woman went away empty-handed? To this day, I don’t know why things went the way they did… and I am still ambivalent about this event…

As you can see, there are a lot of changes and I’m far from finished. But as a larger interim conclusion, I can say that transitioning is not a sprint, but rather a marathon in every respect.

„Is there anything we can do to help you?“, I heard behind me and then we stared at the bright red toilet paper together.
„I don’t think so…?“, I replied.
„It looks really bad though.“
„Yeah.“
At that moment I didn’t know what was worse, that the bleeding didn’t stop, the pain or that I had no idea what exactly had happened. I mentally ran through all the possibilities: IUD? Period? Something completely different? Just before the person disappeared back into the club, I called after her, „Could you find me a dog? Big, colourful and should be at the till.“
A few minutes later, I was sitting in a separee with a pile of towels, a torch and a soaked jockstrap, waiting…

„Bless this mess“, my brain commented and I could only agree with it. I’m generally someone who tries to keep my expectations as low as possible to minimise the likelihood of being disappointed. But I hadn’t expected this scenario.
After several consultations with the tiger and the dog, I walked through the evening streets with only a towel around my hips and slightly disorientated, looking for the car that would save me. Although it had started to drizzle again, it was still far too warm and part of me was very happy to have decided to ditch the trousers and jockstrap and just walk through the streets in a towel. Meanwhile, I made a mental note to myself: „Funny, the Scots were right about wearing nothing under their kilts.“

Who was far less competent was the architect of the hospital we were heading for. There’s no other way to explain why the emergency room was built at the other end of the building complex and not right next to the car entrance to the grounds. Our night-time cruising was only interrupted by the voice of the rainbow dog next to me: „You know, I had hoped never to reach a certain level of friendship.“

He was right.

At some point, I got out early and marched into the hospital on the off-chance, hoping to run into the arms of a doctor faster than having to search endlessly for a parking space. Respect to the lady at the night desk, who didn’t even bat an eyelid when I asked for directions to the emergency room, soaked and with a tight towel around my waist. She had probably seen worse things, or she thought to herself that I was walking exactly where I belonged at that moment and that any excitement would therefore be for nothing. She was so unimpressed by my appearance that she didn’t even notice the trail of blood I left behind me. The medical staff, on the other hand, were very interested in it and my doctor in charge was very happy to hear from me the next morning that it had belonged to me.

Once we arrived at the emergency room, we had to wait, wait and… wait. Instead of acute stress, there was tiredness and exertion in the air and I was surrounded by people with broken arms, headaches, stomach aches and possible smoke inhalation. All in all, my condition was in the region of: This could all have been a lot worse, but it could also have been a lot better.
My mood worsened considerably when I realised that I had no chance of being addressed with the correct form of address without changing my marital status and name. For a brief moment, I thought about correcting the nurse, but then gave in to reality. How likely was it that she would be able to tell me apart from the twenty or thirty other patients moving around the periphery of the ER area? In the end, I wouldn’t just have to correct her, but everyone who called on me in the next few hours, and there were far more than ten of them. Correcting people is exhausting anyway, correcting people while walking around with a bleeding wound is even more so. Nevertheless, I noticed how not only my physical health declined over the course of the evening, but also my mental health.

The only moment I was extremely amused to be misgendered was in the operating theatre when I had to explain to everyone present where my festival wristband came from. My slightly convoluted explanations of what exactly the Chaos Communication Congress was amazed them, they didn’t buy my efforts to explain that the CCC was all about hackers campaigning for data protection. Suddenly I was very happy that in today’s hospitals, there is an absolute division of labour, patients are only asked about their diagnosis and not necessarily where they got it from. Those who already found the CCC adventurous were perhaps not necessarily the kind of people I should be explaining to at 3 am that trans people, the CCC and BDSM felt more like a circle than a venn diagram.

The gynaecologist on the night shift, took my story in stride. Even though she asked surprisingly often whether it had happened just like that or whether a fist or something else might have been responsible for my accident. I answered in the negative. They still had me do a urine test and took more blood. I wasn’t bleeding too much anymore, but I was beginning to wonder when the maximum had been reached and my body would have to cope with the minimum. Apparently, there was still room for improvement, because the doctor took her time to determine the problem…
Pain is a very subjective thing. I thought I had a high pain tolerance ,then I started BDSM and found out I was a sissy. Despite the painkillers, I was inwardly cursing the vein access I had been given and the fact that the doctor was poking around exactly where it hurt the most.

„I didn’t want this much attention tonight,“ I admitted.
My neighbours laughed
„At least not from us… Was it at least worth it?“, asked the doctor.
I briefly considered whether the question was too private, but then decided to answer it. I couldn’t imagine a more socially awkward situation, and the doctor had probably rummaged around in people’s internal organs during her basic training. It could hardly have been more intimate.
„Yes.“
„Did they look good?“
„Yes and no. They had masks on…”
She seemed almost a little disappointed that she didn’t get to hear any juicy details, so I added, „Believe me, from experience, you often don’t necessarily want people to remove the mask.“
Laughter rang out again. At least I made them laugh, so I couldn’t be such a bad patient and my sense of guilt (towards whomsoever) shrank.

At that moment, the gynaecologist announced her results.
The good news: the blood was merely flowing out of me and not into my body.
The bad news: If the tourniquet along with adrenaline didn’t help, I would have to have surgery under general anaesthetic. At that moment I realised two things, firstly at the word „general anaesthetic“ my brain screamed “PANIC” and secondly, having a catheter placed is not as bad as I imagined, but still not pleasant at all. In other words: No new kink unlocked.

Even though I now realise that the vein access hurt on my left side, my wound in the middle and the catheter on my right side. Could this be called the trinity of pain? When the doctor left me, I managed to take a look in a mirror and looked straight into the face of a very tired creature, with very thin hairy legs and a tourniquet around my hips that looked like a loincloth. My protruding veins emphasised the please-call-me-the-scrawniest-Conan-the-barbarian-on-earth look.

In the end, I ended up in the operating theatre. Before that, however, I was parked in a side area of the emergency department. Although I had been given a spacious hospital bed, I still couldn’t sleep. The neon light was too bright and the gasping, coughing and wheezing around me was too loud. My brain didn’t help, “Listen and look, right now you get a flavour of what it means to be old and lonely in this country. Your health will deteriorate, nobody will be left to accompany you, and the nurses are way too busy to care either. Sure, you ever really want to start saving for retirement and get old?”

After four hours, I ended up in the operating theatre. Before that, however, I was wheeled through windowless corridors several times, taken up and down lifts and managed to take off my binder myself despite the catheter and vein access. I mentally added putting on hospital clothes to the long list of painful activities I’ve had to go through in the last few hours. I studiously ignored the red button that I could have pressed to call one of the nurses to help me. For one thing, I was strong and independent and for another, I didn’t feel like explaining to someone else why I was wearing such a tight tank top under my T-shirt. Anyone who continued to misgender me, even though I wrote „permanent medication: testosterone“ on every diagnosis, allergy or admission form, didn’t deserve to help me take off my binder either.

The next fuck-you moment I experienced was when the theatre nurses strapped me to the bed and I briefly considered whether running away wouldn’t be a better idea after all. At the same time, I knew that the likelihood of me losing my catheter or vein access if I tried to escape was quite high, and I didn’t know where I should have fled to. Especially as I was still bleeding… My brain contented itself with a silent rant about my still miserable condition and how this was the wrong context for any form of bondage. Already I was not too fond of it in the bedroom, in the hospital I realised I despised it.

My mood didn’t improve when the surgeon held an oxygen mask over my nose and explained to me, clearly too cheerfully for my liking, that the mask was only for the oxygen and not for the anaesthetic, which I would receive via the venous access. At that moment, I couldn’t really understand his friends, especially when the anaesthetist gave me the first injection, which was supposed to „just make me a bit dizzy“. I don’t know what his definition of „a little“ dizziness was, but I was glad I was lying in a bed, because my reality started to tilt and I couldn’t tell up from down. I could still see the second injection being given and nothing after that.
The next thing I knew, someone was pushing me through the corridors again. When I opened my eyes, the anaesthetist from before was standing in front of me, „The operation is over and went well.“ As always, my brain was faster than anything else in my body, „You know what, you should thank him. He did a good job and just because you can’t stand hospitals to death doesn’t mean he was to blame for your accident.“
Not gonna lie, I can’t remember the order in which I croaked out the phrases, „Good morning, thank you and actually I’m doing pretty well“; I was only told later that I had apparently managed it twice.

I spent the next few hours sleeping, without any strange anaesthetic dreams, which was all I needed. Nevertheless, my body wasn’t good at ‚relaxing‘ for long. So began the endless game of:

I opened my eyes, stared at a white wall, and then closed them again.
I opened my eyes, stared at a white wall, and then closed them again.
I opened my eyes, stared at a white wall, and noticed a cup of tea and rusks next to me… From the smell, though, it was camomile tea, which I didn’t like, and the rusk was probably not gluten-free… Therefore I closed my eyes again.
The fourth time I opened my eyes and my best friend was sitting in front of me. A definite improvement, the tea and rusk hadn’t been put away yet. Suddenly I was very keen to leave the hospital as soon as possible, unfortunately, I was the only one.

My circulation had other plans. I was supposed to use the bathroom on my own as a discharge test, but of course my body was not up to the task. The floor tilted, I got cold and sweat poured down my face. Never before had I been so glad that a toilet was designed for disabled people because the handles next to me saved me from a rough landing on the floor tiles at that moment. By now my ankles were white from clutching and I had no idea how to get to grips with the problem. I wouldn’t die, not while I was sitting on the toilet, but the situation was still not pleasant. One option was to lie on the floor and lift my legs up, but was that such a good idea? Did I want to know how many people had already thrown up on this floor? And when was the last time it had been cleaned? I feverishly looked for one of those A4-sized word tables in which the last cleaning was entered in public toilets. No such thing.

I would have to explain my situation when the nurse came back at the latest.
At that moment, there was a knock, „Are you OK?
„Yes?“, I replied and stumbled towards the door.
„Oh my goodness“, was the comment on my condition and a few minutes later I fell back into my bed and was hooked up to a drip. With a „I’m glad I hadn’t removed the venous access yet“, and a subsequent, „You know, that wasn’t really surprising, you’ve lost a lot of blood“, she rushed off again.

Slowly, I began to fully understand the relativity of statements made by hospital staff: „The operation is over and went well“ meant „congratulations, you’re alive and there were no acute life-threatening complications“. My best friend commented on my condition with an accurate: „Wow, you look like shit“, and then turned his attention curiously to the contents of my drip. It turns out that saline solution can work wonders, which is why an hour later I was sitting in my best friend’s car, overjoyed and devouring three rolls of foccacia.

Reading British (online) media is no longer a delicate matter, but rather a white-water ride. Often it’s down to the way journalism reports on issues, more often it’s down to the current socio-political discourse in the country. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when the headline jumped out at me one day: „Sexual choking is now so common that many young people don’t think it even requires consent. That’s a problem.“ 

Surprisingly, the article was well written: Short, simple, and most importantly, the topic of the article was not how „unnatural“ BDSM practices are, but on how consent was lacking. After that, however, I fell down a rabbit hole, because not only was consent lacking in the majority, but there were additional health issues. After the twenty-page study, I started to ponder:

An online survey in the USA revealed that „21% of women and 11% of men ages 18 to 60 had ever been choked during sex and 12% of women and 20% of men had ever choked a partner during Sex“. For me this meant that this kink is heavenly gendered, which somehow leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I have nothing against gender, it’s a product of our society, but in the end I always find it suspicious when certain things are very dependent on gender. It’s enough for me that there are still regions or kink communities where dominance is associated with men and submission is still associated with women, I don’t need gender-dependent kinks.

In my opinion, it is all the more ironic that if choking occurred during masturbation or solo kink sessions, it is also heavenly gendered, but with a (sad) twist. A different study analysed all deaths due to hanging or ligature in the name of autoeroticism from 1954 to 2004 and it turns out: the ratio of men and women was 21 to 7. I was surprised by the huge discrepancy, as „hard“ sex practices are certainly associated with dominance and masculinity, but still… Dear men, please get a play partner who will keep an eye on you while you engage in breath play.

Speaking of partners, the main inspiration for engaging in “choking” as a sex practice was pornography itself or the partner, who watched porn that featured choking. Funnily enough, the big American companies that also produce pornography, among other things, prohibit real strangulation on set for insurance reasons… Acting or simulation is used instead. That’s one of the problems because when you’re acting, nobody looks at what or how you strangulate. 

What fascinated me most was my cognitive dissonance. Why? There are kinks that I have tried only to realise that they did nothing for me in the moment: One such example would be Impact Play. At the same time, these kinks remain kinks for me. They denote a specific action, in a specific context, and since I don’t live a 24/7 dynamic, they don’t appear in my everyday life. It was different with choking. There was suddenly a specific action that for many people only took place in a specific context and my experience was fundamentally different. For me, „choking“ also existed in a specific context, only until then it had never been the BDSM club or the bedroom, but the dojo. To put it polemically: I got choked several times a week since I was thirteen years old. Moreover, I also got to choke people and honestly, I was quite good at it. 

But to be honest, it’s one thing to perform an act to win a fight and score points for your team and something completely different to perform the same act for sexual satisfaction. As soon as I thought longer about how different the two contexts are and what the consequences are. Both for men and women (all the studies were cisgendered) and for the viewers or the audience.

Choking as erotic play

There are certainly countless reasons why people find strangulation exciting: Violence in a consensual setting, gender dynamics, endorphins, a sense of adventure, love for a partner, etc. Apart from the gendered violence just discussed, let’s take a closer look at the individual aspects and consequences:

(Non) consensual violence: Regardless of how risky you want your BDSM to be; choking is one of the kinks that, at first glance, carries a greater health risk. At first glance, this is because a bare-handed blow to the bum could also be fatal if it detaches an aneurysm. At the same time, I would consider choking with the hands to be safer than breath play with belts, scarves, chains, collars or gags. Controlling your own hands is often easier than hands and a foreign object that the dominant person also has to control.

Furthermore, various side effects can occur, but do not necessarily have to, such as coughing, difficulty with swallowing or breathing, vision changes, eyes tearing up and passing out. In my opinion, a bigger problem is the internal damage that can occur, which of course cannot be seen. Nevertheless, another study has discovered the following: A total of 57 women had their brain functions analysed with the help of an MRI, for 23 of them, choking was part of their sex life and it showed: „[…] frequent exposure to partnered sexual strangulation is associated with different neural activation patterns during verbal and visual working memory tasks compared to controls, suggesting that being choked/strangled during sex may modify the allocation of neural resources at increasing levels of cognitive load.“

In other words, there could be a connection between choking and stages of deteriorating mental health, but not necessarily. Further studies are recommended at this point. For me, the question arises as to what extent aftercare was part of the practice in the choking couples, because from my personal experience I can say that the absence or presence of post-sex cuddling determines the status of my psyche and mood.

The age (question): Many official kink events and clubs have an age limit and for good reason. Nevertheless, I am sure that due to relevant pornography websites, TikTok or such mass phenomena as the Choking Game, minors are already practicing BDSM, in the worst case without even knowing it. A solid educational programme would help here. Especially if they are not led by the school’s teaching staff, but by professionals who are not affiliated with the school. There are plenty of organisations… otherwise I shamelessly recommend this educational website, it literally saved my arse a few times by now.

…the location: One of the reasons why sexual strangulation is probably more dangerous than that in sport is that it takes place in private (closed) spaces. On the one hand, a closed room offers privacy, but on the other hand, this privacy can also become a problem, especially when individual actions are no longer consensual. In addition, most of the time, the dynamic also involves only two people instead of two, plus judges, teammates, coaches and audience. A medical team is also rarely present in your own home or even in the dungeon…

Different strokes for different folks: Your limits, your negotiations, your consensuality, apart from that there aren’t really any limits to Breath Play? Therefore whatever floats your boat.

The Goal: The goal is erotic pleasure. For the one who chokes or for the one who gets choked or both. If it is neither of you, you are doing something wrong, at least in my eyes. Maybe you’re more the kink type who does everything just for the endorphins, but even then it’s a positive end result.

Choking as (a part of) sport

The same plot in a completely different context, let’s have a closer look:

Tender gender: While more and more women and marginalised genders are discovering self-defence or competitive sports for themselves, I am very sure that combat sports in particular will continue to be dominated by cis men. In addition, tournaments are always differentiated by weight and gender or sex. If you ignore these general conditions, anyone can choke in judo (and similar sports). Unfortunately, I don’t know whether choking techniques are more common in the men’s or women’s category. 

Finally 13! Funnily enough, the training guidelines mean that all people over the age of 13 have to learn certain chokes. This is partly due to the competition regulations and partly due to the examination content for the various belt levels that are tested. To all concerned parents who are already thinking about how to explain BDSM to their child, various martial arts can prepare them for this. You learn respect, self-confidence and the basic things to remember during choking. In contrast to the private bedroom, there are actually rules here.

Rules rule the sport: Depending on the martial art, there are differences in what and which chokes are permitted. Judo as a purely competitive sport is relatively harmless, but the general rule is: keep your fingers and arm bends away from the Adam’s apple and don’t apply pressure to the front of the neck. A big no-no, don’t do it under any circumstances!

In Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu or MMA, for example, it’s a completely different story; techniques are taught here that would get you eliminated from the tournament in judo. 

Regardless of which sport you choose, it still means: train, train, train, because unlike sex, your opponent doesn’t just defend themselves a little or for fun, they don’t want to be choked. However, a lack of cooperation also means that the risk of injury increases for both parties. Consequently, at least in theory, every move should be in place before you throw yourself into the fray. However, I can reassure you that the likelihood of stranglers being used in a fight is very unlikely. This has a lot to do with the fact that stand-up fighting is always favoured over ground fighting in competitions. Not only does it look more spectacular, it is also easier for the judges to judge. 

Suck it up buttercup: Well, consent is an interesting concept if it comes to fighting sports. By stepping onto the tatami (fighting mat) you are simply agreeing to get beaten up within a set of rules. If you don’t want to get beaten up… you shouldn’t do fighting sports. It is that simple.

The place to be: Well, you can argue that a dojo is a private and also a closed room with many people in it. A gymnasium or a stadium is certanly not. In addition, if you fight normaly you trainer, team mates, and several referees including casual audience is watching you. If you fuck up the rules, some will notice and the consequences are not pretty!

It is all about the… Winning! If you start a fight, the aim is to win it. A fair fight is a good thing, but unfortunately the fighting rules are not strict enough to prevent you from using them to your own advantage on one occasion or another. Either way, to win a fight you have to fight and sometimes „choking“ is part of that.

All in all, this collection of thoughts can be summarised with context is key. The same action does not always have the same goal or the same meaning. That being said, I recommend everyone to do a few years of martial arts. It increases your self-confidence and you learn a lot about yourself and your body.

PS: The day will come when the links in my text will no longer work, so here are the studies listed again:

Contos, Chanel: Sexual choking is now so common that many young people don’t think it even requires consent. That’s a problem, in: The Guardian, https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2022/dec/08/sexual-choking-is-now-so-common-that-many-young-people-dont-think-it-even-requires-consent-thats-a-problem (24.06.24). 

Herbenick, Debby; Guerra‑Reyes, Lucia; Patterson, Callie et al. “It Was Scary, But Then It Was Kind of Exciting”: Young Women’s Experiences with Choking During Sex. Arch. Sex. Behav. 2022; 51:1103–1123. doi: 10.1007/s10508-021-02049-x.

Huibregtse, Megan E.; Alexander, Isabella L.; Klemsz, Lillian M. et al. Frequent and Recent Non-fatal Strangulation/Choking During Sex and Its Association With fMRI Activation During Working Memory Tasks. Front. Behav. Neurosci. 2022;16. doi: 10.3389/fnbeh.2022.881678.

Sauvageau, Anny; Racette, Stéphanie. Autoerotic deaths in the literature from 1954 to 2004: a review. J Forensic Sci. 2006;51(1):140-6. doi: 10.1111/j.1556-4029.2005.00032.x.

Team Scarletteen: https://www.scarleteen.com (24.06.24).