I finally made it to GearBlast US.

The event took place at a remote campground and resort in Michigan, which turned out to be the perfect setting. This was my first GearBlast, but it didn’t feel like arriving somewhere completely unfamiliar. I already knew many of the attendees from other events and online, even if most of those relationships had previously been limited to brief conversations in hotel lobbies or passing encounters at larger gatherings.

I drove up with my friends from F22 in an old Army Deuce and one of F22’s inmate transport trucks. It was an appropriately ridiculous way to arrive at a gear event, and it immediately set the tone for the weekend.

Of course, I brought far too much gear.

I was afraid I would see someone wearing something I hadn’t packed and spend the entire weekend suffering from horny gear FOMO. My extras included football gear, baseball gear, and an excessive amount of rubber. I had packed for every possible version of myself, even though I ended up spending most of the weekend in some combination of skinhead, military, or tactical gear.

The inmate truck quickly became one of my favorite parts of the weekend. It was parked near the playspace, and I spent a good deal of time standing nearby, grabbing mostly willing people, putting them in handcuffs, and locking them into one of the inmate cages.

There was something wonderfully simple about it. People would wander by on their way to the playspace to get railed or cruise, make eye contact, and suddenly find themselves being detained. The truck became a sort of social landmark: part prop, part playspace, and part public service to anyone who had been waiting for the right excuse to be arrested.

Saturday was especially hot.

Three of us were in skinhead gear, and there was something incredibly hot about the three of us taking over the jail truck while locking up guys in tactical gear. The contrast was perfect: us standing around in our boots and skinhead gear, deciding who was going into the cages.

At one point, one particularly unruly inmate needed a little extra discipline. We gave him a good old-fashioned skinhead boot party. It was rough, theatrical, and exactly the kind of absurd, filthy play that made GearBlast so much fun.

On Sunday night, we expanded the operation. We used flag-football flags to let people mark themselves for arrest, then the guard staff of F22 (fortuitously there were a handful of us more ‘intense’ guards there) patrolled through the crowd looking for targets. Anyone displaying a flag was volunteering to be arrested , cuffed, and processed. It turned the entire area into a low-stakes manhunt, with just enough structure to make it exciting and just enough chaos to keep it funny.

The whole weekend had an atmosphere I haven’t experienced at many other kink events. It was relaxed, friendly, and unusually intimate. GearBlast was capped at a little over 280 people, and that size made a huge difference. It never felt overwhelming or anonymous. There was room to actually talk to people, spend time with them, and discover that the person you only knew through occasional online interactions was much more interesting in person. I added atleast 5 or 6 people to the inner electron shell of my friend circle.

More than anything, GearBlast felt like kinky summer camp with my friends.

There was the camping, the gear, the late nights, the playground energy, and the shared sense that everyone had shown up ready to be a little strange together. The atmosphere was playful without feeling forced, and social without becoming exhausting. I could wander around in gear, get into trouble, find someone to play with, or simply sit around and talk.

That balance was probably what made the event stand out for me. I’ve enjoyed other kink events, but many of them can feel busy, performative, or structured around trying to see and do everything before the weekend ends. GearBlast felt more natural. I didn’t feel like I was racing a schedule. I felt like I was spending a few days with a community.

By the end of the weekend, I had spent more time with people I previously only knew casually, made new memories with old friends, and arrested enough people (22 people on Sunday making a rough crime rate of 8%) to make the inmate truck feel like hub of activity.

I’m already thinking about what I’ll bring next time, which probably means I’ll once again bring far too much gear, just in case. But certainly I’ll pack more handcuffs. They’ll get use.

Gimp has been thinking a lot lately—especially since it was just Pride Month—about family, chosen family, being poly (though gimp isn’t entirely sure gimp would describe itself as poly, mainly because all of its relationships are one-on-one, there are no triangles, or org charts needed; if You don’t like that definition, feel free to substitute Your own), and the strange, complicated, wonderful forms that family can take.

One of things gimp has come to appreciate, especially as a kinky fucker, is that many of the most important relationships in its life defy easy description. Society gives us labels like partner, boyfriend, friend, family, and even Owner, but those words often feel insufficient. The people in gimp’s life occupy spaces between and beyond those categories. Some are partners, some are mentors, some are authority figures, some are friends, and many are several of those things at once. Gimp doesn’t know exactly what to call the collection of relationships that now exists around it, but “family” feels close enough.

Gimp’s primary partner and gimp have been open since the very beginning. We were both already in kinky dynamics with others when we met. We never really sat down and established rules or boundaries beyond a simple understanding: we both want the other to be happy. Gimp trusts him implicitly and has no doubts or fears of being supplanted or replaced. Gimp’s relationship with Owner exists separately from that. They are different relationships, fulfilling different needs, and gimp has never viewed them as being in competition with one another. Or some sort of zero sum game. I do have limited time but that is the only limit on my ability to maintain relationships. Owner agreed and actually told gimp from the beginning that gimp’s primary relationship takes precedence. They are two sides of the same coin. Gimp has deep romantic feelings for its partner; we are equals, he is my past, present, and future and I love him more than I love myself. With Owner, gimp’s feelings are wrapped up in devotion, service, and structure, with care and, yes, even love expressed through a very different lens and means. Both relationships are important to gimp. Both help make it happy and fulfilled.

Owner began dating someone last year. Gimp remembers someone asking if it was jealous, or assuming that it must have struggled with it. The truth is that it wasn’t. In fact, gimp doesn’t think it even had the language for what it was feeling at first. It wasn’t until later—thanks to Owner’s boyfriend—that gimp learned the word compersion: joy derived from seeing someone You love happy. Looking back, that is exactly what gimp experienced.

Nothing changed between Owner and gimp. He has always been exceptionally good at managing his time and relationships, and gimp has never felt neglected or pushed aside. (He is far more mature and adept at managing these things than gimp.) Instead, it found itself excited for him.

The moment that truly cemented it happened at MIR. There was a photograph taken of Owner and his boyfriend together in the bathroom. In the picture, both of them are wearing the biggest, most giddy smiles imaginable. Seeing that picture, and later watching them interact in person, and with Owner’s Partner, made gimp realize that this relationship was something genuinely special. It was good for him, and because gimp cares deeply for him, that made it happy too.

It’s the same happiness gimp feels when Owner is off traveling with his partner or otherwise spending time with the people he loves. Knowing that he is cared for and fulfilled by others genuinely makes gimp happy. It’s the same feeling gimp has when its partner is with his SIR or out having fun. Gimp wants everyone in its life to be happy and fulfilled, and if that happiness doesn’t require gimp at that moment, that’s fine. Gimp can’t be everything to everyone, and that is perfectly okay.

As a side note, gimp’s brain can’t quite comprehend how that works for monogamous couples. Being everything and fulfilling all needs of someone seems impossible and daunting, but if that’s Your thing and it works for You, more power to You.

There is something profoundly moving about watching people You care about care for one another. Seeing them together—getting along, laughing, and genuinely enjoying one another’s company—has made that sense of Compersion and a growing ‘family’ feel even more real. The structure of these relationships remains what it has always been. Gimp remains at the bottom of the hierarchy, and happily so. Always Owner’s property. Always his to keep under his boot and keep down. Yet despite the clear hierarchy, what has grown around us feels less like a hierarchy and more like a family table with more chairs being added whenever they are needed.

For years this thing kept two versions of itself running like bad parallel processes. One clean for public consumption, the other reserved for the people who actually know it. That split felt normal for a long time — until it didn’t. Somewhere in the last few months, without any big dramatic moment, it just realized the hiding wasn’t necessary anymore. The weight of it felt exactly like the old closet days: the edits, the omissions, the fake answers, the constant calculations. Exhausting. Pointless. And completely at odds with who it has worked so hard to become.

One of its favorite movie moments has always been John Candy’s monologue in Planes, Trains and Automobiles: “I like me.” That line hits harder now than ever. There’s something fierce in that simplicity, just truth. A declaration: I’m not twisting myself into knots so you can be comfortable.

This thing has a partner it adores and couldn’t imagine life without. It has friends and chosen family who show up without flinching. It has a life built on leather, rubber, boots, kink, ownership, and all the other threads that make its identity unmistakably whole. It isn’t ashamed of doing porn. It isn’t ashamed of going to kink events. And it sure as hell won’t pretend it lives some sanitized version of itself just to reassure people who never bothered to understand it in the first place.

If someone reacts poorly, that’s a them problem — full stop. Our queer elders and leather forefathers didn’t struggle, fight, riot, love, bleed, and die through the AIDS crisis so this generation could go crawling back into respectable little boxes. Hiding now would be disrespectful to everything they survived for us. Visibility isn’t vanity; it’s a responsibility. It’s how the community keeps moving forward instead of shrinking backward.

And with the rise of films like Pillion stepping into the mainstream — unapologetic about kink, chosen family, queer masculinity, and the complicated beauty of our bonds — there’s a moment here. A chance. Society is finally looking, even if awkwardly, and this gimp refuses to let that window pass while pretending to be something it’s not. No more lying by omission. No more filtering. No more splitting life into “real” and “acceptable.”

It gets one life. One self. And it’s done softening the edges for people who never deserved the effort.

This is it.
This is the whole thing.
Unfiltered. Unhidden.
GimpSkinFag — as is.

“The aim of life is self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly—that is what each of us is here for.”— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890)

Gimp had time for deep introspection over the weekend during a kink roleplay prison event. Like many entries before it, this post is an exercise in understanding what makes the gimp tick and how it can better serve its OWNER.

While at the event, it learned something important: the difference between submission and compliance. Gimp is profoundly driven by submission, while compliance does very little for it.

These terms may appear similar, but gimp has come to recognize a few key differences that make submission far more meaningful than compliance. Submission involves surrendering its will and choices to a Superior, primarily its OWNER, whom this gimp adores, worships, and is completely obsessed with. Its will becomes secondary to HIS.

As gimp has noted before, submission is deeply ingrained in it. Without submission, gimp becomes depressed and unsettled. Gimp thrives under SIR’s will, HIS rules, and HIS structure. It knows it is extremely fortunate to have an OWNER who understands it, its headspace, and ultimately its needs as HIS property.

Compliance, by contrast, is simply the act of following rules given by a faceless and impersonal system. The lines did blur at times during this event, because OWNER participated as a guard, and gimp was more than willing to comply with HIS orders. When HE closed the gimp’s cell door, gimp felt an inner peace because it understood that this was where SIR wanted HIS property. When someone else did the same action, gimp felt restless and uninterested. It had no desire to remain in that cell for anyone but HIM.

The same was true of restraints. Gimp knew several of the guards and considers many of them friends, so it was content to be cuffed or ordered to the ground by them. This also applies to men SIR instructs it to serve or submit to. In those moments, gimp is not submitting to the men themselves. It is submitting to SIR’s will, and that is what makes it acceptable and arousing in the gimp’s mind.

The rest of the rules, the arbitrary orders, and the system-level compliance were simply irritating and mostly unarousing. This is surprising when taken at face value, since gimp loves being de-individualized and treated as an object rather than a person. One might assume that lining up with identical inmates in matching uniforms and being reduced to a number would be intensely hot for gimp. Instead, it found it far less engaging than expected.

Gimp suspects this distinction is common among many who identify within the submissive, slave, and gimp spectrum of kink dynamics.

What gimp learned this weekend is simple:

Gimp wants to submit, not comply.

An interesting question was posed to slave at MIR this weekend by someone who didn’t understand OWNER/property or Master/slave dynamics. understandably so, since these fall at one of the farthest ends of the Dom/sub spectrum. the question was simple:
“I don’t get it. what do you get out of it?”

The simple answer is that this property gets far more out of SIR’s ownership than HE ever gets from it. It may seem like the burden rests entirely on this gimp, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
it needs control.
it needs structure.
it needs discipline.

SIR ensures that every kink, every sexual act, and every facet of its kink and sexual life exists in service to its OWNER.

Wearing a plug or playing with its hole?
That is training, shaping a better hole for OWNER to use or to loan out.

Wearing gear daily?
That keeps property in its place, constantly reminded of what it is, and keeps it horny, ensuring it stays focused and devoted.

Scheduled check-ins, bedtimes, and parental controls on its devices?
Those keep slave’s mind and body healthy, giving it structure so it can serve at its fullest.

Being kept locked and denied in chastity?
That ensures property stays desperate and doesn’t spiral into a numb, self-destructive cycle of release and regret.

All of these rules and rituals keep slave healthy, focused, and cared for. They are ultimately for its own good, but because they exist for SIR, because they serve HIS purpose, property is far more willing to obey HIM than it ever would be to do these things for itself.

SIR fulfills these needs, and this slave is endlessly grateful.

This gimp doesn’t want to submit. it needs to. Without that outlet, an entire side of its existence has nowhere to go. Ignoring that need would be like ignoring the need to go to the toilet. One can hold it for a while, but eventually, it becomes painful. And if it keeps denying that release, it will come out messy, uncontrolled, and in all the wrong places.

It is an unequal relationship, yes, just not in the way most expect:
This slave will never be able to give SIR more than HE gives it.

Thank You for owning it SIR.

The first time I was single tail whipped was a life-changing experience for me. I was young; probably too young to be looking for play like this. I had found this Navy guy on Grindr who wasn’t too far away. He was pretty hot, said he was from Iowa / southern Illinois, had this cowboy/farmboy aesthetic to him. He wore wranglers, boots, tight shirts. He was a volunteer firefighter/ paramedic too! He was kind of pudgy, but in a has lots of muscle but loves his carbs kinda way. Kind of hit the fetish jackpot, at least for me. I talked to him for 3 or 4 weeks before I finally consented to play. We had worked out limits and what I needed in a scene and what he wanted to do to me. I had agreed (stupidly) to allow him to judge when I had enough. I drove down to his place, about 40 min from me, and followed his instructions to enter the side door and restrain myself in the garage with what he had laid out. I went into the garage and it was super organized: perfectly clean floor, tools hanging on the walls, two immaculate motorcycles one parked on each side, and some chain and hooks hanging down from the center. In a square taped out on the floor in bright yellow were wrist and ankle restraints, padlocks, and a gag. I stripped off my clothes and placed them in a box with my phone and wallet and placed a lock on the box. I put the restraints on and put the tiny padlocks through the lock holes securing them on. I then used larger padlocks to secure my wrists on the chain while I was on my tiptoes as he instructed in our last text. I waited there stretched out for maybe 10 minutes. It was just long enough for me to start regretting being stretch out and sore. He entered through a doorway and was only wearing jeans and his cowboy boots. I was so relieved I hadn’t been catfished.

Since we had talked for a few weeks, he knew all the buttons to push on me. He went behind me and blindfolded me and places a sawhorse under me and clipped my ankles to it so I was balancing painfully on my taint. He got close to my ear and started doing a ton of mind fucky verbal. “I’m glad you showed up faggot, I love that I can do things to you I can to my wife” “God you fags are annoying and pathetic” “Make no mistake I hate you and I’m just using you to get off, if I did what I’m about to do to you to a real person I’d be in jail” He kept the verbal up and in-between getting in my head he was warming up my back with a flogger. This continued until I was squirming and asking for a break. Eventually, he removed the sawhorse and put my weight back on my sore and slightly numb arms. I thought we were close to done so I was begging him through the gag to just fuck me so I could leave. He disappeared into the house for a few minutes and I heard him behind me I felt him slightly lube my hole and I breathed a sigh of relief. Then suddenly I feel a large hard object pressing into my hole. Its not his dick its far to hard and big.  It’s way too big, it’s stretching me too far, I feel a stinging, I know I’m bleeding. I scream. I beg. He leans in and tells me, “I don’t stick my dick in fags, dick is for women. Not faggot trash like you. Go ahead and scream the neighbors are gone and the wife is deployed. No one can hear you.”

He removes the blindfold and I’m staring at him holding a whip. I had never been whipped before. I knew this would be rough. We had talked about it and discussed me trying a few strokes with it to see if I liked it. But I knew at this point nothing was going to be easy and he was keeping our agreement that he decided when I was done. He went behind me and I heard him shuffling about in his boots. Then I heard it. I heard a crack. I figured he missed my back. Then I felt it, like lightning shooting across my back. An instant line of stinging, electrifying, scorching heat. I let out a scream and curled into a ball suspended by my arms. He shouted at me that if I didn’t hold still he’d restrain me further and I’d regret it. I uncurled from my acrobatic fetal position. And only seconds after I felt the pain again. I curled up again in a natural response. He was not happy. He drug some weights out of the corner and roped my feet to them and spread them apart so my legs were painfully split apart. He then returned to the whip. Lash after lash I could only slightly move my torso; arms completely numb now and unresponsive. I lost count of how many times he hit me. I was just crying and my throat was sore from screaming through the gag. At some point, I just gave up. I had no fight left. I stopped screaming, I stopped squirming. He kept going for a few strokes, came over, and checked to see I was still conscious. Shined a light in my eyes. And I honestly don’t remember much past that. I remember vaguely him removing the gag and asking if I needed more and I guess I said something like, “whatever, I don’t care Sir.“ He chuckled and had the most smug douchebag look on his face and said, “perfect” and went back behind me and continued his assault on my backside. But honestly, my memory of the whole thing after that is fuzzy until I remember being laid down on the could concrete floor. It was so cool and felt amazing on my back.

After he let me down to the floor he put his boots under my face and shoved the toe of one in my mouth while he laughed and kept doing some heavy verbal about how stupid I was to do this and a lot of very nonpolitically correct verbal that surpasses my ability to type them out, mainly out of shame that I was so wildly turned on by his abuse. He left me on the floor and went back into the house. I don’t know for how long. He opened the door and threw a bottle of water at me from the door, he told me to hydrate. He kicked me over on to my stomach and sprayed some alcohol on my back and ass, my world lit on fire again but I dare not move out of fear he’d start back up to punish me. He said he’d be back in a few minutes and disappeared into the house. I laid on the floor and sipped from the bottle. I looked over at my reflection in the chrome of one of his bikes. I was a complete wreck. Tears and snot on my face, hair completely disheveled.  He came back out, he told me to look up at him. He said, “I guess you earned this” and pulled a used condom out of his closed hand and then drained it out all over my face. He pulled his phone out and took a picture of my cum covered face with the condom thrown across my forehead.  Told me not to move. Then he went over to the box and pulled out my wallet. He held up my ID next to my face and took another picture. He told me if I ever told anyone about him he’d print the pic out and send it to my family or post it online. He then threw a towel down on me and told me to clean up and get out. He went back in the house. I still was unable to move and I was very very pain drunk (I’m not sure what other masochists call it but its that state were your brain is swimming in so many chemicals and hormones its impossible to form thoughts or move in intentional ways.)  Slowly recovering on his garage floor was my first time feeling that wonderful glow that comes after a super heavy pain session, where the whole world just moves slow and you cant really feel anything at all. 

He ended up calling my friend to come and get me to drive me home. We went back later that night and retrieved my car. I was very regretful of that meeting for about 2 days. I was pissed. I was afraid of him. But I kept coming back to the thought of how good it felt and that he never broke any limit I had stated, I told him it was okay to push me beyond when I wanted and he was a trained paramedic and fireman. So it was about as safe as I could be for being a completely dumb thing to do. I knew that nothing that happened was completely dangerous, risky yes, but not dangerous. After I got over that second day of tossing and turning over whether what happened was okay, I decided that while it was painful, scary, and disturbing, I had jerked off to it dozens of times in a few days. He had texted me repeatedly in those days to check on me and I ignored him. I finally replied and thanked him. He never used me again sadly, he moved shortly after this experience. And to be honest I wasn’t aware he was married until we were playing and him fooling around on the side without her knowing felt wrong. 

He lives somewhere in Maryland now. Occasionally, I’ll pull up his profile and want to message him but I don’t. Partly out of fear, partly because he’s married, partly out of not wanting to alter my experience of what happened that day or tarnish it with a lesser experience. That experience changed me. I can pinpoint when I crossed a line and became addicted to pain and the feelings after some heavy use — it was that day. It was that day also I developed a need for the heavy verbal and mindfuckery that he did. I have been chasing scenes and trying to replicate that helpless feeling I had crumpled on the floor with his boot painfully shoved my mouth and him finding amusement at my weakness and pain. It changed my entire sexual life. Granted I wanted all these things, but without being ‘forced’ to experience them, I doubt I ever would have had the balls to intentionally seek it out.

Oscar Wilde once said, “Everything in the world is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power.”

I’ll preface this by stating that these are my personal thoughts on a kink subject and not indicative of anyone else’s experience but mine. There are discussions in here about manhood, masculinity, and traditional roles that some may not like or agree with. These are all personal reflections, so it’s important to communicate with your sex partners and understand what satisfies them. Good play starts with good communication—dominants have needs, submissives have needs.

When it comes to actual penetrative sex, I could honestly take it or leave it. Yes, anal is enjoyable, but so is a nice handjob, an afternoon on a milker, or even just being tied up and ignored while others have their fun.

For me, penetration is about power. I don’t derive specific pleasure from being penetrated. To clarify, I don’t think I enjoy it for the same reasons others might. Being penetrated is an inherently submissive act for me. Allowing another man to use my body for his pleasure, in a way that is degrading, humiliating, sometimes painful or uncomfortable, is what being penetrated is about for me. It involves sacrificing my comfort, dignity, and a small piece of my manhood for the pleasure of the dominant.

Let me paint a scene of my ideal experience. I’m restrained, exposing my vulnerable ass. Perhaps hooded or, even better, positioned in front of a mirror so I can watch what is happening. The dominant approaches from behind, leaning over to explain how he’s going to use me and fuck me hard and rough with nothing I can do to stop it. The more verbal and graphic, the better. When the actual penetration begins, the first thrust is done without a warm-up, with just enough lube to avoid damaging me while providing some comfort for the top. Being penetrated is not about my comfort or pleasure; it’s about serving the top and surrendering to him. Allowing him to use me selfishly in a way that no Alpha/Dom/Sir/Master or man in an equal relationship would permit. This act is inherently unequal—I don’t matter. The only thing that matters is the top using my body to pleasure himself (This is also a huge motivation in my masochism and being fucked like this is likely an extension of it.) The experience would be rough, involving slapping and more verbal abuse, reminding me that I’m taking it because I’m considered inferior; my pleasure doesn’t matter. The goal for the top should be to force me into subspace; mentally and physically making it clear I’m there for him and should be focused on him not my feelings or pain, making me a vessel for his pleasure.

Of course, I keep saying it’s not about me, and then I describe exactly what I want and expect. What can I say? I want it to be not about me in the exact ways I want it to not be about me. Yes, I acknowledge the hypocrisy. It’s my fantasy situation, so if you don’t like it, feel free to search for something else on Google to cleanse your mind from the evil thoughts of gimps having preferences and desires. Maybe I’ll delve into the idea of a gimp being treated as subhuman and inferior without becoming subhuman and inferior or ending up mentally damaged in a future post. After all, Gimps are people too!

Just a side note that didn’t really work into to the larger text:

It’s also somewhat taboo to be the one being penetrated as a man. In some cultures, homosexuality is accepted as long as you’re the dominant partner, while bottoms are seen as weak and immoral. Many of my kinks are rooted in their taboo nature. The fact that society deems something as wrong, gross, or inappropriate only intensifies my desire to engage in it. It’s my way of rebelling against the status quo.

Okay, gimp is putting its metaphorical gag back in. Until next time; stay kinky friends…

I’ve had this one in the queue for awhile and I finally had time to edit it today. I’m going to try and make more frequent updates here but the short form nature of Twitter is just so much less work.

Hello everyone, it’s been a while since I’ve had the time to write anything long-form, however, something recently has really begun to tick me off to the point I’ve snapped at people. Most of them deserved the tongue lashing they got. Here’s the thing that’s been causing me ire recently: keep your hands off the collar on my neck. There are 3 people on the entire planet not including me who are permitted to touch it: my two Sirs and my slave brother. That’s it. There are 8 billion people on this planet; the odds that you are one of these 3 people is pretty low.

Several times in the past month I have had my collar touched, grabbed, examined and even once used to choke me from behind as I walked through a crowd. (I will note that the vast majority of people are not the issue but a handful of uninformed or rude people are and necessitate this post/rant) The touching was inappropriate enough, but the perpetrators were for the most part people who should have known better.

One of these people, at MAL, was a person I recognized as someone I’ve seen online billing himself as an ‘old guard’ Master. He definitely should have known better. Not only is there a consent violation in touching me or something attached to me, but there is a violation of our community norms. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t always follow protocol and I’m often too smart for my own good with my superiors but there are a few things I think are pretty much set in stone in our community and one is: if it’s not your collar don’t touch it. Hands off. Look but don’t touch.

There are a few exceptions, like for play when I was being strapped into a sleep sack the Dom told me, “I have to slide your collar over to finish zipping.”, this is completely acceptable we had exchanged consent, he explained the reasoning, and it was necessary to facilitate play, he wasn’t grabbing it to exert control or dominance over me. That’s a huge difference from grabbing my collar to get my attention at a bar or in a crowded hotel lobby.

It all boils down to things your parents probably told you: look but don’t touch and if it’s not yours don’t touch.

My collar represents a commitment I made to my Sirs. It represents a relationship that we have all worked hard on. It represents the protection they offer me and the service and respect I offer them. It’s not some fashion accessory or toy. It’s a physical symbol of the relationship we have. You’re not a part of it so keep your hands off.

As kinksters, we have to deal with prejudices and lack of understanding. It is not easy being kinky. Being gay is hard enough, coming out as gay is hard enough. But gay kinksters have to do everything twice, we have to realize our sexuality twice and come out twice. As a kinkster with social anxiety, it’s even harder. Not only do I have people in the real world telling me I’m not good enough or I’m a degenerate but I have to deal with my own head allowing these horrible people to get the better of me and working myself up to the point I don’t participate in social events or even really hook up or play. I decided to write about this topic because I think it’s important to discuss real issues and maybe connect with other people who have the same issues.

When I go out to events the most common fears/ anxieties that occur to me are: not being good enough, being singled out, having people think I don’t belong, and just being alone.

There are people out there who assure me these fears occur all the time to a lot of people and they work through them and push forward. However, I never was able to just will myself to participate and get over that hump and do something social. I had to work and work just to be able to go to a bar for my first time. This year at MAL I accomplished something I once thought I’d never do, I went alone to a social event. My friend I went to MAL with was ‘busy’ (I’ll let your imagination go wild with that euphemism) and couldn’t go with me to the rubber social. The rubber social was supposed to be one of the highlights of the weekend for gimpy me, and it was but I was forced to go alone. It may not sound like a huge deal, but for me it was. I had to use every coping tool I had available just to get in the door. For me, that’s the hardest part. Just entering a space with a group of people I’m not familiar with is often an insurmountable hurdle.

Once I managed to calm down enough, I left my hotel room in my gimp gear and made my way downstairs. The entire way down I was making my plan of attack and working through my opening lines and conversation starters. Upon entering the reception room I immediately found a quiet corner to work from. This is one of the coping methods I frequently use; I set up ‘home base’ in a quiet spot and work myself into the crowd from there and return if I need a moment.

After the majority of people arrived and party began, I tried to find some of my online acquaintances. I managed to find a semi-local guy who I had been chatting with on recon for months and had yet to meet. We spotted each other and began a conversation that lasted for quite some time and allowed me to become comfortable with the room and people. Doing this is honestly this is the best pieces of advice I have ever received from a fellow social anxiety sufferer. Find someone you know even if it’s just a tiny, tiny bit and use your time chatting with them to get comfortable. The other thing I try to do is if I see that person again chatting with someone else I just casually check back in with them and see who they’re talking to. I’ve honestly met more people that way than I can count. And as a rule, regardless of what the anxiety monster in my head tells me, the people I’ve met in the kink world are pretty cool and are generally supportive.

While it wasn’t possible at the rubber event because I wanted to be identified by friends and acquaintances, I’d also add being hooded provides me with immense confidence (something I think many pups have figured out.) It may be just a flimsy piece of .25mm rubber but it might as well be kevlar. Once I have my hood on and I’m just the slightest bit familiar with a space I’m the most social person in the room. I was in full gimp gear dancing with hotel security and staff and roaming the halls talking to people I’d never met and probably will never meet again. Sadly being hooded really isn’t a solution to anxiety. And to be honest, neither are the other things I’ve mentioned. I think I’ve come to realize there is no solution to anxiety, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be tamed or defeated.

I’m sure I’ll touch on this topic again, thanks for bearing with gimp while it figures out how to be a better and more active kinkster.

And for those of you out there like me, speak up. It sucks being alone, especially when we don’t have to be.