“When you want to be into BDSM but it’s too soon because you’re black” is an interesting and thoughtful article from the perspective of a kinky young black woman who is exploring the boundary between kinky sex (which works for her) and race play (which emphatically does not). I would never have imagined that the ghost of Harriet Tubman could be such a sexual problem, but it makes perfect sense the way she explains it:
“Your safe word is eggplant,” he told me, pulling my hair as he kissed me. “Say ‘eggplant’ if anything gives you too much pain.” It was clear it was about to go down, full-on 50 Shades of Grey style, minus all the money, so it was more like 50 Shades of Broke but hey, I’ll take it!
He was incredibly communicative, consistently checking in about consent. “This guy’s read a book or three!” I thought, high-fiving myself in my head. I was writing my triumphant journal entry as it happened. I pictured Kim Cattrall’s nodding smile of approval: “You’re the new Samantha Jones now, Luna,” she proclaimed.
Then, everything came to a screeching halt with one simple phrase:
“Call me master.”
Eggplant. That hurt. Immediately, all I could think about was my ancestors rolling over in their graves, breaking out like zombies in the Michael Jackson Thriller video. All my worst fears had come alive. I thought of Harriet Tubman admonishing me: “19 times! 19 times I came back, to save our people from slavery. All for you to be here willy-nilly, calling some white dude ‘master’?”
Life tip: No dick is so good that it’s worth being haunted by Harriet Tubman.
Ted was very receptive to my objections and apologized for his major blindspot. The history of slavery was something he was not reminded of every day so he was able to separate “master” in the context of BDSM play, whereas I… was not. I had failed again, even with a seemingly perfect partner.
