Trans March and Queer Playground

Yesterday was the 5th annual Trans March in San Francisco. The rally began at 3 pm in Dolores Park. I got there at around 5:15, after picking up a friend who lived just blocks away. Not as large as the Dyke March (but definitely growing in numbers) the trans march is a beautiful queer event where you walk around, checking out people in all their costumed finery and go "Hmm. Boy? Girl? Pretty!" But the park was cold and I was in my rather skimpy flapper dress and heels, so after wandering a bit, running into folks I knew, and taking a few photos, I went to get a taco. I was carrying a horse whip. The long handle was rigid and would not fit in my bag. As I croosed the street, a short, stout, middle-aged police officer looked at me. His eyes then flitted to my whip and filled with something similar to desire, then flitted back to me, to my eyes. I had caught him looking. Police officers often have submissive fantasies, I have heard. The fleeting sitution made me feel powerful, but it also creeped me out a little bit. I don't like to think of cops as human beings with feelings and libidos.
After my taco, I hopped the 14 bus to the Citadel, a local dungeon. The Citadel was having a party called "Queer Playground" and I was volunteering at the door for an hour so I could get into the party for free. A funny position to be in, me, a predominantly 'sleeps with boys' girl at queer playground, flirting with butches and hoping the subject of sex didn't come up.
Working the door proved to be an experience in itself, especially when a 'medical team' of to butches and a femme showed up.
The conversation went like this:
"Nurse, I haven't been feeling well."
"Is it vaginal dryness?"
(Like in improv, the 'yes and' rule applies here as well.)
"Oh, yes. It's simply horrible, this vaginal dryness.
"Well, you should make an appointment to see Dr. Friedman. That's her specialty."

I stamp the hand of an old college professor of mine, noting the two floggers and single tail attached to his belt. He recognizes me and we hug. I smile inwardly. I always thought he's be comfortable in a place like this. Sometimes it's nice when you get your intuitions affirmed.

Inside, my volunteer shift done, I wander through the upstairs, with it's couches and Hors D' oeuvres, St. Andrew's crosses and live band, to the staircase. Downstairs, the dungeon is not yet crowded. The entire place is so clean you could eat off the carpeted floor. The lighting is attractive, and people are friendly. A older man in a leather priest's robe sets up a fucking machine on a suspended wooden platform. A pair of young women, shirtless, sit in a small cage and pierce each other's skin. The 'Fwap! Fwap! Fwap!' of a heavy flogger is heard. Screams, moans and gasps are heard in surround sound. Walking past a leather sling, I observe that the women reclining in it has lost a whole hand inside herself.

And then I find Dr. Friedman. The nurse says, "You're late. Sit here."
I obey. She takes down my history and complaint (the pre-established vaginal dryness) while I sit on a long, leather table and Dr. Friedman touches first my arms, then my back with her hands and lips.
"We have an experimental treatment we'd like to try with you, but as you were late, we'll have to punish you a bit first."
"Oh, no." I feign distress, but we all know that I consent.
My dress is pulled down and my bra removed. I am slapped, bitten and sucked upon. Every once in a while, the nurse will ask me, "And how's the vaginal dryness? Is it getting better?"
"Oh, yes. The therapy. I think it's working!"
I am asked to lay down first in my stomach, and then on my back, where ice is dripped on my and I am tortured some more.
The scene is very hot and sexy. And safe! Though I don't know these people, I know that nothing bad will happen to me. There are at least 20 other folks in the dungeon, and if something goes awry, if anyone hears the word "safeword" used, there will be help and support. (In public play spaces, 'safeword' is a cal for help from outside your scene.' I don't feel awkward, strange or bad about playing with these people. Not like a one night stand.(Why is it called a one night stand when usually you are lying down?) And we have not done anything that is a health risk. I feel good about the interaction and hope I run into these people again. (Though I wonder how they would feel if I told them I liked boys.)
I play with a few more folks, do a tickling scene with an old friend, flog and get flogged by a few of hir friends. (I'm not sure which pronoun my friend prefers at the current moment. Hir is a combination of him and her.)
At the end of the night, my landlord (who is also at the party) gives me a ride home. At 2 am, I am too exhausted to write this, so I shelf it until morning. I am left with these thoughts swimming in my head.

There are so many negative stereotypes about people like us: queers, perverts, leatherfolk, doms. There is the idea that we are all working through abuse issues, that we secretly have a death wish, that we don't love ourselves. In actuality, bdsm folk use some of the most advanced interpersonal communication skills around and generally have a fairly high self-esteem. We are accustomed to negotiating and understand the importance of respect for our own limits and boundaries. We know how to take 'no' for an answer and generally don't need alcohol to help us ask for what we want. If you don't know any perverts, if this blog post is your first introduction to the bdsm world, I suggest meeting some. Or at least read SM 101 by Jay Wiseman.