And being the kinky fucks we are, we got all roped up talking about bondage and totally forgot to talk about sex. Instead, in haughty tones we patted each other on the back about what excellent negotiators Kinksters are, and about how those Vanilla folks could learn a thing or two. Instead, I examined your toybox, and fussed over feeding you, and looked at bondage porn.

Instead paying attention to the details of our consent, we reminded each other what we already knew. That risk aware consent means being able to take away activities from a scene once it begins, but never being able to add them. Because, as we each preached to the other’s respective choirs, once the scene begins, you’re drunk. There’s a chemical cascade of adrenaline, dopamine, and endorphins rushing through the grey matter behind your eyes and making it so that you can’t see clearly.

And in that fog your cock found its way between my lips.

When I told you I might not have consented to oral sex had we discussed it prior to the beginning of the scene you said, “But you didn’t push me away….”

We both know how little that means. We both know that the absence of no is not consent.

It was like watching a vehicle crash into a solid brick wall. I watched your face contort as you tried to reconcile the conversation we just had about consent to what had just occurred in couple of hours that followed. Your nose and mouth crunched up into a look of contempt. How dare I question you. You. Whom others call a leader in the community. You. Who has a spotless reputation as someone to be trusted.