A common misconception about the kink community is that people engage in the culture of BDSM solely because they are traumatised or damaged. This is definitely not the case – but there are nuances.

For people like me, the play is both a lot of fun and a healing path out of trauma.

All images by: Sasha St.

I am a middle-aged disabled person who experiences an array of painful physical symptoms. For as long as I can remember I’ve had an interest in kink, which I never had the confidence to bring up. I would nudge my lovers in that direction, but never directly, never clearly.

Sometimes it worked out, sometimes it didn’t, and I grew more frustrated the older I got. I felt shame for wanting what I wanted, and feared rejection or ridicule if I uttered any words around the topic out loud.

The first therapist I mentioned my yearnings to told me in no uncertain terms that I could either pursue kink or be a “normal person who could continue having normal relationships”.

I clammed up for another year.

I could not escape from constant reminders of my yearning.

I’d wander into a shopping centre only to hear ‘Total Control’ by The Motels, and think, You have got to be kidding me. Online forms implored me to “submit”; pizzas had toppings; documents I read for work mentioned a “chain of command”.

Don’t even get me started on my internet browser’s search history; there are all sorts of corners online to find out what you need to know and I’d had a look at most of them.

I was generally overwhelmed and had no idea where or how to start. It all seemed so frightening and unsafe.

I did what I do best in difficult times and carried out some research.

I went to see a sex therapist. I spoke to a sexologist, who directed me to an occupational therapist who specialises in sexuality, kink and disability.

Each of them reassured me that I was quite normal, actually, and it was no biggie. Once I’d learned what I could from the occupational therapist about the mechanics of it all and how I could explore safely with my body and its special features, they referred me to a new counsellor with expertise in my interests.

This counsellor and I have a shared understanding of the lived experience of fatigue, pain and complex gender identity. We could talk easily about ego, abuse, capitalism – all of the things that can be barriers to trust when you’re face to face with someone in a vulnerable situation.

After some deeper work, I cheerfully announced to them that I was ready to see a professional to scratch this itch.

I booked in with a phenomenal woman who had been recommended to me. She worked out of a private dungeon and was comfortable helping me explore within the physical limitations I have.

After more than a month, and over 46 emails, the day arrived. I walked in trembling and green in the face, and left triumphant and affirmed a few hours later.

Yes, it’s definitely something I’m into. I knew it in every fibre of my being.

The relief was incredible – I had finally taken the leap and the physical and emotional rewards were beyond what I imagined. That night, I slept the sleep of the satiated.

To understand what happened next, you’ll need a bit more background that I avoid thinking about, let alone writing down.

I have unfortunately experienced abuse at the hands of boys and men, and for my whole life I have felt intense fear and hypervigilance, which whirred away around the clock to keep me safe (this didn’t work, it just made me sick).

I had read about Sir James, a cis male sex worker who advertised himself as a “professional man-handler”. In order to do my due diligence, I needed to hear the tone of his voice. Luckily for me, he had been interviewed on a podcast by someone who had seen him in a professional context.

In those 40 minutes I learned everything I needed to know to have the confidence to go ahead. He cared about his clients – that much was plain – and there was no element of menace or disrespect, only curiosity and an intrinsic need to see and understand the core of people and act accordingly. What came across was gentleness and an open mind.

Why was I seeking a professional man-handler? Why a man at all?

I had reached a point where I was so weary of all my fear. When I pondered the fear and its place in my life, I realised that it was toxic, and that it was interrupting my life every single day. I needed to look this history of violence and fear in the eye and jump in, because it couldn’t possibly be worse than what was already happening in my brain.

What I have learned about kink, and my interest in experiencing the submissive side, is that I am the person in charge of what is happening, no matter what.

It began as a curiosity – to explore gender and masculinity at close range, and frankly to have some really hot sex – and became an experience that altered the pathways in my brain, melting the trauma markers and building strong foundations of security and safety.

The pre-session negotiation was detailed – it really made me think about what I wanted, what I needed and what was safe for me.

There were particular things that were important for me to include because in some ways they were the very things that had caused the most damage. If these happened because I was making that choice, paying my hard-earned money, and taking the time, physical energy and headspace to request these acts specifically, everything could potentially change.

On the other hand, aspects like a raised voice with even a hint of aggression were off limits, and I was very clear in saying so.

It boiled down to valuing my agency and my choices. The act of subverting the narrative of male dominance and strength short-circuited the fear carried in my body. In this interaction, where I was essentially the director, I could use that subversion to my advantage.

Waiting in the room just inside the door of the venue, I was happy and nervous, but not worried. I had been in this situation before and hoped the experience would be similarly transformative. In the few minutes that felt like hours, I scanned the walls, taking in the images of people who worked there, and cast my eyes over the rules.

The space had an air of happy anticipation, which I felt in my bones.

The door opened. A person I can only describe as a bear-like man mountain came into the waiting room and loomed over me, eyes sparkling. We said hello and he asked how I was.

“Nervous, and good,” I replied. He looked me deep in the eyes and said nervous is very good.

Gulp. I felt myself shrink into the bench seat as I registered his predatory stance. Why do I like this?

We went over the particulars of the email I’d sent him – the most depraved and filthy email I’ve ever sent to another human being, in which I listed what I was after – and he asked for medical information about any areas he had to be careful with due to my disability, so he could do his job well and make sure everyone was a winner.

“Just my whole body,” I quipped.

“Cool – so pretty simple to navigate.” His reply came with a smile.

I was warmed to my core by the ease between us established so swiftly. He led me down the hallway to the dungeon I’d spied on the website, after checking there wasn’t anyone else in the space.

“That’s a lot of mirrors,” I said, regarding the full wall of reflection. He dimmed the lights and said I would barely notice them after two minutes. I put my jacket and keys in the box he gestured to, which was on the floor.

I don’t know exactly what happened next because it’s all a blur, but I was pinned to the back of the door, my hair was laced through his fingers and he was looking intently at my face as he used his other hand to unbutton and remove my outer layers piece by piece.

He smelled so good – all pheromones and friendliness. Then my legs stopped working and he got the giggles. What? How was this giant wrestler who was all muscle, powerlifting and strength giggling?

It turned out I would join him in mirth-filled explosions or yelling the house down for most of the three hours we spent together.

Early in the piece, his hands glided over my ribs and everything in me felt jagged and unsafe. He stopped, removed his hands and asked me what was happening. I was a bit lost for words and told him it felt bad and I didn’t like it.

The negotiation took 30 seconds but after we spoke, he demonstrated that he had heard me.

He observed that I was uncomfortable and checked in, and what he moved on to – the way his hands were in contact with my torso – was completely different and felt safe.

I let go, completely. He had won my trust. In a world where many people feel that they have the power to decide how to treat other people’s bodies, this act and the dance we were in together was monumental.

We talked about work, and friends, and he brought the suede switch down artfully on my shoulder blades. It was incredibly loud, and felt like sparkling fireworks instead of pain, and we laughed and swapped pandemic stories.

He asked me questions that required deep thinking to answer, and then rendered me incapable of thought or speech. He messed with my head – and I loved it. It was playful and there wasn’t a drop of cruelty. It was fun.

There was something about the raw vulnerability of the situation that made the intention of this work stick.

I was actively trying to change my viewpoint of the world and where I placed myself in it – I’d had so much talk therapy around this, and I was ready at last to absorb the messaging every meditation, hypnosis and therapeutic discussion revolves around: I am safe.

At times, we paused our activities and I went to a place beyond seeing, to a state of trust and acceptance. Sir James wrapped me up in a big bear hug. I felt like a roaring engine coming to a pause, the revs clicking down down down as my breathing slowed and deepened.

He stroked my back and we both exhaled and there was a humming in my brain where the bridge was forming between a terrible past and a hopeful future. Stillness had never been comfortable, but I could have perched here forever.

I was breath and stars and there was nothing to protect myself from, not anymore.

Then we revved up again and I laughed at what I found myself enjoying; if these options had been on a menu I can’t imagine I would have requested them. Being cornered became both erotic and humorous because it was possible to stop it – with one word, glance or gesture.

It was a game that I knew I would always win. It wasn’t going to be dangerous, ever, because this person was a professional who was keeping an extremely close eye on me. Sir James was trained to read body language and mood, and, more importantly, to stop and ask for consent if, at any point, clarity left the building.

Once, as I looked up at him chuckling down at me, I asked in a smaller voice than I realised would come out of my mouth, “Are you laughing at me?”

His response was like a loving waterfall.

“Oh no, I’m laughing because you’re so fun to play with – all of your buttons are so excellent to push and I’m happy to see you happy and free.”

I jumped into the arms of the most masculine manly man I could find and let him do what he – or rather I – wanted, and the experience was not only transformative, but extremely jovial and generously held.

I keenly observed how he expressed his maleness, and felt like I’d had the healthiest lesson of my life on how to inhabit machismo – with warmth, strength, kindness and, most importantly, openness and a view of keeping the space safe.

As our time together came to an end, he told me a lot of people sought him out for a safe masculine experience to right wrongs and heal damage.

I was high as a kite on endorphins and truly believed there ought to be some sort of shrine and a really tender and tasteful documentary made about him, as well as government-funded emotional and physical pain management sessions with him. What a world this could be!

Something happened to me in the following days. Often after a submissive experience in BDSM, there can be what’s known as a drop, where you can feel quite down, teary, exhausted or all of the above, but for me it was the opposite.

I’d left that building with a parting blow of a mighty slap on my arse, and gotten in my car where I consumed an entire bag of jellybeans by the fistful – glucose was required immediately to function. I looked at my reflection in the rear-view mirror and saw a flushed, glowing face that seemed relaxed in a way I had never seen before.

I started the car once my brain was working enough to drive it, and parked in a dark street 10 minutes away.

I realised, as I walked through the lanes and streets, that I was walking differently. Noticing people walking behind me didn’t result in brittle movements. There was no sense of extra tension held in my frame, just in case. I felt immense, powerful and safe until proven otherwise.

I was aware but nowhere near afraid.

When I met with my counsellor a few days later I let them know what I’d been up to. They seamlessly recognised the greater possibility in a therapeutic sense.

We built on the high I was riding and, as had happened so many times, I let them guide me into a state where I embodied my anger and spoke from its perspective.

Anger had never been a safe place to think, speak or be. It only caused more problems. But, this time, in my anger, I spoke directly to the men who had damaged me and destroyed my sense of safety, and I told them that I had no intention of forgiving them or associating with them. Were they to approach me, I would hold a firm boundary that would be impenetrable because I was sure of myself and there was no question of my part in things.

I knew, at last, that none of it had been my fault. Regardless of their own trauma and the need to pass it forward by way of exorcising their own pain, they should have done better.

I knew that I would do a better job of being a man than they ever would. My voice and my rage were calm, clear and steady.

The physical implications have been nothing short of phenomenal.

Where usually I’m in widespread pain and constant exhaustion, the act of dropping my hypervigilance has increased my energy levels to a point where basic functioning is much easier, and I’m able to participate more in life instead of needing constant rest.

When I rest, it is more restorative because I truly let go when I sleep. There’s no faceless figure to guard myself against 24/7. My pain levels reduced for a full week after my booking, and I’m looking forward to going again to enjoy the highs and physical benefits.

Pain for a purpose is a different animal from the pain that inhabits my body as part of my disability. It is soothing, refreshing and energising.

Everything is changed, I am changed. I have never felt so clear and still, and I know that so much is possible now I’ve left my fears, and my abusers, behind.

This article first appeared in Archer Magazine #16, the DISABILITIES issue.

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Murray Turner-Jones is an IT consultant and trans man living and working on Bunurong land.