personal experience

(Cross-posted at Maybe Maimed but Never Harmed)

I have marched in two Pride Parades. Both times, I marched with the group of people who are skilled enough with that most iconic symbol of sadomasochistic sex to make some serious noise: the single tail whip. I remember the experiences vividly. Pride day is a good day.

I raise my arm, swing the whip, and out comes a force so sure and strong that it breaks the sound barrier. It’s hard to forget walking in the middle of New York City’s Fifth Avenue, surrounded with 25 to 50 feet of empty street on all sides, cracking whips above my head so loudly that the sonic booms bounce off the skyscrapers and echo back at me. It’s one of the most self-empowering memories I have: “I am not afraid to be seen here,” I thought to myself.

In both parades, I was one of the few bottoms who marched, wielding a whip. In both parades, I walked shirtless, showing marks acquired in scenes the night before. I turned heads.