Of loneliness and self-acceptance

The 2024 edition of the Con brought together researchers, therapists, PR professionals, and engineers, many of whom seemed to already know each other from apps, local munches, or past partnerships. While many kinksters joined the Con to explore budding curiosities, some came to the Con in the hopes of finding understanding and acceptance. 

At an open discussion on ‘disgust fetishes’, Abhinav*, a 28-year-old gay man from Bengaluru shared that he was into scat. A disgust fetish is a type of sexual fetish where a person is aroused by things typically considered repulsive, dirty, or taboo. Scat, a consensual fetish involving faeces, is often considered taboo even within the kink community. His admission elicited mixed reactions—discomfort from many but empathetic glances from a few. Even though he found nobody who shared the fetish, Abhinav noted that he didn’t feel “othered” at the Kink Con, a rare experience for him after years of facing stigma.

Abhinav’s path to self-acceptance wasn’t easy. In his first relationship, he did not feel safe disclosing his kinks to his partner. When he did disclose his fetish to his second partner, he felt judged. After these disappointments, he looked for a community where he could feel seen. After months of searching, he found some resonance in kink events in Bengaluru, and when he found out about Kink Con in 2024, he eagerly attended.

Abhinav’s journey to finding belonging is not unique. Tara*, a 39-year-old domme (a dominant) from Delhi, often felt isolated as a plus-size woman. “Men on dating apps assumed I’d be submissive just because I’m a woman,” she said, attributing this to heteronormative biases and the male-dominated nature of dating apps. 

Diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Disease (PCOD) at 17, Tara struggled with body image due to symptoms like weight gain and excessive hair growth. Initially, she would tailor  her appearance at kink meetups to avoid judgement. She  even blindfolded partners. “If they can’t see me, they won’t think I’m disgusting,” she said.

Her breakthrough came at Kink Con last year. Encouraged by a friend, she walked the runway in a custom babydoll dress that revealed her back fat. She was met with resounding cheers. By the event’s end, she shed her baggy T-shirt at the pool and posted her first nude photo on a kink app. “It wasn’t just that I felt seen; I allowed others to see me,” she said.

‍Portrayal of kink in culture 

Tara’s experience at Kink Con was a powerful reminder of what kink spaces can offer: freedom from shame and the opportunity to reclaim one’s body and desires. Yet, outside these affirming spaces, kink continues to be misunderstood and misrepresented. A significant part of the stigma surrounding kink stems from its exaggerated, sensationalised, and reductive portrayal in the internet and popular culture. 

Think of the “Choke me, Daddy” memes that commodify kink as a punchline, while social media platforms such as Bookstagram glorify dominant male characters in romance novels—often portraying toxic control rather than consensual power exchange as aspirational.

In the first Deadpool movie, the protagonist—Wade Wilson, portrayed by actor Ryan Reynolds—requested prostate stimulation during sex, also called ‘pegging’, but the movie framed it as comic and shocking because it challenges traditional ideas of masculinity rather than something that could be a healthy exploration of desire.  

Similarly, portrayals of submission, like in Fifty Shades of Grey series both in books and their on-screen adaptations, often present the dom-sub dynamic as coercive or rooted in trauma rather than built on trust and consent. 

The kinksters I interviewed expressed a strong desire to challenge these narrow and stereotypical portrayals. For them, kink represented vulnerability and mutual understanding, not leather, whips, or a punchline in a meme. 

“You can buy basic impact-play tools like a paddle, handcuffs, leather and latex on any retail or sex toy website,” said Mangaldas. “But how many people know anything about the actual practices, the intricate techniques, the negotiations around establishing consent, or think about it in terms of theory and ideas?”

‍Who gets to be kinky?

Understanding these concepts also invites the question of who gets to access spaces that can be safe and educational to those exploring kink. Access to the world of kink, especially in India, is mediated by privilege. The inequalities of caste, class, region, and language dictate who can explore such spaces freely. Social activist Meena Seshu noted, “Kink very much exists in small-town India, but the gap between those spaces and places like the Con is currently very large.” 

Joy pointed to the lack of vernacular equivalents for kink related terms, observing that conversations around erotic pleasure remain confined to urban, English-speaking circles. Even online, Mangaldas said that “discussing sex invites AI-driven censorship, requiring euphemisms that aren’t common knowledge to evade bans.”

Pia, a non-Savarna member of the Mumbai Kink Collective, highlighted language as a significant barrier. In January 2023, she was conducting a vetting call designed to assess potential participants’ idea of kink and consent ahead of a munch. On the call, she encountered a man who was struggling to express himself in English. When she switched to Hindi, she found that he was able to clearly articulate his understanding and questions related to kink. “As a submissive, he was struggling with professional dommes on kink websites [that host sex workers too] who charged him money and ghosted him,” said Pia. “He also did not know English terms such as aftercare and negotiations, but when he described his personal experiences in Hindi, he was able to convey that his consent had been violated.”

“Since then,” said Pia, “we’ve started offering vetting calls in Hindi and Marathi.” 

Pia’s experience underscores how language can shape access to kink spaces, often reflecting deeper societal hierarchies. This barrier is just one layer of a larger conversation about privilege and exclusion. At the conference, whenever I spoke to someone about caste and kink and their intersections, they redirected me with references about class as the factor influencing access to and enjoyment of kink. However, in India, speaking of class inherently involves speaking of caste, since the two are deeply intertwined. 

The most inescapable sign of this exclusion on the basis of caste and class was the Kink Con’s pricing. Participation in the three-day conference cost ₹6,400 at the early bird stage and ₹9,000 at the later stage, with additional charges for accommodation for those who chose to take up the organisers’ package. A solo room for two days at the designated hotel was ₹5,000 per night, while a shared room cost ₹2,500 per night. Only lunch was included with the tickets, with breakfast being complimentary for those staying at or next to the venue. These expenses didn’t account for travel costs, given attendees came from across India.

In response to concerns about high costs, the Kinky Collective explained that privatising a resort to ensure attendees’ privacy was a significant expense, especially with a cap of 80 participants. The ticket prices included room rent, breakfast, lunch, and conference materials, with KC stating that it negotiated discounted rates with the venue. The Collective also said that although it extended the early bird tariff longer than planned, late registration fees rose due to higher logistical costs. KC further clarified that the event serves as its primary fundraiser, supporting year-round community events at lower costs.

As a volunteer-run, non-profit group, KC said it relies entirely on community contributions, with no members receiving compensation for their time. It went on to say that the KC secured partial grants from the Mariwala Health Foundation, which helped cover travel for external NGO representatives and funded reports on consent activism and mental health. However, according to its statement, stigma against kink communities limits KC’s access to traditional philanthropy or corporate sponsorships, except from community-founded brands like Tassma Leather.

But many munches in the country—not just those organised by the Kinky Collective, but also others like Intimacy Curator and smaller, volunteer-run groups—tend to take place in bars and cafés. At the Con, an organiser for munches in Delhi commented that many people refused to come to munches that didn’t serve alcohol.

Such financial barriers limit access to kink spaces for individuals from marginalised communities, particularly those from historically oppressed castes. KC’s response also highlights how difficult it is to consider organising free kink events in India. If the cost of attending is prohibitively high, how can marginalised caste members find community within kink spaces? 

‍Creating a safe space 

The issue of barriers is double-edged because some of them help protect the Con from the prying eyes of society and the law. “Practice of kink between consenting adults is not illegal in India, but it’s still taboo and if someone’s identity is outed, they run the risk of being ostracised or losing their job,” said Joy. 

According to them, ensuring that the conference remains a safe space was the organisers’ first and highest priority. So all attendees at Kink Con were required to undergo a strict vetting process, which included use of pseudonyms, and maintaining confidentiality of the venue’s location online. No pictures were allowed to be posted on social media before September 18, when the event had ended. Every member had to give explicit verbal consent for being photographed or the photos being posted online.

 The abundance of caution initially seemed excessive—until, on the second day, venue managers told Joy and the organisers that someone had tipped off the police about the conference. It was unclear if a formal complaint had been made, but the news alarmed the organisers. Joy said they grouped attendees for mutual support and prepared a discreet evacuation plan. Fortunately, the authorities never turned up, but the incident highlighted the challenges of creating a safe space for a frequently stigmatised community.

But ensuring safety for the community also implies ensuring safety within the community—a tricky prospect in a space where participants are explicitly interested in consensually experiencing things like disrespect and violence. 

Joy pointed to “Safe, Sane, Consensual” (SSC), “Risk-Aware Consensual Kink” (RACK), and “Personal Responsibility, Informed Consensual Kink” (PRICK), which are frameworks in kink and BDSM communities to ensure safety, consent, and mutual respect. SSC encourages safe practices like using agreed-upon safe words, RACK focuses on giving informed consent to risky play, such as the potential for rope burns in bondage, while PRICK emphasises personal accountability, like ensuring both parties have researched and agreed on specific activities beforehand. 

SSC, RACK, and PRICK are not mandatory reading; KC views these frameworks as useful landmarks rather than strict guidelines. “We almost always speak about consent in the sessions we organise for the kink community, aiming to sensitise people to its complexities rather than present it as simplistic,” KC told queerbeat. “What matters is for kinksters to express their conception of consent clearly, engage with like-minded partners, and feel comfortable within that frame of reference.” 

Despite precautions, the kink community continues to grapple with challenges around consent and the misuse of power dynamics in kink play. Allegations of consent violations and calls for explicit verbal communication have occasionally emerged on kink dating app forums, raising difficult questions about safety, accountability, and the complexities of maintaining trust within the community. At the Con, a few sessions underscored the importance of ongoing conversations about ethical practices, boundaries, and the need for clear communication in kink spaces.

The participants also discussed solutions to improve safety and accountability within the community. An attendee, Sken*, suggested KC create a platform for ongoing discussions about harm beyond the event itself. 

‍Kink is pluralistic

The search for community draws many queer kinksters to spaces such as Kink Con, even as the kink community contends with systemic safety issues.

Seshu said, “Just to find community and belonging itself is a huge thing when people are stigmatised for who they are. Collectivisation is the only way to negotiate power with the state, with stigma and discrimination.”

Katyayani Sinha, a PhD student and lawyer and a participant at Kink Con, told me that beyond finding community, the importance of physical spaces where one could explore kink was as places to build autonomy and establish personal rules. She reflected, “What are we comfortable with? Do we want to be here? What would you enjoy? What would you transgress?” 

In a country where societal norms and laws sideline non-heteronormative identities and kink, gathering openly requires caution and trust. This careful balance of autonomy, trust, and shared exploration makes kink gatherings invaluable for many kinksters. For people like Bawaal, Abhinav and others, it is more than a gathering; it is a lifeline.

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*names have been changed to protect privacy

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