Thinking [about] kink.

What follows are my poorly organized thoughts on Catherine Scott’s Thinking Kink. I enjoyed the book immensely, but I also took issue with a number of passages.


At various points in the book, Scott’s analysis stops short of its potential and is replaced by frustration (at best) or subtle manipulation of the reader (at worst).

While discussing music videos in her introduction, for instance:

It saddens me that in a medium with such potential for originality, shaking female buttocks still seems to constitute the majority of what music video producers think viewers want to see. (6)

I doubt the racist undertones of this passage are intentional; elsewhere in her book, Scott is cognizant of racism in kink culture. But “shaking female buttocks” is quite obviously a reference to black women and twerking. Intentional or otherwise, her observation relies on a racist trope, and comes off as unexamined white discomfort with black women’s self-expression. The passage ostensibly points the finger at unimaginative producers (fair enough), but black women’s sexual and artistic agency becomes collateral damage. In later chapters, Scott criticizes this exact phenomenon.

Later (55-56), Scott celebrates Madonna as an empowered, authoritative figure whose music videos are sex-positive, kink-positive, and woman-centred. Meanwhile, she dismisses Rihanna’s video for “S&M” as a tasteless gimmick. Scott discusses Madonna’s creative control at length, but never Rihanna’s creative agency– only that of her director.

Madonna’s and Rihanna’s videos approach BDSM from different angles, and carry different messages as a result, but that contrast can only be discussed equitably by beginning with a level playing field. In the absence of evidence to the contrary, we should assume that both of these powerful, talented women have a say in the production of their music videos. Scott makes this point in a later chapter, but without referencing or analyzing her earlier examples:

To assume Ciara was merely told what to do by white men in suits when she walked into a studio betrays a perception of black women far more racist or sexist than any scenes of white male top / black female sub race play. (188-89)

As in the introduction, some kind of unexamined frustration seems to suspend analysis at an awkward mid-point. Indeed, it is racist to assume a black pop star has no creative control. And yes, it would be racist to assume a biracial couple’s private BDSM play is fundamentally oppressive or racist. But it is also casually racist to grant BDSM an unproblematic ethical victory in this situation. I take the author’s point about privacy and agency, but BDSM has a race problem. As does the music industry. As does white, western culture on the whole. There is little to be gained by carefully ranking the “slightly more racist” and “slightly less racist.” Such an exercise is more likely to be a potential distraction from the work of attending to racism, organizing against it, and so on.

I looked forward to Scott’s chapter on race and BDSM because racism is a problem for the scene that warrants pointed critique, and because I hoped Scott would clarify some of the puzzling and potentially problematic statements mentioned above. Unfortunately, the chapter occasionally succumbs to the defensive tone of so much writing by white people about racism (my own included, no doubt):

Why should we worry that someone is going to use this sculpture as an excuse for sexism or racism, unless we are already looking to do so ourselves? (192)

Why? Well:

  • Because we are all swimming in the same racist, sexist water.
  • Because it is not racist to notice racism or attempt to prevent racism. Rather, these are explicitly anti-racist activities.
  • Because colour blindness has gotten us nowhere. (I’m grateful that this point– made by countless racialized people for many years– is finally gaining traction. I hope this is a fair answer to the author’s implied rhetorical question about increased cultural / discursive sensitivity in present day, versus 25-30 years ago.)

The author goes on to say that she thinks Grace Jones avoids some forms of criticism due to her physical power/presence. But Jones’ unique station cannot be reduced to her physicality. Really, her physicality simply changes the focus of the criticism leveled against her.

Jones makes her artistic and creative agency jarringly clear. That approach is part of her aesthetic. Women performers with other [no less valid] aesthetic approaches and quieter/softer personalities will not be given the same benefit of the doubt. It becomes that much easier to make sexist assumptions about their lack of creativity or decisiveness, however false– and especially if they are non-white.

In her introduction to her chapter on racism and BDSM, Scott shares an anecdote from her work with Bitch magazine. She was asked by her editors to preface her blog post on race and BDSM with a note about her race and white privilege:

I found it odd the way Bitch only wanted me to apologize for this in one particular instance, and irritating that the commenter hadn’t bothered to see my post in the context of a holistic exploration of kink. (181)

A disclaimer or an acknowledgement isn’t tantamount to an apology. Conflating the two betrays immense unexamined privilege.

Perhaps the editors should have asked the writer to be more upfront about her identity and social position throughout the series. Perhaps that would have benefited people with other marginalized or minority identities who participate in the scene, or challenged a few more individuals with various types of privilege to reflect on their socioeconomic status.

I find myself wishing that Scott had used the chapter as a vehicle for coming to terms with the singularity of racism and the subtle power of racist discourse, especially in countries marked by the transatlantic industrial slave trade. The singular significance of racism is particularly important to understand in the US context, due to the role of cotton plantations and slave labour in the country’s wealth, power, and mythology. But it is likewise relevant throughout the Americas, as well as in the UK– where Scott is from.

By singularity, I mean that there is no equivalent to racism and the history of racially justified industrial slavery. Well-intended white people often approach racism bewildered and wringing their hands, because white supremacy and racism are so powerful and so seductive that we often cannot see them clearly. The author’s irritation at her editors’ and readers’ attempt to cut through the fog show the extent to which she is mired in it as well.

I was heartened to see the extent to which the author championed black participants as the appropriate arbiters and brokers of their own fantasies (to hell with white discomfort), but her opening anecdote about this disclaimer reveals Scott’s lingering discomfort. Her discomfort is understandable, racism is huge, brutal, and inhumane. But it is also something that white people everywhere must practice confronting if we are to be of any use at all to the cause of anti-racism.


Now, a few poorly articulated thoughts on sex positivity and the male gaze:

“I’m a goddess to my slaves; I wouldn’t stoop to having sex with them.” (17)

These are the words of a pro domme. Scott uses this domme’s comments to illustrate the [fairly common, somewhat complicated] assumption that being physically intimate with a man is always a kind of surrender– always some degree of power relinquished.

But I do not see a domme threatened by the possibility of losing power through touch or embrace. I read this comment as a window into the type of scenes she likes to run with her subs: a comment on her status, their [willing] humiliation, their worship of her.

A few paragraphs later, Scott acknowledges that the top/bottom dynamic is more of a mutual exchange than it appears to be, but she extends this analysis only to aesthetics; she doe not include physical distance in her analysis.

And even in the aesthetic context, Scott’s analysis stops short of reflexivity. Describing a domme:

Her clothes still seem intended for the pleasure of the male voyeur. (23)

Perhaps the most powerful aspect of the male gaze is our assumption that for a woman, it is utterly inescapable; that all her aesthetic choices must pass through it and be subject to it; that she can’t possibly enjoy traditionally feminine styles or fetish ware’ that by wearing anything that¬†straight or bi men happen to find attractive, a domme cannot possibly be exercising her autonomy, or domination over her own physical self; she must be deliberately appealing to her male submissives through her aesthetic choices.

Simply by existing, lesbian femmes do an efficient job of toppling these assumptions about the infinite reach of the male gaze. We all live in the shadow of patriarchy and sexism; so, too, are we complex subjects.

Later in the book, I continued to have trouble with the author’s use of the male gaze. Scott continues to paint any aesthetics that happen to resemble the feminine ideals of the patriarchal status quo as of / for / serving the patriarchal status quo. This erases the sexual and aesthetic agency of the women making these apparel and style choices.

Later still, Scott states quite clearly that “femme-phobia is not a solution to the erasure of butch women” (153). True, but neither is “femme” a rough equivalent to “the male gaze.” Each may culturally inform the other, but neither completely relies on the other for its cultural significance.

Further, feminine /= femme. Sexual and gender minorities, especially lesbians, should continue to have some stewardship over this term, since it originates in their communities. Analytical convenience is not an excuse for lesbian erasure.


Chapter 6 makes a number of strong points regarding objectification and consent:

The dogma that all instances of objectification are wrong and misogynistic appears to demand that sexual desire always be cerebral, profound, and pure. In her essay “A Cock of One’s Own: Getting a Firm Grip on Feminist Sexual power,” Sarah Smith bemoans the idea “that there must be a way to have sex that is ‘feminist,'” feeling that it results in a “laundry list of must-nots that would hold our libidos hostage.” (113)

The language of choice will only take any of us so far, when we are aware that a level playing field (pun perhaps intended) is impossible to find in a society still a long way from dismantling the hierarchy that places the straight, white, cisgender male at the top. As “Paul,” a white male top said to Margot Weiss, “I think people in the scene are much too fast to… say ‘Well, you know as long as everybody consents… then it’s all OK….’ I think it’s just crazy for people to try and pretend that sexuality is this magical realm that is somehow natural and is unaffected by anything social, economic, or political.” The neoliberal belief that choice renders any scenario unproblematic often functions to reinforce a status quo which keeps the privileged in their position. (121)

The above quotations nicely reinforce the discussion of consent from Chapter 5:

Taking the line that the absence of a safe word = blanket consent seemed unnervingly close to the standard excuse for vanilla sexual coercion, i.e., the belief that the absence of a no = a yes. In her essay “Beyond Yes or No: Consent as Sexual Process,” Rachel Kramer Bussel writes, “It’s not enough to just assume that if she (or he) doesn’t say no, they want it…. The burden is not on the woman to say no, but on the person pursuing the sexual act to get an active yes.” Bussell was referring to the tiresome concept of “grey rape,” where sexual violence is excused via the apparent failure of the victim to make their resistance clear, but her rebuttal applies to BDSM too. (91)

Choice is a problematic word in this book. But how could it not be? A number of people continue to believe that kink is coercion, full stop. And even in this book, even for the sake of defending both women and safe/consensual BDSM, choice is re-formed and re-framed according to the needs of the argument in question.

Choice is complicated by racism, capitalism, sexism– but not extinguished. Scott criticizes the idea that ‘choice is unassailable’ as a slippery neoliberal construct (indeed!). But she resurrects that same idea of unassailable choice to excuse complicity, especially re: racism. In a number of instances, Scott suggests (without intending to do so, ironically) that the only conscious, malicious racism warrants critique– despite the fact that much racism is unconscious and / or systemic.


On 25, the author calls Stalinism a type of fascism. No, it’s not. That’s impossible, actually.


And on p. 193, the author mixes up Uncle Sam and Uncle Tom. (Unpropitious, in a book that devotes so much space to discussing racism.)


One last thing: and this one’s on the publisher, not the author. This is one of the most poorly proofed, typo-riddled books I’ve ever read.

 

The nasty but unavoidable truth.

The nasty but unavoidable truth is that political outrage and the good old-fashioned desire to punish “bad” women are not disconnected. That field for one has been fertilized (or, if you prefer, salted) by the other. Complex, deep, and necessary critiqes– like the feminist critique of mainstream beauty standards, in Jenner’s or Beyonce’s case, or the anti-racist critique of [Miley] Cyrus’s appropriation of black aesthetics and the industry’s simultaneous dismissal of black artists (Nicki Minaj wound up having to make a few)– are appropriated and imitated by the mainstream to rationalize our culture’s underlying pattern of demolishing sexually unruly women. (34)

From Sady Doyle’s Trainwreck.