All Fleaed out.

Whoof. Tired, sore, did not get any writing done, and soooo happy. I was hypnotized, beaten, flogged, tied up, fucked, fisted, scratched, dragged around by the hair, and at one point had blood suction-cupped out of my body via the holes made by a stapler. I also got to see just about every kinky person I've ever met, watch the most fucking hilarious BDSM comedy show imaginable, and attend some fascinatingly informative classes on everything from "Mind Play 101" to "The History Of Torture." And the shopping. My left forearm will take weeks to recover.

(Stupid inside joke explanation: when you shop for hitty-toys, you test out their precise level of hittyness by hitting yourself or your shopping buddy on the forearm. When you're shopping through thousands of hitty-toys, the damage adds up.)

Oh, and some tidbits for the ever-simmering "BDSM and feminism" cauldron: I've never been in a more gender-comfortable space. All sorts of people were presenting all sorts of ways and very few assumptions were made--including the assumptions often made of ciswomen presenting as traditionally feminine. The Flea intro booklet had an entire page on transgender etiquette. Bathrooms were open to all genders, which I was way too into--"I'M PEEING IN THE BOYS' ROOM!" The general skeeve factor was admirably low, frankly much lower than at your average non-sexual nerd convention. Everything in the classes was phrased in the language of inclusion, respect, and the right to be and feel safe while doing bizarre shit to each other's bodies and minds. The word "consent," taken extremely seriously, came up probably eighty times a day.

I felt safer letting someone flog me at the Flea than I feel just talking to some people outside it. I don't know if that's "feminism" exactly, but it's awesome.