Even after my first scene, I still felt like a tourist in an exotic country. I had gone to the museum, so to speak—I had seen the main exhibit and understood its rules on a conceptual level. I knew the basic etiquette—safe words, aftercare, negotiation—but understanding on paper and practicing in person were different beasts entirely. My first scene with Victor had been transformative, but it had also been incredibly simple. It hadn't prepared me for the buzzing, complex tapestry of communication I saw unfolding around me every night. I was still learning the language, and I was deeply self-conscious about getting it wrong.
Marco noticed my lingering hesitation one evening as I sat nursing tea while watching a couple huddle over a handwritten checklist. He slid into the seat opposite me, his easy smile a familiar comfort. He had an uncanny ability to read the quiet anxieties of newcomers.
"Want to try something?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with a gentle mischief.
"If it involves a flogger, I'm out," I joked, though I felt a small, undeniable thrill in the back of my mind. A tiny part of me wasn't entirely opposed to the idea anymore, but I wasn't brave enough to admit it out loud.
"No floggers," he said, laughing. "Just words. We're going to do a negotiation role-play. It's a common exercise here, especially for newcomers. It's low stakes, but it teaches you how to communicate effectively. We pretend we're going to do a scene and talk through limits and desires. It's a dry run, so to speak."
I nodded, curiosity piqued, the journalist in me re-emerging with renewed interest. "Okay. How does it start?"
"We start with introductions," Marco said, scooting his chair closer to mine. "We'd normally introduce ourselves and our roles—Dominant, submissive, switch—but for the sake of this exercise, let's say I'm going to top and you're going to bottom. Does that work?"
I took a breath. Even the words stirred something in me, a mix of nerves and a deep, almost instinctual recognition. To name the roles, even in a role-play, felt like an act of intimacy. "Yes."
"Great," he said, his smile warm and encouraging. "Now we talk about what interests us. I'd ask you: what kind of scene do you want? Do you want to explore rope? Impact play? Sensation? Or maybe just a massage?"
I considered, my mind sifting through the demonstrations I had seen. "Let's say…a massage. That feels safe." The word 'safe' felt like a warm blanket.
"Perfect," he said, his approval a tangible thing. "I enjoy giving massages. Do you have any injuries or places you don't want me to touch?"
"My lower back is sensitive," I said, remembering an old yoga injury. "Please avoid it. And no buttocks or breasts." My voice was quiet but firm. It felt strange and powerful to state these boundaries so directly, without shame or apology.
He nodded, a serious expression on his face as he mimed jotting notes. "Good to know. I like to use scented oil. Any allergies?"
"I hate lavender," I admitted. "It gives me headaches."
"No lavender," Marco promised, his "pen" moving on the imaginary paper. "How do you feel about being fully clothed versus undressed?"
"Clothed, this time," I said. "Maybe I'll take off my sweater if I'm comfortable, but nothing more." This was a boundary I felt certain about, a line I needed to hold for myself.
"Noted," he replied. "Safe word?"
"Yellow and red still work." I was oddly comforted by their simplicity, by the knowledge that I had already used them in my mind during my scene with Victor.
"Excellent." He smiled. "And aftercare? How do you feel about physical touch after? Water? Space?"
"Water, please. And…maybe a hug," I said, feeling a little self-conscious. It felt incredibly vulnerable to ask for something so simple, so tender.
"Hugs are my specialty," he assured me, and the self-consciousness evaporated under his genuine warmth. "So we've covered boundaries, preferences, safe words and aftercare. That's the skeleton of a negotiation. Now I'd repeat back what you've told me, to make sure we're on the same page." He parroted back my list, his voice a steady, clear mirror of my own words: massage, no lower back or sexual areas, no lavender, clothing on, safe words, water, and a hug after. "Did I miss anything?" he asked.
I shook my head, marveling at how thorough it all was. "No. That felt…thorough."
"It should," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Negotiations aren't sexy in the Hollywood sense. They don't have that breathless, rushed quality. But they're the foundation of everything. They build trust. Without them, you're guessing. Guessing is dangerous. People sometimes rush past this part because they're eager to get to the action. I was guilty of that at first. But the more time you spend negotiating, the better the scene tends to be."
He leaned back, his tone turning more philosophical. "Sometimes negotiations are longer than the scenes themselves. And they can be fluid. You might think you're okay with something and then change your mind mid-scene. That's why we have safe words and check-ins. It's a living contract, not a static one."
I looked around the lounge. In every corner, people were talking. A couple at the bar, hands clasped, whispered about fantasies. A group of friends laughed while sharing stories of scenes gone wrong that had been salvaged by honest communication. It struck me that negotiation wasn't a buzzkill; it was foreplay. It created intimacy before anyone took off a single article of clothing, building a bridge of trust and understanding that made all the acts that followed possible.
"What if you're nervous?" I asked, voicing a fear I hadn't realized I'd been carrying. "What if you don't know what you want?"
"Then say that," Marco replied without hesitation. "Being honest about uncertainty is part of negotiation. Your partner can suggest things. You can say, 'I'm curious about flogging but scared, can we start slow?' You can ask to watch a demonstration, like you did with Jennifer. Or you can say no to everything. Consent includes the right to abstain, to change your mind, to walk away without explanation. It is your power."
His straightforwardness eased some of the pressure I'd been feeling to know exactly what I wanted from the start. It was a pressure I carried from my professional life, from my old dating life, from my entire life. To articulate desire and boundaries without shame felt radical. To be told that my uncertainty was a valid part of the process was revolutionary.
"And if something happens that I hadn't agreed to?"
"Then the person broke consent," Marco said firmly, all playfulness gone from his voice. "And you leave, report them, never play with them again. Consent is ongoing and enthusiastic. If someone ignores your boundaries, it's not BDSM—it's abuse. Unfortunately, no community is perfect. But here, we work hard to hold each other accountable, because our safety depends on it."
I let his words sink in, a final, necessary anchor. Our exercise had felt almost clinical, but I realized how deeply empowering it was. I had never sat across from a partner and listed what I did and didn't want in such detail. Most of my romantic encounters had involved assumptions and guesses. This was different. This was a conversation about mutual respect, not about guessing what the other person wanted.
"Thank you," I said finally, genuinely grateful for his time.
"Anytime," Marco replied with a grin. "Negotiation is one of my favorite parts. It's like building a scaffold. Once it's solid, you can climb to some pretty incredible heights. And if you decide not to climb, well, you still have a nice scaffold."
That night, I wrote in my journal: Negotiation is trust made tangible. It's not about ruining spontaneity; it's about creating space for it. It's where consent is spoken, safe words are chosen, and aftercare is promised. It's the conversation that differentiates BDSM from harm. Without it, you are in the dark. With it, you can find a light. As I put down my pen, I felt another layer of fear peel away. The more I learned, the more I realized how much there was to learn—but also how much support there was in learning it. And with each conversation, each new piece of understanding, I felt a little closer to the people around me—and to myself.