I Went to a BDSM Convention With My Ex

We were scheduled to arrive at 2PM, just in time for the annual Jell-O wrestling competition. As we boarded our New Brunswick-bound train, I did a mental checklist of things in my bag. An assortment of collars, a leather harness with an attachable leash, a leather paddle shaped like a heart, and a T-shirt that said “TOP.” Also in tow: my friend Sophie.

Our destination: the International Ms. Leather & Bootblack convention, or IMsLBB for short, at the Holiday Inn in Piscataway, New Jersey. Sophie and I had committed to being partners in leather for the weekend. I was curious to see how our dynamic would play out since we also used to hook up.

The IMsLBB is the largest convention for the leatherwomen and leatherdyke communities. Founded in 1987, it’s a unique blend of educational discussions, hands-on workshops, and opportunities to meet other kinky people. The weekend culminates in a crowning of a Ms. International Leather and a Ms. International Bootblack. Contestants are judged on a variety of things, including their costumes, a speech, an erotic fantasy theatrical performance, as well as their knowledge of the leather scene and history during an interview with a panel of judges. Though the conference initially started as a space for queer women in a highly saturated gay, cis male leather scene, it has opened itself up extensively since its founding to welcome other members of the LGBTQ+ community.

Arriving, I noticed opaque butcher paper covering the windows of the hotel’s ground floor so that there was no seeing in or seeing out. The automatic doors slid open, and I was met with a visual symphony of bodies in varying amounts of kinky garb; there were puppies, harnesses, and of course, leather. A Holiday Inn employee working the front desk appeared unphased as an attendee walked by wielding a forearm-sized dildo. We had arrived.

For the first time, the convention had completely sold out and taken over its host hotel. It’s the only hotel in New Jersey that allows BDSM conferences, and we were repeatedly told by IMsLBB staff “not to leave the premises unless fully clothed.” But inside was another story. The hotel is designed like a quad where most rooms look out onto a courtyard—so if peoples’ blinds are open, you can see into their rooms. Naturally, this created an opportunity for some serious exhibitionism. Onlookers cheered and took in the following: a person seductively cleaning their floor-to-ceiling windows in the nude, a fellatio foursome, and a couple taking turns whipping each other. It kind of felt like a BDSM carnival.

Many of the attendees had traveled to New Jersey from the Midwest, where Sophie and I grew up. “We’re all freaks because there’s not much to do out there,” said one person who had grown up closeted in Wisconsin. They were wearing an orange bandana, which in the kink world indicates that you’re “down for anything.” Someone else who’d grown up on a farm had first experimented with self-penetration by lubing up produce. Their preferred vegetable was a cucumber, of course.

The farm theme continued with a noteworthy workshop titled “Vet play for ponies and critters,” during which a “vet” fisted a “pony” to check for “growths.” We were allowed to keep a souvenir: a shoulder length, latex glove for “agricultural purposes.” The long, pink glove—which was unused—enveloped my arm like a glove.

My reason for going to IMsLBB was not because of my insatiable appetite for kink. Sophie had asked me to go with them while we were still dating and after our fling ended, the invite was still on the table. Even though we’d broken up, I wanted to stick to the original plan. I was new to kink; Sophie wasn’t. This made me nervous. What if they judged my inexperience or, worse, abandoned me all weekend to get fisted by a vet?

“Everyone has to start somewhere,” one woman told me, “and for us, it was 25 years ago with a pair of nipple clamps. We’ve never looked back since.” Another woman who weirdly reminded me of my mom got misty-eyed when I told her it was my first IMsLBB. She thanked me for my openness and promptly asked permission to feel me up. 

Sophie and I became fast friends with a group of middle-aged butches, a demographic familiar with the lover-to-friend pipeline. “Being a lesbian means having an army of ex-lovers who you could call for help, and they’d be there in a second,” said one of them. Several of her exes were at the conference that weekend.

Later that night, the butches asked Sophie and me if we wanted to try fire play. Fire play is a form of temperature play that involves running burning objects over bare skin for just long enough to tingle without actually burning you. Sophie agreed to go first, and I could tell they were nervous. My body relaxed. I guess that’s the thing about kink. No matter how experienced you are, trying something new can still engulf you in the fiery flames of anxiety. 

A new event for everyone at this year’s IMsLBB was the Piss Play Wet T-Shirt Contest, which is exactly what it sounds like, although the specific requirements to win are still unclear. During the contest, I met Judy, a 69-year-old who was urinating on her friend. Judy has had a long career in sex-positive advocacy and fighting for trans rights. She also has extensive experience practicing BDSM. She told me that she was there as part of a five-day “immersion play field trip” for the person who she was pissing on.

Judy hadn’t attended IMsL in years. “As a bisexual woman, I haven’t always felt included, but this conference has been an incredibly friendly and welcoming environment.”

The most unforgettable moment from the entire weekend was when Sophie and I ventured into the dungeon, more commonly used as the Holiday Inn’s banquet hall. I could not have prepared myself for the things I saw. Moans of pleasure pierced through the air. Hardcore techno blared through the speakers. There was a person suspended by rope getting flogged by three different people. Someone on a massage table had been mummified and was lying perfectly still. Another person was getting their pubes fed to them.

The last organized event of the night was the masochist versus masochist beatdown. Picture two bottoms asking to speak to the manager: The crowd winced, cheered, and laughed as the masochists beat the living shit out of each other. One thing was clear among the chaos: these people had found their freaky version of peace.

As we boarded the train to Penn Station the following day, I saw a pony glove sticking out of Sophie’s bag. I caught their eye, and they had noticed it too. We shared a knowing look. I had gone into the weekend as a BDSM beginner with an ex-lover. I came out of the weekend emboldened, only slightly scandalized, with a new leather sister and a creative collaborator.