How do You Make a Strip Show Accessible to Someone Blind?

bdsm fear

The short answer is you don't. Accessibility is about reasonable accommodations; it is about opening the doors to your space. Accessibility is about giving people access to the parts of your world that they are going to be able to approach. But it is inherently about accommodating someone in your world, not about reshaping that world. In that mindset, an intimate performance like a strip show is intimate enough that bringing it to someone blind is going to be far beyond any reasonable accommodation. The idea that there are no reasonable accommodations to make something accessible to a given audience is an inherent part of how we think about accessibility.

There’s a big difference between accessibility and inclusion. Accessibility is opening the door; inclusion is actually changing your world so that you share it with someone new. Many of our events are reasonably accessible to someone who is blind. But there’s a lot more work to include someone who is blind in our communities. I have talked some about that in the past and will expand in the future, but to get an idea, think about how many volunteer positions require sight or how many times eye contact comes up in introductory kink classes. Consider how many times we encourage someone to take those volunteer positions if they want to connect more deeply with the community.

I was at a panel on inclusion and someone talked about the importance of being able to sit with your own discomfort in creating a welcoming space and including others in that space. It hit me how true that is. Paradoxically creating a welcoming environment is going to be uncomfortable, both for those already in the community and for those currently on the outside. One reason is that unlike with accessibility, we cannot simply stop when we find there is no reasonable accommodation. Once we have decided we want to include someone in our space, we have opened the door to making all sorts of changes. Why do they want to be included in that activity? What could we do instead that we could include them in? What will we lose by doing that? Why do we value that? We have to face ways in which traditions we value come up against the practical reality of the needs of those we are trying to welcome.

Let me make this more real by sharing my own story.

Why do you want to watch Strip Shows?

I’m blind. So why do I even care about strip shows? How does that become an issue of inclusion?

It started a year ago at Southwest Master/slave contest. Leather weekends and leather contests have fundraisers where people strip, give lap dances, or perform other sexy activities. When I started going to these events, I ignored these sexy fundraisers. There's not much I get out of someone else stripping or doing a sexy visual performance. After my conference accessibility blog post made the rounds, I joked with various people about how we could make these activities accessible. At the time, it was mostly a joke: you would never find a way to make that accessible.

Last year at Southwest, I knew one of the contestant couples and was tracking the contest closely. I wanted to be part of everything. People around me were getting excited. A lot of energy was building up. I wanted to be part of that. It was a relatively small room. I felt safe in that space; I felt included enough to push a bit at the flow of energy. So I stood and asked how much I would need to donate to get descriptive video for what was going on. My request took the room by surprise, but suddenly I found myself getting a description of the events from Lee Harrington. He was across the room and not prepared to be explaining what was going on. It felt so good though. I had chosen to be vulnerable and to ask for what I needed. People included me. The MC at Southwest last year was Jayson DaBoi. We talked a bit about my interruption and he was supportive.

MSC Rolls Around

At the time, I thought of my needs at Southwest as a singular experience. I knew the contestants, and so I wanted to be involved.

But then I found myself at Master/slave Conference (MSC). I felt more involved than ever. My vassal and I were teaching. And there was Jayson, coming up to the stage, asking how much we'd pay to see him strip someone. I felt empowered by my previous interaction. So I asked who he was stripping. He didn’t know. I ribbed him a bit for that. I mean if you’re going to take someone’s clothes off, shouldn’t you at least know who they are? One thing led to another, and Dominion Onyx was giving a description of the strip show in his beautiful voice. Talk about hot! After MSC, it became clear I needed to think more about these fundraisers. I was becoming more attached to the M/s community. Sitting there in our shared events as the energy built around me, I wanted to become involved. I wanted to be part of that energy. Yes, I could find other ways to donate, but here was a part of the event where we were all celebrating being sexy together. I wanted to support that.

Succeeding in that at MSC and Southwest felt good. But I needed to approach things more methodically. Having me jump up from the audience once or twice might be okay. That particular part of the proceedings can be free-flowing and we all managed to make it work without much disruption. Long term, a broader conversation needed to happen. After MSC I decided to try and start that conversation.

Writing about the Event

The first step was to write up my feelings. I wanted to talk about how this became important, and how exhilarating it was to ask for what I wanted and to feel like I was part of the community. I wanted to discuss what the balance was. Dominion Onyx’s voiceover was incredibly hot. On the other hand, having someone talk about what is going on changes the vulnerability for those who are actually performing and even for those watching. It changes the experience. Experimenting with things like that is great. Long term, I hope we choose to be intentional.

Several times I tried to write about my experience. I could not get past the first sentence or two. I felt vulnerable. It had been a powerful experience for me. What if it had not been a significant experience for other participants? At the time, I had not thought about how we were building energy together as a community; back then I was only thinking about it as a fundraiser. Why was it important for me to disrupt a kind of fundraiser that had been going on since well before I was involved in the community? There were plenty of other ways I could show my support. Why wasn’t it good enough for me to focus on the parts of our experience that work for me and ignore the rest?

Was I sure the community was ready to spend the energy necessary to include me in ways that felt meaningful? If I needed change to feel welcome, perhaps this was a sign I wanted too much or that the community was the wrong place. (Hint: this is bullshit., but these doubts are a normal part of vulnerability.)

My confidence in my place in the kink and leather community goes in cycles. Sometimes I feel included and connected. Being vulnerable is easy. Sometimes, I wonder if people value what I have to say. Sometimes it feels like there are more well-known, more-experienced, more-articulate people saying all the things I know how to say. In those times, I desperately want to contribute, but it feels like I cannot figure out how.

At those times, finding the vulnerability to start a discussion like this is impossible. Unfortunately, one of those times rolled around toward the end of last year. Then life happened, and I found I was spending what little energy I had focused on supporting the people close to me.

So even though I wanted to build on the momentum of Southwest and MSC to start a vulnerable conversation about inclusion, I could not.

Rolling onto Southplains Leather Fest

It was coming up on March, and I had still not found the vulnerability and courage to talk about my experiences with the sexy fundraisers at Southwest and MSC. I talked to a few people, letting them know the experience had been powerful and suggesting we should have conversations about the broader facets of inclusion that were actually a part of helping someone feel a part of the energy of the community.

I decided I was not going to bring anything up at South Plains. That community is bigger than MSC, and standing out and asking for something at a big conference like that is harder than at some place like MSC. Also, I had already proven that I could ask for inclusion and be met with welcome. I did not mind waiting until I brought up the issue and together we found a way to discuss it.

So the sexy fundraisers happened around me. I let them flow by. I felt more included than I had been the year before even though I had no more idea what was going on. I was at one of my homes. I was welcome.

Goddess Indigo was MC at South Plains last year. She had just talked about the wonderful vendors, and moved onto another round of fundraising. She was asking for money to support one of the sexy performances. I felt comfortable enough to shout out that I had already spent my money on the vendors. It was mostly true: between the vendors and silent auction, my budget was near tapped. I had found a way to support South Plains that worked for me. I doubt she knew who she was talking to; I do not think I was visible from the audience. She said that next year I should save money for the fundraisers.

I wasn’t unhappy with goddess Indigo for the suggestion: in her role, she didn’t have time or awareness (or even the ability if she couldn’t see me) to learn my circumstances. I was unhappy with the suggestion though. I should choose how I support the community, and supporting the aspects of the community that aren’t able to include me doesn’t feel right. So I responded, “When you include me in this, I will support it.”

To which Goddess Indigo said, “Sounds like we have someone volunteering to perform next year.” It was actually possible. There are parts of the fundraisers at South Plains where audience members can pay to tease the producer and members of the staff in various ways.

At the moment, I was stunned and excited. I felt challenged in a good way.

Then there was Jayson again, this time collecting money for a cause I strongly supported. (I don’t even think there was anything particularly sexy going on.) I dug into the bank a bit, adjusted my budget, and threw in. He was there again, a constant if perhaps unknowing part of my journey to find inclusion. And while he might not have been paying attention, it felt good that he had been there when Goddess Indigo challenged me to step up to my own inclusion.

So I left South Plains still needing to write this post and start a conversation. But I also had new ideas about how I could be part of the energy of those moments.

If watching the sexy was difficult, perhaps being part of it would be easier.

Not So Much

The next month, my vassal and I found ourselves at an unconference. One of the great things about an unconference is that you can request someone teach you something. She asked if I wanted to learn how to give a lap dance so I could participate at the next year’s SPLF. I was nervous, but I had been offered a chance, and listening to the universe is something core to our dynamic. I could not quite bring myself to say yes, I wanted to learn. Instead, I told her that if she wanted to put it on the session board, I would get into the right headspace.

She did, and someone agreed to teach us. They were wonderful, showing patience and compassion for me.

It was one of the most humiliating experiences of my kink journey. I was hoping for validation that I was part of our community. I was hoping to learn how to feel more sexy. Instead, I learned that I do not think about moving my body the same way the rest of you do. I couldn’t understand what I was being asked to do or how to get my body to do it. Many of the references we tried to use were visual in ways that did not work for me. Eventually I did learn some exercises I could use to move toward my goal, but if I go that route it will be a long journey, far more difficult than I expected. As others have pointed out since, I may even get to the end of the journey and produce something that comes across as sexy for others, but does not make me feel sexy because my perceptions of sexy are different than sighted people. It was such a mixture of positive and negative feelings: the love I felt for my vassal for supporting me and trying to bring about the things I asked for; the gratitude for the person who agreed to help us and for their understanding; and the bitter humiliation and disappointment at the result.

I came seeking validation and belonging. Instead, I felt like a freak because of my blindness. I felt more distant.

Back Around to Southwest

It had been an entire year. I still had not written this post. I still had not started a community discussion. What I knew for sure is that I wanted to have that discussion. I wanted to matter enough that the community was willing to at least think about how to include me. Jayson was there again. I could at least talk to him: I had gotten contact information at SPLF, but around the time I was going to reach out, we hit the unconference, and I was facing the vulnerability of that experience. I felt like Jayson had shared this journey with me. I didn’t even know if he viewed things that way.

So I found him at his bootblack stand and we talked while he worked on my leather. He said that his leather family had talked about how to include people like me on the way to the conference. I talked about the struggle I had faced over the year—admitting my needs, struggling to write about our interactions, and the unsuccessful attempt to learn to give a lap dance. He understood what I was going through. He wanted to welcome people like me; he understood why working on this was uncomfortable but wanted to do it anyway.

I cried. I felt cared for and validated.

That night, we had the contest and the accompanying sexy fundraisers. For the first time ever, it was something I could participate in. It was both wonderful and uncomfortable. Actually being able to immerse myself in the full energy of the event was amazing. But I also felt exposed: how much had the organizers changed the event based on what happened last year? How much were my needs impacting what was chosen? I doubt my needs were the only factor: changing up what happens is always good, and plenty of people were into the format chosen that year. Yet knowing the people involved, I suspect my request to be included was something they considered.

It is vulnerable to ask for something and watch what it costs others to give you what you asked for—vulnerable and humbling. As an example of that cost, the MC at Southwest put themselves in a more vulnerable position because of the fundraiser they chose to put on. It’s also vulnerable to realize you are part of a change. Now because of you and your differences (and desire to be included), things are more complicated. I kept asking myself whether my desire to be included was worth the disruption, all while grinning and giddy from the sense of welcome and acceptance I was feeling from the community.

There was another uncomfortably wonderful moment of inclusion later in the evening. A video started to play; set to music was a list of the previous winners of the contest (possibly accompanied by pictures). I felt two hands on my shoulders as Jayson DaBoi stepped up behind me and started to read the names of the winners. He realized that no one was including me in sharing that part of our history and decided to fix that. It was intimate: I had not asked to be touched, but the touch was powerful. It felt connecting and drew me in more than the words alone. I had not asked for the words either. I had not known that I wanted—needed—either the words or the touch. It felt so amazing that someone cared enough to pull me into that moment. (And in the interest of promoting a consent culture, my interactions with Jayson earlier in the day had made the touch welcome even if un-asked-for. I am not inviting strangers to include me in their touch without asking first.)

Yet why did Jayson need to be reading me the video? Why didn’t I ask my vassal sitting next to me to read the words? I did not like the answers I found as I examined myself. I was so used to being excluded from moments like the video that I had stopped looking for ways to be included: much of the world wasn’t available. That was just how it was; I didn’t want to be a burden. In that mindset, asking my vassal definitely would be a burden. No not to her: I trust her service. But what if her words disrupted the music for those sitting around us? What if including me disrupted the artistic presentation of that audio visual experience?

What if? Is that small disruption worth including me in the history of our community? Apparently not in my mind, at least not until Jayson’s touch and gentle voice opened that door. Once that door is opened, I start asking questions about whether there’s a way that those names could have been read into the video? There was clearly time to read the names out as the pictures scrolled. Would that be so bad?

Conclusions

I think there’s a lot to discuss here. Including me in the sexy fundraisers changes things, often in ways that have implications for the vulnerability of others:

Yet it was wonderful to finally be included in that energy as we all let go a little and came together as a community to support our shared programs. I want to be welcomed enough to be part of the equation for what we consider. It’s fine if I am not included all the time in the activities we eventually decide on; actually having my needs be one of the factors that we sometimes consider and sometimes center would be enough to feel welcomed and valued.

As for the videos we use to showcase accomplishments and history? I think there’s real work to do there.

Then there’s the really big discussion: moving from simply talking about accessibility to actually including people in our community. The rest is all facets of that larger discussion. I don’t even know where or how to have that discussion. So far everyone is stuck on simple issues of accessibility, and to some extent on the accessibility issues we do not know how to solve. Everyone assumes it is a challenge for event organizers.

Inclusion is bigger, more vulnerable. Inclusionr is about all of us. But, as we’ve seen, inclusion is uncomfortable. Accessibility has that shared exit we have all agreed to: no reasonable accommodation. Once we move onto inclusion, we have the real discomfort of one set of needs coming up against another, with everything on the table. And so when we decide not to include someone, it isn’t because we couldn’t—because there was nothing reasonable to do. No, it’s because we chose not to: we chose to value one set of needs over another. There’s nothing wrong with that choice, but it sure is uncomfortable.

I look forward to finding a place to have these discussions. I also look forward to hearing others’ stories of vulnerability and inclusion.