At the same time, people who have caused harm are still being platformed. Still being invited in. Still moving through our spaces without much evidence of real accountability. Both things are true, and if I’m honest, I don’t think we know what to do with that.

I’m beginning this series during Sexual Assault Awareness Month, and that feels fitting because awareness is very important, and still, it is also only part of the work. We also need language for rupture, practices for accountability, and more honest ways of thinking about repair in communities as small and entangled as ours.

I’m not writing this as someone who is outside of it. I have been in spaces where harm happened. I have had people disclose to me about harm they experienced from people I am in community with.I have been in proximity to people who caused harm. I have also been in the position of having platformed someone who later committed consent violations and continued to move in ways I would not describe as accountable.

So this is not abstract for me. It is lived, relational, and messy.

I keep thinking about Mariame Kaba’s charge to “let this radicalize [us] rather than lead [us] to despair.” Because despair is one possible response to watching harm recur without clear pathways for accountability. But I'm interested in exploring what becomes possible when we let these ruptures radicalize us; what might be more possible, if instead of despair, these ruptures were opportunities for us to sharpen our analysis, deepen our practice, and force us to get more honest about what community requires.

Because if I know nothing else, I know this: ruptures will continue to happen.

In spaces built around intimacy, vulnerability, power exchange, desire, and trust, there will be moments when trust is broken. There will be times when we hurt one another's feelings, and fall short of one another's expectations.

Boundaries will be crossed. Harm will happen.

The question is what do we do then.

Right now, I think we are under-practiced in the answer.

So we default to silence. To statements. To quiet distancing. To exile. To pretending nothing happened at all. And too often, we call all of that ‘accountability.’

I am reminded of something I’ve learned from Mariame Kaba’s work, drawing on Connie Burk's framing of accountability: accountability is not just something we perform for others after harm; it is first (and primarily) an internal process. A decision to recognize the harm we have caused, to take responsibility for it, and to bring ourselves back into alignment with our own values. It asks us to be honest about impact. To stay with the discomfort. To take responsibility for who we are in the world and how we move through it.

Which means accountability without change, repair, or direct engagement with harm is not accountability at all. It is optics.

And part of what makes this so difficult is that we are not always talking about the same thing. There is a difference between harm and hurt feelings. A difference between disagreement and violation. A difference between misunderstanding and unethical behavior.

That kind of discernment matters, especially if we are trying to build responses that are real, transformative, and proportionate. Sometimes someone does need to go. Sometimes separation is necessary to interrupt ongoing harm and protect the community. And sometimes that separation needs to be long-term. But other times, and perhaps most times, separation should be understood as a boundary and a pause, not a final disposal. It can create room for accountability, repair, and a clearer sense of what would need to be true for someone to return to community, even if not to relationship with the people harmed.

We cannot keep voting people off the island with no clear process, no conditions for accountability, and no articulated pathway for return. And we also cannot keep people around while they continue cycles of harm unchecked.

Our communities are small. Interconnected. Intimate in ways that do not allow for clean separation. We share spaces, stages, lovers, collaborators, group chats, and chosen family. Harm ripples. So does avoidance.

We are too close to pretend harm will not touch us. And we are too entangled to keep relying on disappearance as the only serious response.

That is the tension I want to sit with in this series.

We are too small to throw each other away. And we do not yet have enough shared practice for what it means to stay in community after harm.

Over the next four weeks, I’ll be writing about why rupture keeps catching us off guard, how accountability has become more about performance than repair, why “just cut them off” breaks down in small interdependent communities, and what more grounded accountability could look like in Black kink spaces.

I’m writing this as someone who believes deeply in consent, in accountability, and in the possibility of repair. I’m also writing as someone who knows none of this is neat.

But what we have right now is not enough. And it is costing us in trust, in safety, in clarity, and in our ability to stay in community with integrity.

So this series will be an attempt to tell the truth about where we are, what harm asks of us, and what accountability actually requires. Because if we want something more than optics, avoidance, and quiet ruin, we are going to damn sure need more, better, consistent practice.

When I first stepped into pro-domming, I assumed white submissives would be central to my work. The fantasy practically markets itself:

Black Domme.

White man on his knees.

“Reparations.”

Cute in theory.

But very early on, I realized something important: It did not feel reparative.

And that realization changed everything.

My Dominance Is Not Reparations Theater

At first, I thought dominating white men would feel revolutionary. I thought there would be something inherently healing about flipping the script inside a white supremacist society.

But what actually became clear is this: I am excellent at what I do.

And excellence is a resource.

If I am going to pour my skill, my intuition, my presence, my discipline, my erotic intelligence into someone — then I am intentional about where that resource flows.

Here’s a fact to consider: many white submissives don’t actually want to relinquish power.

They want to experience kink.

They want to feel punished.

They want catharsis.

They want absolution.

They want to kneel for an hour and then walk back into lives that continue to benefit from whiteness and patriarchy.

That is not submission. That is consumption.

And Goddess Honey B is not a healing spa for white guilt.

I Remember the Moment It Clicked

One of my early white submissives was perfectly compliant in session. Deferential. Obedient. Responsive.

And then outside of session?

Still selectively interrogating whiteness.

Still selectively challenging patriarchy.

Still living a life that was not truly in service to Black people.

So I asked myself: Why does he get access to me?

Why does he get the benefit of my presence, my authority, my containment, my erotic precision — if outside of session he is not committed to dismantling the systems that shape our dynamic?

My dominance is not charity.

It is not therapy.

It is not a damn confession booth for white people.

And it is certainly not available on demand.

The Inbox Is A Case Study

White men, especially, often approach submission the same way they approach everything else — with entitlement.

Sliding into DMs talking about what they “want.”

Describing scenes before tribute.

Assuming access because I exist.

Again, that is not submission. It is entitled bullshit.

Submission requires reverence.

Submission requires pause.

Submission requires surrender of assumption.

What I often see instead is white men wanting to bottom while still dictating the narrative. They want to receive. They do not want to truly cede.

And too many are looking for punishment as penance — not as transformation.

I am not interested in cosplaying racial reckoning so someone can feel cleansed.

My Dominance Is Political

As a Black femme Dominant, my work is rooted in Black feminism.

Black people live intersectional lives in a society that hardens us.

We are taught to be strong.

To be impenetrable.

To be unbreakable.

To survive.

But softness is sacred.

Submission, when held properly, is not degradation — it is relief. It is rest. It is a radical return to body.

When Black women, Black femmes, and Black gender-expansive people submit to me, they are not performing weakness. They are accessing humanity.

They get to be held.

They get to be chosen.

They get to release without fear of being discarded.

Do you know how rare that is in this world?

Black women carry everything.

Black femmes are hypervisible and erased at the same time. Black gender-expansive folks fight just to exist safely. In my dungeon, in my space, in my presence — they are allowed to soften.

That matters more to me than any symbolic inversion of white power.

Black Submission Is Not Often Safely Held

Let’s talk about it.

Black people are underserved in BDSM spaces.

Too many so-called doms are just power-hungry men reenacting patriarchy.

Too many dynamics are about control, not stewardship.

Too many tops have never interrogated their own need to dominate.

I call myself a Dominant’s Dominant for a reason.

Many of the people who come to me are powerful in their everyday lives. Some identify as Dominants themselves. CEOs. Creators. Organizers. Protectors.

They do not need humiliation.

They need relief.

They need interrogation of the masks they wear.

They need a place where strength is not the currency.

For Black men especially — yes, I said it — I care deeply that they have safe spaces to be soft.

Safe to examine masculinity.

Safe to untangle dominance from patriarchy.

Safe to surrender without shame.

That is far more revolutionary to me than spanking a white banker who will never reconsider how he moves in the world.

Decentering Is Not Hatred. It Is Prioritization.

I want to be clear:

This is not about resentment or exclusion for the sake of spectacle. It is not about bitterness or hating white people.

It is about alignment.

If my dominance is going to exist in this world, it will be in service of Black freedom.

Black women first.

Black femmes.

Black gender-expansive people.

Black men who are ready to do real work.

And yes, other people of color & whichever white folks understand respect & what it truly takes to repair.

White submissives are not my focus because white people are not my center.

And that is not hostility baby, that is sovereignty.

I am not here to reverse oppression for entertainment.

I am here to cultivate power exchange that expands humanity, especially for people whose humanity is denied daily.

If that doesn’t center you, beloved, that’s okay.

It was never meant to.