Feminist Lessons in an Unfeminist World?: Kit Rocha's BEYOND series

A few weeks ago, I became engrossed by the dystopian fantasy world created by erotica writer Kit Rocha (the pseudonym for co-writers Bree Bridges and Donna Herren) in the Beyond series. Well, perhaps not by the world itself, but for the sexual activities of the inhabitants of that world. For a fantasy, world-building is on the light side in Beyond Shame (2012) and its four and counting full-length sequels. Solar storms have decimated the country, leaving only one self-sustaining city, Eden in their wake. Eden is purportedly only for the "righteous"; those who live within "must abide by a strict moral code or risk exile to the brutal lawless sectors" (Author's note, "Welcome to Sector Four"). But hypocrisy lies just below the platitudes, and the sins of the powerful find their support in the eight lawless "sectors" which surround Eden. In each sector, gangs led by a kingpin (all men, with one exception) devote their energies to creating the means of sin—drugs in one sector, prostitutes in another, material goods in a third. Dallas O'Kane is the boss of Sector Four, where he and alcohol rein supreme.

Not everyone who lives in the sector is an O'Kane; to join the gang, you have to prove your usefulness and your loyalty. Once in, you're rewarded with brotherhood (and sisterhood; women as well as men are members), an ink tattoo with the gang's insignia, and lots and lots of sex, in both private and public. For the O'Kanes party not only by drinking their own hootch, but by getting it on with their own partners and with their fellow gang members, at the bar and back in their own rooms: "You can join in or you can watch, but that's pretty much all it is. Wall-to-wall fucking" (Loc 519). Eden puts something in the water to suppress fertility, so no one has to worry about pregnancy (and there's no mention of sexually-transmitted diseases; maybe the solar flare somehow eradicated them, too, along with much of the world's population?)

The only other possible place to live besides Eden or the sectors is on a "commune," described by the heroine of Beyond Shame as "horrifying places where farmers lived primitive lives of indentured servitude. No electricity or running water, only backbreaking labor from dawn to dusk and being bred until you died in childbirth" (Kindle Loc 140). The repression women experience in Eden (premarital sex is worthy of banishment), in sectors led by less enlightened leaders (where women are married without their consent, forced into prostitution, and/or physically and sexually abused), and on the communes makes Sector Four look like a woman's paradise by comparison.

And there is a lot of positive feminist energy in Sector Four. Lex, who will become the "Queen" of Sector Four in the second book of the series, Beyond Control, has gradually persuaded Dallas of the importance and value of including women in his gang. All the male members of the gang show women respect, unlike the men of the other sectors, or the men in Eden. And while sex is used against women in all other places in this post-apocalyptic world, in Sector Four, female sexuality is celebrated. Noelle, the heroine of Beyond Shame, is an exile from Eden, thrown out for being too curious about sex. Hearing about an O'Kane party she's been invited to attend, Noelle is both titillated and ashamed, a reaction hero Jasper, raised in the sectors, can't begin to fathom:

"Do you think I'm a harlot?"
"No. I think maybe you're a lady who likes to fuck."
"You say it so easily, like it's not the same thing at all."
"Because it's not. No one here is going to think you're a bad person." (Loc 526)

Noelle gradually comes to embrace her sexual self, moving "beyond shame" to acceptance and celebration.

Additionally, the romance arcs of the five full-length Beyond novels all revolve around men making stupid, patriarchal assumptions or choices, assumptions and choices that they have to take back by book's end in order to secure the affections of the woman (or in one case, the woman and the man) whom they love. Jasper chooses to break off his relationship with Noelle when she has the chance to return to Eden, but Noelle takes exception to his noble self-sacrifice, choosing to remain in Sector Four whether she's with Jasper or not. In book 3, Beyond Pain, Bren initially chooses to hold off on rescuing thirty-two people, most women, being sold into slavery, in the hopes of wreaking vengeance against the traffickers' leader, a man who betrayed him, but changes his mind once he realizes that his lover, Six, isn't about to sit quietly at home but is off to rescue the captives herself. In book four, Beyond Jealousy, former prostitute and current tattoo artist Ace bails on his ménage-a-trois partners Rachel and Cruz, leaving them before they, inevitably to his mind, leave his fucked-up ass in the dirt; only a male sacrificing for another male, rather than for a female, can pull these three lovers back together.

And yet... I can't help feeling a bit uncomfortable championing Rocha's series as unreservedly feminist. For one thing, the jobs women are allotted in Sector Four are pretty limited; as Dallas tells Lex when Noelle first arrives in Four, "If she's not willing to tend bar, clean house, or suck dick by the end of the week, she's gone" (Shame 193). Add to that short job list "exotic dancer" (several of the O'Kane women dance, from burlesque to complete stripping to being sexually whipped on stage), "bouncer" (one particularly tough woman), and "brewer," and you've just about covered all of the career possibilities for women in the sector. Men can go out with guns, protecting the business and enforcing the O'Kane rules, but women typically stay inside. When times are particularly violent, Dallas O'Kane dictates that no woman will go outside without a man accompanying her. Though Lex becomes "queen," no other women act as counselors or decision-makers when it comes to O'Kane business, a situation mirrored in the other sectors, all of which are ruled by men (with the significant exception of Sector Two, the sector devoted to prostitution). When it comes to leadership and decision-making, gender equality is only limitedly at play.

Another bothersome issue: while the series celebrates female sexuality, and the characters are each devoted to different specific kinks (receiving pain, exhibitionism, watching, inflicting pain, controlling others during sex), all the women ultimately "submit" to their male lovers. The series casts sexual submission as powerful in itself—"This was pleasure. This was power, bringing Ace to his knees while she was on hers" (Jealousy page 74)—and something of which a woman should not be ashamed, something that is ultimately freeing, not constraining: "Begging was her final grasp for control, and being denied was permission to let go and float on freedom" (Jealousy page 263). I wouldn't have a problem with this construction at all, if only each woman in the series did not follow the same trajectory. But to construct female sexual submission as the only way to achieve sexual freedom strikes me as almost as limiting as constructing any type of female sexuality as shameful.

Finally, female sexual submission plays out symbolically in the concept of the "collar," a gift from a male O'Kane lover to his female lover, one that promises "that things were serious, that there would be no friendly visits to hookers or casual fucking with other friends. Well, or at least that they'd visit the hookers and fuck the friends together" (Jealousy 1708). Everyone gets an O'Kane tattoo, but only a woman gets a physical collar, or, if in a committed, long-term relationship, a collar tattooed onto her skin (the one exception comes in book 2, when Dallas and Lex, king and queen, get matching tattoos, each sporting the name of the other on the back of his/her neck).

Compared to Eden, to the communes, and to the other sectors, Sector Four seems the epitome of sexual freedom for women. But is this only because the other options Rocha allows her characters are so utterly sexist/abusive?

Curious to see what other Rocha readers make of the intertwining of sexism and feminism in these books...

Kit Rocha, Beyond series

self-published, 2012-2014 and beyond

Feminism and BDSM: Teresa Noelle Roberts' KNOWING THE ROPES

Feminism and BDSM (Bondage/Discipline/Domination/ Submission/Sadism/Masochism) have a long and fraught relationship. Feminists concerned about the violent, coercive elements of patriarchal discourse have suggested that BDSM is a reflection of the woman-hating inherent in patriarchy, and believe that any women participating in BDSM, or involved in a BDSM relationship, has simply been brainwashed into colluding in her own oppression. Feminist proponents of BDSM argue that such criticisms are a form of sexual policing, a policing just as coercive and repressive as the patriarchy protesters aim to undermine. If a woman enjoys being submissive, being spanked, or even being beaten as part of erotic or even non-erotic play, as long as she has consented to partake in such acts, then her sexual choices should be none of anyone's business. Even a feminist's.

Given this wide divergence of feminist opinion on the topic, I've been wondering about the possibility of a feminist BDSM romance. What would such a novel have to contain in order to satisfy feminist sensibilities of both types? Teresa Noelle Roberts* must have been wondering, too, for her new erotic romance, Knowing the Ropes, clearly works to address the concerns of both feminist opponents and feminist proponents of kinky pain, not only debunking myths about BDSM but pointing out its potential feminist pitfalls, particular for women who take on the submissive role.

At the start of Knowing The Ropes (which might better have been titled Learning the Ropes), our nearly thirty-year-old protagonist Selene Daniels, a graduate student who has worked with victims of domestic abuse, is about to attend her first "Boston Kinksters United" meet and greet. Her pressing question is the same one shared by many feminists: is there a line between consensual kink and abusive violence? And if so, where is it? Despite her professional interests, even despite having witnessed domestic abuse in her childhood best friend's family, Selene finds herself craving "pain mixed with her pleasure, to want so desperately to give up some of the control other women were fighting to regain." As a newbie to the BDSM scene, Selene thus serves as a stand-in for readers who might share her curiosity and doubts, as well as her unfamiliarity with and stereotypes of the rules and practices of the BDSM community.

As we travel with Selene, readers are introduced to both "doms to duck"—arrogant cavemen who show little respect for the women whom they seek to dominate—and "alpha-in-a-good-way" doms—men who, though they enjoy taking on a dominant persona for the purposes of sexual or other play, do so with respect, kindness, and sometimes even love for their partners. As Selene thinks when she meets good-alpha Nick, who doesn't completely look the part: "Even a dom couldn't be all imposing and serious and stern 24/7, or he'd be impossible to deal with." Doms come in all shapes, sizes, and ideological persuasions; finding a dom who is not a sexist pig is possible, but only if you're aware of the differences that exist between men who are into BDSM.

Readers also get to meet a troubling submissive, one set up in opposition to heroine Selene. When first meeting her, Nick intuits that Selene "didn't take shit from anyone. She might take orders, if it entertained her, but not shit. And she got it. She might be new to the scene, but she got that it was about people shaping fantasies, not fantasies shaping people." Nick's old girlfriend, Natalie, however, threw Nick over because he wouldn't dominate all aspects of her life. Later, Natalie finds herself in the midst of an emotionally and physically abusive rebound relationship, a relationship that she can only be persuaded to leave because of Selene's previous experience counseling victims of abuse.

Natalie, though, still feels guilty for leaving her "master." "Slaves don't get to ask, except maybe once in a while when we've pleased our master.... We exist to please our masters. It's not about us. We get our pleasure from pleasing," Natalie tries to explain to Selene. While Selene finds the idea of ceding more control to Nick a turn-on ("loved but controlled, with status and respect but with rules and rituals to follow"), she finds Natalie's willingness to be locked up, punched in the face, denied clothing and even contact with anyone besides her "master" unhealthy and scary. Natalie's extreme form of submission is a problem not just for the submissive partner, but also for the dominant one: "Control was one thing, but that was way too much responsibility for someone else's life and safety, like having a perpetual toddler. How could the dom ever relax?" Natalie thus proves to be the example of the "bad sub," one who does seem to embody feminist fears that a submissive BDSM woman is truly victimized by patriarchal desires, while Selene, who keeps her self-respect and sense of self even while sexually submitting to Nick, provides the example of a sub who is also able to commit to feminist ideology and activism in other parts of her life.

As Selene becomes more involved with Nick, readers learn about the rules BDSM'ers use to keep the "play" "safe, sane, and consensual." First is the importance of informed consent. "Consent's definitely key, even if we're all pretending we're forcing you," Nick tells Selene before their first BDSM encounter.

Second is the necessity of having a discussion about rules and expectations before any BDSM encounter takes place: "And then he proceeded to ask her a series of no-holds-barred questions that made her squirm on the leather couch in a combination of embarrassment and lust. After they'd gone over her experiences... and the things that were absolutely off-limits... the subject turned to her fantasies." As in any sexual relationship, but especially important in a relationship involving pain, not just pleasure, open communication is vital.

Last is the concept of the "safe word," a word the submissive can say if the violence of the play goes beyond the boundaries of acceptability. Natalie believes that safe words are a cop-out, and shouldn't be used by "real" subs. But as Nick and Selene's relationship shows, sometimes even a "fun" scene can unintentionally slip over into frightening or dangerous. Without a safe word, "good" pain can all too easily morph into "bad."


If BDSM is all about highly unbalanced power relationships, while feminism is about creating relationships in which power is shared between equals, can the two ever intersect? At the crux of a feminist BDSM, at least in Roberts' depiction, is that the BDSM power imbalance must be regulated, set within protective boundaries. And that it must occur between consenting individuals, each of whom understand and accept said boundaries. And, perhaps most importantly, that the thrill come not just from the power differential, but also from the sharing, and satisfying, of another's fantasies: "No, not callous, because it was exactly what she needed, exactly one of her fantasies, and it seemed clear to her that Nick not only knew that but was turned on precisely because of it, because her fantasy and his collided so precisely."

I didn't always find Selene and Nick's romance emotionally compelling. Because their kink is not mine? Or because the progress of their romance felt a bit too programmatic at times, a bit too much like a deliberate lesson? But I still found Roberts' novel worth reading. Because her story struck me as a good one to "think" with—introducing me to concepts and practices that I had read about in the abstract but had a difficult time imagining actually occurring between two consenting adults, especially feminist adults, giving me a jumping-off point to think about the implications of them. Given that studies suggest at least 1 in 10 American adults has experimented with S&M, many of them women, dismissing BDSM practice as without any feminist value seems shortsighted. Roberts' novel helped me to imagine what rules have to be in place in order for feminism and BDSM to find common ground.

Do you believe that feminism and BDSM are mutually exclusive? If not, in what romance/erotic novels do you see the two portrayed as compatible, rather than in opposition?



* Disclaimer: Both Teresa Noelle Roberts and I are members of the New England Chapter of the Romance Writers of America.


Photo/Illustration credits:
"Quit Judging Me": memegenerator.net
Safe word: redbubble.com

Teresa Noelle Roberts, 

Knowing the Ropes. 

Samhain, 2013.

Next time on RNFF

Fooling the Reader: 

Narrative Tricks and Treats