Blood in a Kinky Context: My Blood Kink Explained

A white person's face (mine) with blood streaming from each nostril, because I had a nosebleed and it gave me blood kink feelings. I have a nose ring and a lip ring, and I'm very cute.

Note: This post discusses blood, including menstrual blood and bleeding as a result of self-harm, in the context of exploring my own blood kink. If those are hard topics for you, give this one a miss – and maybe check out some of my other posts on kink instead.


Blood, generally speaking, stays inside of people.

There are two notable exceptions to this. The first is when an injury is sustained which causes bleeding, and this is generally seen as a bad thing. It alarms the person injured and those around them, and the blood is usually cleaned up once the flow is stemmed. The second notable exception is menstruation, wherein a secret kind of blood is kept inside a person’s underwear, disguised with scented hygiene products and disposed of as quickly and thoroughly as possible.

Humans are often freaked out by blood (their own or other people’s) because, instinctively speaking, blood signals danger to us. There are additional layers of shame and misogyny attached to menstrual blood, as well as a layer of educated concern about infection transmission attached to any blood at all. Some people faint at the sight of blood, and this is easy to understand.

I am intrigued by the sight of blood, which is less straightforward.

I’ve always been fascinated by the hot, redder-than-red liquid that comes out of me in various contexts. I have a vivid memory, from when I was around eight, of watching my face in a hand mirror as I stretched my bottom lip so that the dry skin on it cracked and a huge, glistening orb of blood rose to the surface. I licked it up and enjoyed the taste, but I knew it was weird at least enough to refrain from mentioning it to anybody.

When I menstruate, I interact with the blood. I don’t just rip my pad from my gusset or dump the contents of my menstrual cup with efficiency and detachment – I play with the stuff. I put my finger at the entrance of my vaginal canal and then taste it. I empty my menstrual cup slowly and with reverence, watching my own viscera paint the inside of the toilet bowl crimson.

And when I engage in self-harm (which happens much less frequently than it used to), I play with that blood too. Once I’ve experienced the sharp rush of endorphins that hurting myself can give me, I soothe myself with the taste and texture of my blood. I let it drip. I am slow to dress my wounds because I enjoy what comes out of them. I recognise that that doesn’t sound terribly healthy, but it’s one aspect of self-harm that I think is more self-regulatory than self-destructive. I am, in effect, stimming with my blood. If I had a pint of it readily available, I could self-soothe without necessarily involving self-injury.

A lot of autistic people have strong aversions to, or affinities with, certain colours. I like any deep, rich ones – blood red, navy blue, Cadbury’s purple – and I especially like when they’re translucent, so I can see the world through them. (I own a red glass and a few samples of lighting gels for exactly this reason.) Combined with the distinctive taste and the variety of textures that blood boasts (runny! A little bit thickened! Unsettlingly gloopy!), it makes sense that I have a sensory, autistic fondness for blood.

But of course, in kink, it runs deeper than that. (Is that a blood pun?) For all of the above reasons, the sight of blood is culturally charged, absolutely buzzing with instinct-driven fear and society-driven taboo. When blood happens during kink, it feels profound. Blood is one of the most intimate fluids you can share with another person. As a submissive, bleeding during a scene feels so vulnerable and so dangerous that it acts as a demonstration of obedience and devotion. When I’m topping, seeing my bottom’s blood is a marker of their trust, a sign that they’re giving their body wholly to me. Either way, it’s as delicious psychologically as it is taste-wise.

My favourite ways to bleed in a scene are “accidentally”. I put that word in quotation marks because it’s never truly an accident; the only dominant partner I have who draws blood in scenes does so knowingly (there’s only so many times you can hit someone with a meat tenderiser without breaking skin), and we’ve discussed fluid transmission and our respective STI status very, very thoroughly. But I love bottoming, submitting, in a scene where someone beats me so hard that I bleed without fully expecting to, so lost in the sensation of getting hurt that the blood is a pleasant surprise at the end. I like bleeding as a secondary outcome to a scene, something my dominant partner is almost indifferent about – I like the sense that my bleeding isn’t terribly important. I think that might come from years of self-harm, when my bleeding was terribly important to my mum, my friends and my doctor, but it’s also a side-effect of objectification. Think, “I don’t really care that you’re bleeding on the sheets; I wanted to beat you, and I did. Now, I’m going to fuck your throat, and then we’re going to put a load of laundry on.”

My own menstrual blood appearing during sex is incidental to me unless I get (or am “forced”) to lick it off some fingers, a toy or a cock, in case you were wondering.

I think what I love most about bleeding in a kinky context is how human it makes me, how mortal, how connected to my body. It’s primal. It’s so natural, and yet so starkly surprising because of how thoroughly afraid of it we are and how infrequently we see it as a result. It’s impossible to ignore – even if you get past the saturated red tone of it, it smells like blood – and it can be oh, so satisfying to endure a scene in which I bleed, to ride out the caveman-brained panic of seeing it and to breathe through and ride the highs of the pain that accompanies it. I love blood in the same ways I love kink: it’s fucked up and delicious, it feels dangerous and intimate, and it’s so, so real and inescapable. It grounds me. Ironically, in spite of my caveman brain telling me that my own blood is a sign of danger, when done right, a bloody scene can help me to feel safe.

Safe, Sane and Consensual (SSC) vs. Risk Aware Consensual Kink (RACK)

Stock photo of a white tin case with red text which reads "First Aid case"

If you’re new to the world of BDSM, you may have heard the terms “SSC” and “RACK”, and you may be confused as to what exactly they mean, whether they differ from each other and which is better to use. So let me start at the beginning: they’re names for schools of thought within BDSM regarding, essentially, safety and best practice.

SSC = Safe, Sane and Consensual.

RACK = Risk-Aware, Consensual Kink.

There are other versions of these (such as PRICK, which stands for “Personal Responsibility, Informed Consensual Kink”, and CRASH, which stands for “Consensual, Risk-Aware, Shit Happens”), but they’re not as commonly used as SSC or RACK. You’re more than welcome to generate your own code of ethics and best practice within BDSM, and it doesn’t even need a cool acronym, but the benefit of terms like SSC and RACK is that lots of other kinksters are aware of their meanings, which makes communication with those kinksters that little bit more streamlined.

I have to confess, I am firmly a RACK person. I understand the appeal of SSC, especially to newcomers. We all want to believe that the things we do, in kink and in life, are safe and sane. The first problem, though, lies in the subjectivity of both of those words. Imagine you’re talking to someone from, say, 1600. You explain to them that we have huge metal carriages, called “cars”, that can travel at up to 270 miles an hour, and that even in everyday use they can exceed 70. You acknowledge that sometimes, the drivers of these “cars” can lack skill or focus, and sometimes they lose control of their vehicles. Then you reassure your new friend that we have crossings in place, where cars are legally mandated to stop, so that pedestrians can move from one side of the road to the other. They’re only slightly relieved by this, and they are aghast when you follow it up with, “But some people just nip across the road where there isn’t a crossing at all.”

To someone from 1600, that seems both unsafe and fucking insane, but to us, it’s Tuesday. Our understanding of safety changes from decade to decade and person to person. Some people won’t eat raw cookie dough because they deem it unsafe. Some people will do several recreational substances in a field with their friends, with no phone signal nor sober people onsite. (Not me, of course; I would never). People do things that they think are safe but that others do not, and some people do things that they know to be unsafe, because we’re all blessed with bodily autonomy, no matter how recklessly we use it.

There’s also the issue that some kink acts just cannot be made safe. YouTuber Evie Lupine did a wonderful video on this topic, citing breath play and the use of restraints as being among the things that beginners dip their toes into without a full awareness of the risks involved. SSC suggests that kinksters should only engage in play that is safe, but that takes a lot of activities off the table, or else minimises the risks those activities pose. Implying that things like choking are safe, rather than fraught with risks that can be mitigated, is dangerous, especially for beginners. It’s for this reason I prefer the “Risk-Aware” label.

Then there’s the “sane” issue. First, as outlined above, our understanding of what is and isn’t sane to do varies wildly. I don’t think that skiing is a sane thing to do (just chuck yourself down a snowy mountain! With some sticks! It’s fine!), but other people either disagree, or do it anyway. The implication that some types of play can be insane is troublesome, because the distinction between sane and not-sane is different for everybody and because if there are not-sane ways to play, what does that mean for the people who practice them?

The thing is, I know I am not a sane person by most definitions. I experience mild hallucinations, some delusions, huge emotional responses and more, and the idea that sanity is a requirement for kink is… troubling. By focusing instead on risk awareness, I can participate in kink so long as I comprehend the risks and can give informed and unimpeded consent (unimpeded meaning not affected by, nor primarily motivated by weird brain things). I’m sure people who prefer SSC don’t have any ableist intentions, but in suggesting that kink has to be sane, SSC runs the risk of alienating people who aren’t, strictly speaking, sane themselves.

I don’t judge people who use SSC rather than RACK – I’m sure they have their reasons for doing so, and everyone is entitled to set their own rules regarding how they approach BDSM. But I’m always going to err on the side of risk-awareness over insisting on safety and I’m always going to shy away from insistence upon sanity, and I hope y’all can understand why.

Why Do I Keep Finding Autistic People In My Kink Communities? (For #AutismAcceptance Month)

Gummi bears lined up in a grid. Most of them are clear, but the one in the centre is red, like an autistic person in the midst of neurotypical people

Now, this might just be a Me Thing™, but I find that autistic people are disproportionately easy to find in kink settings.

Conservative estimates suggest that 1 in 100 people in the UK are autistic. Even if there were 100 people at every munch, social or class I’ve ever been to, and even if I was, miraculously, extroverted enough to talk to every single one of them, statistically speaking I should’ve been the only autistic person in the room. I have found, however, that this is rarely the case.

If you, like me, are wondering why autistic people seem over-represented in kink settings, read on; I have some theories.


1. A lot of kinks involve sensory-seeking behaviours.

Obviously I can’t speak for every single autistic kinkster out there, but one of the things I enjoy the most about practising kink is the sensory component of it. The way that rope smells, the rhythm of a beating, the secure hug of being strapped to something – all of these things are sensory experiences. And in kink, we’re not just pursuing sensory experiences covertly, like when I’m in a busy shopping centre and I discretely tap my fingertips against my thumbs to attempt to self-regulate. In kink, we’re supposed to wholly lean into the sensory experiences we’re creating.

Additionally, dungeons and the like are more or less designed to make it so that you can focus entirely on the sensory experience at hand. They often have some areas for louder play and some quieter ones, and there won’t be any overwhelming distractions like a TV playing or people bumping into you. A well-designed dungeon is a safe sensory haven for the autistic kinkster.

2. Everyone in kink communicates more explicitly.

In vanilla life, communication with others can sometimes feel like an uphill battle. People use sarcasm and euphemism, they hedge their statements, and sometimes they say things they straight up don’t mean. (I still struggle to understand that the question, “How are you?” is not a request for information about how I actually am, but rather a relationship-building pleasantry that requires me to say something banal that’s easy to respond to.)

In kink, however, people are somewhat more forthcoming. Plenty of kinksters have Yes/No/Maybe lists that make their preferences clear, and there’s generally a heightened degree of openness in settings where anal fisting and inverted suspensions are being discussed. A culture of consent means that people feel more comfortable saying what they actually mean.

(However, I do feel the need to point out to some of my fellow autistic kinksters that people in kink settings aren’t always 100% forthcoming. Sometimes, when people feel uncomfortable saying, “No, thank you” to a proposition – because you are or are read as a man, because they’ve been harassed before, or simply because they want to be polite and avoid hurting your feelings – they will often use a ‘soft no’ instead. A soft no is something like, “Maybe another time,” or, “I’m not really sure.” It can be tempting to follow that up by asking when they would like to play with you or otherwise pressing them about it, but generally, a soft no won’t turn into a firm yes. It’s always better to say, “Okay, thank you anyway!” and then, if they actually are interested in playing with you “another time”, they can come and seek you out.)

3. Kink is outside of the mainstream, so autistic people feel right at home.

Plenty of people in kink settings have experience of being belittled, mocked or shunned for things they do in their personal lives – and even when they don’t, they’re aware that it’s a possibility. So it follows that plenty of people in kink are empathetic to people who, for reasons relating to neurodivergence, have also never felt too comfortable in mainstream society.

This is not to say that neurotypical kinksters face discrimination and oppression on the same level as neurodiverse folks, but they certainly know more about how it feels to be rejected by mainstream culture than vanilla neurotypical people do. Moreover, there’s a pretty high correlation between people who practice BDSM and people who identify as LGBTQ+, and those people are even more likely to understand what it’s like to exist outside of societal norms and to have to fight for one’s own human rights. This helps kinky spaces to be welcoming and accommodating to neurodiverse people and helps those people feel safer and more able to be their authentic selves.


If you’re autistic and you’re not sure whether you’d be welcome in your local kink scene, I hope this post has reassured you somewhat. Not only will you have built-in conversation topics available to you, since kinksters all have at least one thing in common (kinkiness!), but you’ll probably find your local munch or dungeon to be a welcoming environment where everyone is a little (or a lot) ‘odd’ by mainstream standards. I think it’s pretty likely that you’ll fit right in.