Wrestling With God (and BDSM)

In the biblical story of Jacob (Genesis 32, if you’re taking notes), we stumble upon one of the oddest fight scenes in history.

Picture this: Jacob, alone under the stars one night, suddenly finds himself in a Bronze Age MMA showdown with a mysterious stranger. They wrestle all night, limbs flailing, dust flying, until the break of dawn.

Jacob, refusing to let go despite a rather inconveniently dislocated hip, demands a blessing from his opponent. The man, who turns out to be God, because why not? grants the blessing and says, “You have struggled with God and with humans and have overcome.”

For most of us, this cosmic grapple with the universe happens in our teenage years, when we first start questioning everything.

Why are we here? What’s the point? Why do Americans always sit behind me in the theatre and talk so loud?

These existential crises often lead to adolescent rebellions, misguided activism, or worse, plunging into the nihilistic void where quoting Douglas Adams and hoarding Bitcoin become the only forms of resistance against the absurdity of it all.

Yet, here’s the thing: that struggle can be fruitful. Wrestling with reality, uncomfortable as it is often leads to something worthwhile.

It’s the process by which we find peace, purpose, and, if we’re lucky, a faint understanding of who we are on this blue spinning rock. We wrestle until we, too, receive the “blessing” of our own identity.

I’ve had my fair share of wrestling matches with the existential and even literally with God, all in an effort to figure out who I really was.

It began at the tender age of 17, when I had the spiritual equivalent of being struck by lightning. I “found God” and ended up becoming a Christian pastor.

It was a paradigm shift so colossal it left me, and my small gang of heavy metal friends, thoroughly dazed and confused. But as anyone who’s ever grappled with a paradigm shift knows, they’re slippery little buggers and by the time I hit my mid-thirties, I’d “lost God” somewhere down the back of the bookcase between Richard Dawkins and Derren Brown.

What followed was my “Gap Decade,” a hedonistic free fall into sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. I moved into a penthouse in the heart of Manchester, the nation’s party capital and anointed myself the undisputed monarch of mayhem and the self-styled king of kink.

If I was going to have a mid-life crisis, I was going to do it with pointy shoes, big hair and jeans so skinny I could never procreate again. 

These extreme shifts in lifestyle naturally bring up questions of meaning and identity. Am I a backslidden sinner, doomed to eternal fire? Or should I just say “’av it,” grab Manchester by the balls, and live purely for the dance music and parties?

But when the chaos settles and the dust clears, the deeper questions inevitably emerge: what sort of person am I? More importantly, what makes me happy? Who do I want to be? And, digging even deeper, what does it mean to be a man? A good man? What does he want? How does he act?

These questions are hard enough on their own. Most men wrestle daily with what it means to be a good father, partner, or friend. God knows I have. But during my Gap Decade, as I abandoned the holy highway for uncharted hedonism, I faced something far thornier, something that completely reshaped my understanding of masculinity. I discovered BDSM.

I went from pastor to master, swapping the pulpit for the playroom, and was confronted by the most difficult topic of all: violence.

Let’s be clear as this is where things get morally messy. From the moment you’re old enough to toddle across the living room and shove the kid who just nicked your Lego, the rule is hammered in: Boys don’t hit girls. Full stop.

It’s a baseline of civilised behaviour, so deeply ingrained it feels as immutable as gravity. And yet, the statistics on male violence against women are chilling. The Mayor of London’s recent campaign is a stark reminder that not everyone got the memo or worse, some are willfully ignoring it.

And here’s where the waters get murky. At its core, BDSM involves acts that, out of context, can look disturbingly like violence. It’s a world of consensual pain, power dynamics, and physical vulnerability.

For someone like me, an ex-minister who saw all forms of violence as anathema to masculinity, stepping into that world was a moral minefield.

At its worst, BDSM can be a cover for abuse. We’ve all seen the headlines about predators weaponising terms like “kink” and “consent” to justify their actions.

But at its best, BDSM is something profoundly different: a structured, consensual space where power is given, not taken; where trust and communication reign supreme.

It’s not violence like the dictionary definition – “a behaviour intended to harm or destroy” – but something altogether more complex: a world where consensual, pain, punishment and domination is not only permissible but could serve as a source of sexual pleasure, catharsis, and even healing.

It wasn’t just a contradiction; it was a collision of values that demanded I find a resolution.

After more than a decade of sexual repression, I was desperate to explore the tantalising kinks that those stolen glimpses of pornography had teased me with.

But reconciling these opposing forces wasn’t something I could avoid or sugarcoat. I had to confront my beliefs, my desires, and my flaws, head-on. This was another wrestle with God, with my identity, and with what it truly means to be a man.

It was a fight to break free from the puritanical shackles of religion while holding onto the values that still felt worth preserving: love, trust, and respect. To embrace my sexuality fully, without shame, and to channel my fiery passions and boundless kinky-creativity into something bold, consensual, and yes, beautifully depraved.

But before I unshackle the beast and move on from the topic of violence, let me clarify a few things about BDSM.

First, my perspective is based on my own experiences, male dominant, female submissive. That’s not to say other dynamics aren’t valid or common, but I’m not qualified to speak for anyone but myself.

Second, when I talk about BDSM, I’m referring to mutually consensual play, light impact, sensual fun, a bit of slap and tickle, role play and some tease and denial. This isn’t about aggressively inflicting serious pain or harm; it’s about exploring boundaries safely and pleasurably between consenting adults.

And here lies the paradox:

1. I don’t want to hurt you.
2. I want to give you pleasure.
3. You get pleasure from being hurt.

This conundrum is the beating heart of BDSM, a syllogism that makes you question the very nature of care and intimacy.

Because let’s be honest—what kind of man wants to hurt someone they care about? The wrong kind. The kind no one should be with.

And yet, in the right hands, this dynamic is less about pain and more about trust, communication, mutual respect, and let’s not forget orgasms, massive ones, lots and lots of massive orgasms!

Consent is the bedrock of it all, and it’s more than just a “yes.” In BDSM, boundaries are clearly set, often with safe words that allow either party to stop at any moment.

Every aspect of the experience is agreed upon in advance, ensuring that what follows is safe, sane, and consensual. It allows us to let go, to build a safe fantasy world in which we can comfortably dwell for a couple of hours without triggers or fears pouring cold water on the flames of passion.

I use the traffic light system of “Green”, “Amber” and “Red” to get feedback from the submissive regarding the level of pain or stimulation they are experiencing.

After all I’m not a mind reader. I want them to escape into their fantasy without my anxiety worrying if they are OK or not, because I want to excel at my role, their master, their dominant, their Sir. The one they respect, fear, are turned on by and maybe even love. The stage must be set for the show to go on.

But here’s the sting in the spanking nettle, consent isn’t a magic wand that makes everything okay.

Even with safe words, traffic lights and agreements in place, this isn’t a fantasy world where anything goes because the long arm of the law rams its fist firmly in the centre of this playground. The legality of consensual acts that cause bodily harm is murky, shaped by a history of landmark cases that highlight just how complicated this territory can be.

Key Legal Precedents

• R v Brown (1993): this infamous case involved a group of men who were convicted for consensual sadomasochistic activities that resulted in actual bodily harm (ABH). The House of Lords ruled that consent was no defense for ABH, arguing that public policy requires criminal sanctions to protect society, even when everyone involved agrees.
• R v Wilson (1996): on the flip side, this case involved a husband who branded his initials onto his wife’s backside—with her consent. The Court of Appeal decided this was more akin to tattooing and fell within the realm of personal adornment. Consent, in this instance, was accepted as a valid defence.
• Domestic Abuse Act 2021: this law codified the principle that individuals cannot consent to serious harm for sexual gratification. It reinforced the precedent set in R v Brown, making it clear that consent does not excuse acts resulting in serious harm.

So, what’s allowed and what isn’t? 

Here’s the breakdown of where UK law draws its lines:

• Common Assault or Battery: this covers ‘unlawful physical contact’ that doesn’t result in significant injury, things like grazes, scratches, minor bruising, or reddening of the skin. These are considered ‘transient and trifling’ and could theoretically happen during light impact play or bondage.
• Actual Bodily Harm (ABH): this is where things escalate. ABH refers to injuries that are more than transient or trifling, like losing or breaking a tooth, extensive bruising, broken bones, or cuts requiring medical attention. And let’s be real: if these kinds of injuries are happening in your sex life, it’s not sex, it’s violence.

Let’s be clear: you must have consent, and you really don’t want to cause harm beyond a fleeting mark or a blush that fades with time. Even then, you could still be wading into legally murky waters.

So before you whip out the riding crop at the end of your first Feeld date, remember this: know your strength, have the conversation, start gently, and for the love of all that’s holy, make sure it’s consensual.

Now that we’ve got a rough grasp of the legal framework—and we’re assuming you’ve ticked all the boxes of consent and communication—there’s still the stingy issue of your internal moral dichotomy.

What do you do when you’re tying someone up, hearing them yelp, or even begging for mercy, and you realise…you’re turned on by it?

What’s actually going on when society tells you at every turn that men are violent aggressors, misogynists drowning in testosterone and toxic masculinity, and yet here you are, suddenly turned on because the bound girl in front of you cried out when you spanked her?

And let’s address the elephant in the red-room, what happens when she’s the one asking for it harder? (Yes, offended one, it’s true. Some women do like it rough) It’s a bit of a shock.

Suddenly, the tangled messages of modern masculinity become less of a theory and more of a full-blown crisis. You’re bombarded with conflicting voices: Be gentle! Be strong! Don’t spank! Spank harder! Overpower me!… Are you joking?

BDSM sex at first is enough to leave any modern man utterly knackered. And let’s be honest, it’s not doing your Viagra bill any favours if you’re spending half the night worrying about making her orgasm but not going to jail.

It was a head-f*ck for me initially, I would be overwhelmed with confusion and guilt and yet I was horny as hell. Just like Jacob, to get something out of this struggle, the real act of violence is not quitting before you get what you need.

Newsflash! The answer was shockingly simple: I actually had to talk to my partner about my feelings.

Not just the usual safe words, do’s and don’ts, but actual fears, desires, and needs. I know, scandalous.

But it doesn’t stop there. Brace yourself, I also had to listen to my partner also. Really listen. Discover what they enjoyed, what turned them off and on, how they saw themselves, the motives behind their fantasies, and what they were curious to try. Real communication.

This wasn’t about whispered sweet nothings in the heat of the moment. It was a sober, thoughtful, pre-sex conversation. Less glamorous than Hollywood’s lustful spontaneity, sure, but it was the foundation of trust and consent.

The first shocking revelation BDSM taught me was that I could talk to my partner about sex, fantasy and fears, without it feeling like a counselling session on how to fix your marriage.

The first layer of communication was about fear: my worries about not wanting to truly hurt them while still meeting our needs through playful ‘pain.’

Sharing this concern didn’t make me sound like “a p*ssy” as I feared, instead it supercharged the dynamic. Because, let’s be honest, sex is about more than penetration, it’s about connection and support, mentally, physically, and emotionally.

The second layer was about openness. For the first time, I could take half-formed sexual fantasies, ideas forged from years of porn and random turn-ons. And speak them aloud to an actual woman.

This was liberating! bringing reassurance and a sense of freedom I didn’t even realise I needed. To talk openly about the itches I would scratch when I privately mastibated, to a partner who would then say “OK, let’s do that, it sounds fun, sick, but fun” was truly like a blessing from God, realising me from years of depressed thinking that that this would never happen to me.

Through consent and communication, my partners and I created a world where power, strength, sex and masculinity, so often demonised as ‘the patriarchy’, could be safely explored.

I grew into an assertive lover and disciplinarian; they obeyed commands or faced punishment, they were tied, stripped and ravished. We laughed, f*cked, screamed and cried. It was primal, empowering, and hot as hell.

From there, BDSM became the gift that kept on giving. When the rubber hits the road—or, more accurately, the paddle hits the backside, something remarkable happens.

In this tightly controlled dance of power, pain, openness and pleasure, the noise of conflicting messages starts to fade. Suddenly, it’s not about fear and confusion; it’s about clarity. It’s where, I believe, men can ignite their positive masculinity, not through brute force or toxic posturing, but through trust, communication, and an appreciation of everybodies desires and needs.

So, what do I mean by positive masculinity?

Well, I’m not talking about the new hyper-diluted definitions that cram every emotional category and personality type into the mix. No, I’m talking about something more grounded, more fundamental. Through BDSM, I developed five key characteristics: Comforter, Enforcer, Protector, Creator, and Lover.

Over the rest of this series, I’ll unpack each of these, sharing the stories and experiences in BDSM that shaped my understanding of them. I’ll show you how they built my self-confidence, my career and helped me exorcise some of the biggest demons in my life.

For me, BDSM raised plenty of challenges, moral, legal, spiritual, and all deeply uncomfortable. Yet, in the thick of it all, as I wrestled with God, it found it wasn’t about a new way to get my rocks off. It went deeper.

It became a space where power, pain, passion, and communication become as entangled as the headphone wires in my skinny jeans pocket. It was a place where I had to invite my hidden self with all my anxiety, fears and shame to the play party and embrace him.

And in those BDSM sessions, when the lines between pain and pleasure created something truly remarkable, I found my blessing.

I discovered how to become a better man.