When I was in my mid-twenties and just starting to discover my kinkiness, I went to a lot of play parties. I was never much of a participant, but I liked being a voyeur, seeing the things I’d previously only read about come to life right before me. I could watch someone—not porn stars, just regular people—get punched, spanked, flogged, whipped, tickled, teased, tortured, fisted, live and in person.

Attending events taught me there was a community of fellow perverts who were into some of the same things I was, and even if we didn’t share a specific kink, there was a commonality of spirit. I liked the rules that went along with BDSM, the mantra of “safe, sane and consensual.” That made complete sense to me.

Over the past few years, I’ve shied away from public sex or play parties because I prefer my bouts of limited exhibitionism to take place in other arenas. Recently, though, I found myself at a party I hadn’t consented to attend—I hadn’t even known it was a play party.

I can’t reveal too much about the logistics or specifics, but I can say that because I wasn’t prepared, I felt not only out of place, but extremely uncomfortable. I didn’t have a date, which I don’t mind, but I couldn’t relax. I was surrounded by complete strangers and had to wait to get a ride in order to leave. I felt trapped.

I wound up watching a scene involving fire and wax play and bondage that definitely squicked me. While I try to be extremely nonjudgmental about other people’s kinks, that doesn’t mean I can’t have a reaction to something I’m seeing—and my immediate reaction was fear. For a few minutes, I also got roped into holding a rope (yes, that wordplay was intentional) and wasn’t comfortable being part of the scene.

It can be hard to take in an extreme scene, even when you know the bottom is into it. I think it’s made easier when you’re familiar with at least some of the people involved, when you have a sense of their limits and prior experiences. This scene came as a shock to me, one that was heightened by not being able to leave when I wanted to.

I got through it, but it was an interesting lesson. It made me realize that SSC is a wonderful slogan, but it’s not just about those acting in a scene, it’s about everyone around them. The meaning behind it is lost if people put pressure on others to do things they’re not comfortable with.

I was hit on at the party, which I found ironic because I was in the least sexy headspace imaginable. “I’m not really into hooking up with strangers,” I said. I was pestered as to my reasoning. “I guess I’m too…romantic,” I replied, a hint of apology in my voice.

“I’m romantic too,” my would-be suitor told me, before mentioning his fiancé. It wasn’t the fun kind of flirting where you joke and wink and nudge, and the other person does it back. This style said, There’s something wrong with you if you’re at a play party and don’t want to get naked. Sure, I may have been reading into it a little, but not by much.

That’s part of the reason I don’t go to public parties very often. Despite the supposedly laissez-faire, anything-goes, no-pressure attitude, there are people who do think you’re fair game if you even set foot in such an event.

I don’t by any means want to paint the BDSM community or play parties in a negative light. This was one instance out of the many I’ve attended in my life, but that feeling of not having any control reminded me of what a scene gone wrong might be like. I didn’t have an escape route, and that, more than anything happening around me, was the worst part. When I’m in New York, I can always leave if I feel the need to get away; a subway station will be within walking distance. Not so where I was staying, and that experience was totally new for me.

There might be times in the future when I’m more amenable to going to play parties, but I’m much more excited about cuddling in a cozy bed and watching TV and having sex—even rough, kinky sex—in private, than I am about entering into an unknown public space. I do like being a voyeur, and get very into watching other people act out their fantasies, live and up close. But the heart of voyeurism is consent, because otherwise, there is no point, and in fact, watching can go from something arousing to something disturbing if you don’t want to be there.

I used to think there was some sort of kinky litmus test, that the more “out there” you were, the better, but I see now that kink is ultimately about different strokes for different folks. I could elaborate on the scene that squicked me, but doing so would make me sound like I was “right” and the people engaging in it were “wrong,” and that’s not the case—it just wasn’t my thing.

The worst part—the part that I see as antithetical to what I love about the BDSM community—was not knowing what was going to be taking place so I could make an informed decision about whether or not to attend. Ultimately, I think it was a healthy experience because I proved to myself that I could get through it, and I learned about some of my limits. It’s important to know what your boundaries are, so you can stand up for yourself if you need to.

Going forward, I’ll make sure to ask questions and know what I’m getting into, and also know that I don’t have to say yes to anything, even if someone is trying to make it sound as casual as holding a piece of rope.