Sex Issue: A Night at The Mark

"We’re all grown-ups here,” says the gray-haired lady at the counter as she hands me a clipboard and pen.

That’s her summary of the consent form attached to the clipboard — a simple agreement stating that I’m an adult, and that adult things are OK with me. She wipes my name from the dry-erase board where it had been written alongside a list of the night’s first-time guests — there are three other first-timers at this Saturday night party at The Mark, Nashville’s world-class BDSM/kink/fetish center.

The sex-positive space is housed in an impressive 6,000-square-foot building that’s located in an industrial neighborhood, which provides a kind of built-in privacy — after work hours, the area is practically empty.

As I walk into what’s known as the social room, I sidle up to a woman who’s also here for her first visit — we sip tea and chat next to a long fireplace that reminds me of the kind you see in high-end hotel lobbies. Two bearded men are wearing kilts, one shirtless and one in a T-shirt that references The Lord of the Rings. I overhear conversations about Pokémon GO and Star Trek, and a pregnant woman happily reveals that she’s recently discovered she’ll be having a boy. It’s all as familiar as the banter you might expect to hear at a cozy neighborhood coffee shop. And then a woman wearing nothing but a skimpy lace bra and panties walks by. The conversation briefly pauses while everyone watches her walk across the room, their heads turning in unison as if they’re front-row at Wimbledon. 

In the main room — sometimes referred to as the “play space” — a man named Mercury is midway through giving a tour to the other newbies. I’ve gotten the tour before, but Mercury, the executive director of the all-volunteer nonprofit CPI, which runs The Mark, waves me over anyway. Since I last wrote about The Mark for the Scene in 2013, the club has moved locations. Then, as now, I was impressed by The Mark’s culture of consent. The club has three guiding principles — “Safe, Sane and Consensual.” That means abuse is not tolerated, drugs and alcohol are not allowed, and clear-headedness is required at all times. There are no private rooms, everything is discussed in advance, and every detail is agreed upon by the participating parties.

In 2017, a local TV news outlet aired a story revealing the club’s location and compromising the identities of its members. It was a seismic event for The Mark community that has taken much time and energy to overcome (and part of the reason why we will not disclose any identifying details in this story). Among The Mark’s members are teachers, attorneys, IT professionals, ministers. They can’t afford to have their identities compromised. 

As the first-timers disperse from Mercury’s tour, I watch as a serious-looking man rolls a stack of utility boxes over to the Saint Andrew’s cross I’m standing near. A Saint Andrew’s cross — a large, X-shaped piece of equipment to which a person is restrained — is a mainstay of any sex dungeon, Mercury tells me. The one at The Mark was especially enviable; it’s made from Southern yellow pine, and weighs 440 pounds.

The serious man pulls out dozens of tools, mostly paddles and whips. At first I think he’s setting up a merch table, because there appear to be several duplicates among his collection. When asked, he kindly tells me he’s setting up for a scene. “Scene” is common lingo for a kinky encounter — kink has a lot in common with theater, and its terminology often reflects that. At The Mark, a scene is well-planned, and its parameters are agreed upon in advance. The man’s unpacking ritual seems almost as valuable as his ultimate purpose — to use the tools to inflict both pain and pleasure.

I walk over to a man and woman who have set up another scene on a medical-exam table. The man has a kind face, and is sitting with a briefcase filled with old-fashioned vibrators — the kind I imagine were used by doctors treating patients for “hysteria” in the late 19th century. As he approaches his partner at the table, he begins stroking her stomach with a gentleness more akin to a caretaker than someone just looking to get laid. There’s less machismo in the room — even with the naked women and the lube and the dildos — than what I’ve experienced in an average sports bar. At one point, the woman on the table laughs and says to her partner, “This has been a great day!” before shooting me a wide smile.

The ceiling is covered with chains and metal rings that are lowered for various types of rope play. A large pulley — which Mercury tells me was a donation from a member — has various attachments that can be clipped onto with carabiners. A petite woman dressed in a pastel corset and tutu spins on a large metal ring like an elfin acrobat as she ties herself into various rope configurations — always with emergency shears nearby. She grins proudly at no one in particular.

The woman in lingerie who’d turned so many heads back in the social room is actually on the job this night — she’s working as the party’s floor manager, supervising the space and making sure everyone has what they need. At one point, the serious man at the Saint Andrew’s cross comes over to ask if the music is playing at its normal volume. The floor manager checks it — he’s right, it’s a couple of notches lower than usual. The change is so slight that I don’t notice the difference — but the cross man is clearly used to a certain standard, and this is a rule-following crew. He returns to the fully naked woman he’s strapped to the cross and resumes striking her with a long leather whip.

The head-turning floor manager isn’t a Nashville native — she moved here about five years ago after extensively researching cities that fit two specific parameters: excellent higher-education programs, and a thriving kink community. 

Nashville, she tells me, was at the top of her list.