GLR January-February 2026

ESSAY Reclaiming the Sacred Dungeon U MAR I BRAHIM A GAIE

T HE ROOM IS DARK, though not empty. In the dim glow of red candlelight, figures gather around ritualized scenes, bondage and impact, submis sion and care. A domme’s voice speaks with a low and steady tone, breaking the respectful silence, leading with the invocation: “Breathe with me.” The room becomes silent again. The subtle sounds made by shifting bodies and settling leather stops. What follows is a uni form, shared respiration, the inhale and exhale of some 23 peo ple of various genders: leather-clad butches, elegant femmes, nonbinary figures beautified with rope and steel. Their faces are fixed in one direction, a central scene where a figure is carefully and artistically tied up in a complex pattern created with ropes— a practice known as shibari. The figure begins to sway slightly in unison with the rhythm. The domme places a steadying hand on their shoulder, a touch both firm and reverent, as the first strike falls on their bodies—not hurting, but with the solemn resonance of a bell. Beginning with the rise of institutional Christianity, later in tensified under colonial modernity, Western regimes have used Queer BDSM practitioners do not shy away from taboo; they embrace and consecrate it. In doing so, they transform sexuality into a source of healing and spiritual liberation. Rituals such as these elevate desire from being merely physical to the realm of ecstatic, embodied theology. This is a safe haven for souls cast out of churches, shamed in confessionals, or damned by doctrine. Here they confront decades of repression, turning taboos into holy acts and reshaping the relationship between spirituality and intimacy. Such queer BDSM communities craft sacred rituals that revere sexuality as a vital, spiritual force, challenging conserva tive notions and opening new pathways for understanding iden tity, power, and transcendence. R ITUALAS R ECLAMATION T HE DUNGEON IS A SACRED SPACE , a site of historical recovery, not a place of punishment and fear. It’s a site that represents rever ence. The origins of this spiritual insurgency were recorded in the archives of 1970s queer and feminist resistance, faded pho tocopied pages of lesbian-separatist zines, and the polemical Umar Ibrahim Agaie is a writer and advocate exploring the intersec tions of mental health, neurodivergence, and queer identity. every conceivable means to create a separa tion between sexuality and spirituality, label ing queer desire both sinful and scandalous. This forced belief system has generated pro found shame, reducing true erotic expression to the margins of accepted life. Yet in spaces like this dungeon, a thriving movement is try ing to change that.

manifestos of the Samois collective. In their 1981 book Coming toPower , members of the collective wrote that exploring power and sensation wasn’t about copying the patriarchy but about dis mantling it. They saw the dark room as a safe space where peo ple could transform their trauma, take control, and experience a kind of spirituality that wasn’t about rules but about being true to their desires. Theologian Marcella Althaus-Reid later called this an “indecent theology” in which the sacred is found in the hon est expression of desire, not in strict beliefs. Groups like the Church of Tantra combined BDSM with tantric practices, seeing erotic energy as a spiritual force (kun dalini) and the body as a temple. They treated the dungeon like a mystery school where people explored spirituality through power dynamics. Before enacting a BDSM “scene,” they’d carefully discuss limits, like setting a sacred intention. The “safe word” was like a powerful prayer, allowing the submissive to regain control instantly. This shows how power can be creative, not just restrictive. When people consensually explore domination and submission, they create a new reality built on trust and shared re lease. The body, often controlled by societal norms, becomes a source of deep, ecstatic understanding. become deeply aware of their body and feelings, letting go com pletely. This experience is similar to the self-whipping rituals of medieval mystics, but it’s not punishment. Instead, it’s about free dom awakening the body and treating it as something sacred. Shibari, or rope bondage, is more than just tying someone up; it’s a kind of hands-on, physical prayer. Like the beads of a rosary or the repeated chants in Sufi meditation, the rope acts as a touch based mantra. Every knot is like a breath, and every loop of rope is like a promise. The rope becomes a sacred thread that connects two people, creating a delicate web of beauty, feeling, and trust. The person being tied isn’t trapped; they’re gently held, carefully shaped, and honored, like a living symbol in a ritual of closeness and care. These archives demonstrate that queer BDSM didn’t create sacred eroticism from scratch. Instead, it bravely and carefully brought it back to life, reclaiming spiritual and sensual practices that were nearly wiped out by Christian colonialism. In doing so it has built a real, lived form of spiritual belief for people who need it most. T HE Æ STHETICS OF S UBVERSION I F THE RITUALS in the dungeon are like a worship service, then the art and visuals that come from it are its sacred texts. This is Impact play can be seen as a kind of med itation through physical sensation. When someone is struck repeatedly, whether with a hand, a flogger, or a paddle, the steady rhythm can help them enter a calm, trance-like state. In this state, their thoughts fade away, and they

Queer BDSM didn’t create sacredero ti cismfrom scratch, but it brought it back to life.

TheG & LR

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