Introduction

This is a long and sordid story, meant primarily for the eyes of the people involved in the situation. It primarily involves my conflict with the Harlots' camp lead, who was titled Head Slut, and how the conflict was handled by the Kiezburn awareness infrastructure of Carebears and Rangers. After Kiezburn, when I asked the Harlot community to establish an accountability process in order to handle situations like mine better going forward, Head Slut immediately removed me from the group chat. Thus, I feel justified in bringing my narrative to the public domain, as I need for my side of the story to be heard. A variety of incidents require clarification, so this narrative has become quite dense, but I would greatly appreciate if Harlots and the Kiezburn Accountability team read it in full. Your next issue of Teatime, hot and steamy, will be released in a couple of weeks.

Trigger warnings: mental health, chemsex, a brief mention of sexual trauma, descriptions of physical health issues, bullying

Receipts

Before the Burn

I met Head Slut on Christmas, at the party of a mutual friend. He had cooked some nice food, and appreciated mine. A couple months later, we connected again, and bonded over our mutual interest in cooking, Shibari, and dancing. He was involved in the local burner scene, which I hadn't yet explored in Berlin. I've been burning on and off for nineteen years, but had felt no urgency to start burning in Europe – burner culture was a familiar entity to me, and there were so many new and exciting other communities pulling my attention elsewhere. Nonetheless, when he spoke about the queer-centered, kinky theme camp he was an organizer for, I was very intrigued. He took me to a party hosted by a burner, and I was reminded of how cute and playful this community is. He suggested I apply to join his theme camp: the Harlots. I'm queer! I'm kinky! I began to consider it.

That night we went out to KitKat. We had a good night – he's a great club buddy, with an easy laugh and decent dance moves. At the end of the night, he suggested we go back to his place. I told him I wasn't interested in hooking up with him – we're both sexually dominant, I primarily seek sapphic relationships, and I don't date men that much older than me. He seemed to agree to this, and since I was not ready to sleep, we headed back to his place. He kissed me a couple times, and cuddled me in a constrictive, tight way that turned me off – it was clear to me at this point that our sexual energies were completely incompatible, and I restated that I wasn't available for a hookup. Nonetheless, it had been nice spending time with him – we shared some interpersonal struggles we were going through, and our thoughts about the world. I've only lived in Berlin for a year, and I'm still seeking deeper, emotional friendships. I hoped this might develop between us.

I left in the late morning.

He asked me to come over for dinner another night that week. I was hesitant – it felt like a date, and I knew I wasn't available for that kind of connection with him. We exchanged voice notes in which I shared with him that I was only available for a platonic friendship, and asked him whether he had platonic female friends. He affirmed that he did, while still trying to leave a window open for a future romantic connection for me. I stated, again, that this wasn't in the cards. He seemed receptive. We made plans to hang out again.

Over the next few months we quickly became quite close. Most of my existing community in Berlin comes from the Shibari scene, and I've built a beautiful cohort of sweet and sober-ish people there. But I am a bit of a hedonist, I love dancing, and I hadn't yet made any good friends who wanted to go clubbing with any regularity. Head Slut fit that role well.

It was always fun going out with him, and we began hanging out in the daytime too. Our daytime friendship was imperfect, to me – he primarily wanted to talk about his interpersonal struggles, and expected far more emotional labor from me than he himself provided. I held my tongue as he romantically obsessed over an old friend of his, invited her into the Harlots, and then decided to push her out once she rejected his advances. I did not hold my tongue when he told me the story of a woman who, mentally crashing after partying for the first time in a long time, wanted to leave his apartment, and how angry he was about her behavior. He told the story in a merciless way with no empathy for her mental context or wellbeing, and mentioned that at one point in the evening he told her that if she left his apartment it would damage their relationship. She ended the relationship after this, citing how uncomfortable she felt when he pressured her not to leave. I told him to never discourage a woman from going home, and to have some compassion for people undergoing mental distress when they're not sober. He received my criticisms with grace, but did not change the tone with which he spoke about her.

Every interaction he had with a woman he was attracted to seemed a bit calculated, with the goal of sleeping with her and then partnering with her. I'm a bit of a romantic, and initially found it charming how much he sought love – I didn't initially concern myself with the aggressive intention with which he pursued women. Other things bothered me more. He spoke harshly about women's bodies and sexiness, spoke unkindly about aging women, and clearly preferred much younger, submissive romantic connections. I watched a sapphic play partner of mine, who had previously stopped playing with him, reluctantly agree to a spanking on his birthday despite all her body language communicating disinterest. I didn't like it when he'd purse his lips and expect me to kiss him, although I did accept the kisses. I began to be concerned about the red flags I was seeing. Nonetheless, I still enjoyed his company and considered him a good friend. I suppose I have some "boys will be boys" rhetoric in my patriarchal indoctrination that needs re-examining. At this point I had been accepted into the Harlots. The other Harlots all seemed adorable, and I was excited for the burn.

The last time we went out together, I had a wonderful night at Kater Blau. His night was less enjoyable – he got visibly angry every time we crossed paths with a woman who had rejected him. When he suggested an afters at his place, I shared with him that I was very riled up from a flirtation with a woman at the club, but that I still didn't want to hook up with him. He agreed, and we headed to his place around dawn. At his apartment, he kept pushing me very strongly to take a shower and get into bed with him to cuddle. I had no desire to do this, and suggested we sit on the couch, which he refused. I ended up sitting on top of his covers in his bed as we chatted. He started touching my upper thigh. I reminded him that I was sexually frustrated, had no desire to hook up with him, and told him that I didn't consent to this touch. Instead of removing his hand, he moved it slightly down my leg. I felt uncomfortable, but didn't confront him. Instead I wrapped up the conversation amicably and left.

This was the last time that Head Slut was ever kind to me.

In the time that I've known him, I've seen a clear pattern of weaponizing his social status to retaliate against people who have sexually rejected him. Aside from me and the other woman he convinced to quit the Harlots after she rejected him, Head Slut shared a story about being so dysregulated at Kiezburn last year due to jealousy issues that a new Harlot ended up feeling unwelcome, and stayed away from camp for the whole burn. That is three people pushed out of Head Slut's camp in two years, all related in one way or another to sexual rejection.

Midway through the escalating conflict, I expressed bewilderment to a Harlot who had burned with him before about how he was treating me. They immediately asked, "Did he hit on you and you rejected him?" And this person was not even aware of any of these recent incidents! So he's been doing this for a while. I hope that people who read this and continue to build kink community with him hold space for the possibility of this pattern, and keep a protective eye out for FLINTA* newcomers to the community whom he expresses interest in. Being the target of his ire is a brutal experience.

I had signed up for Build Co-Lead and Program Co-Lead. I also got involved with the planning of a witch rave party on Saturday night, and received a Dream Grant for deco. It was a lot, but with burns I like to alternate – participate more some burns, and give back more others. I was looking forward to bringing some gothic diversity to Kiezburn.

My Program Co-Lead, the Elven Harlot, is a gentle, soft-spoken person with a sweet, playful, somewhat ethereal energy. They've been involved in the Harlots for years. They were busy with work around the Kiezburn program deadline, and thus I put the program together by myself in the course of a week and a half. It was a huge task, and between that and the witch rave organization, I was completely swamped with communications. At one point I was balancing twenty conversations with strangers per day. It was fun and exciting to sculpt the program, but it took over my life.

My Build Co-Lead was also struggling with a lot of personal responsibilities. We were having trouble communicating, and I thought he could easily handle the lead role alone as long as he had enough people for build. It seemed better if I stepped down as Build Co-Lead. I would still come early for build and just help out as one of the build minions.

I also had learned that the effigy was an octopus this year, and that it would be a collaborative aesthetic process, with each tentacle representing different aspects of the community. I loved the concept and wanted in. I checked with Head Slut about my desire to step down as Build Lead, and he said he supported it. I then notified my Build Co-Lead, reassuring him that I'd still be helping during build. For a few days, he didn't respond. I gave him some time to process before I would announce my stepping down to the larger group. During that time I signed up as a tentacle lead for the octopus, and began brainstorming with the lead artist about an electronics project for the octopus's eyes. Then, my Build Co-Lead announced to the Harlots that he wasn't going to come to Kiezburn at all this year. I realized that I was going to be forcibly re-crowned Build Lead, and that I was now completely and totally over-committed.

I spoke to Head Slut about the Build Co-Lead leaving. Despite my Co-Lead never mentioning me to Head Slut, Head Slut said, "It's really unfortunate. If someone else had been Co-Lead, perhaps he wouldn't have left. It's really a shame. I've burned with him before and had a nice time. But you're an unknown."

I was shocked, and hurt. We'd been hanging out twice a week for months. He was quickly becoming a good friend. How was I an unknown?

Cabin Party

I showed up at the Harlots' cabin pre-party a bit wild, after an underground queer rave the night before. I knew I was going to be messy, and kind of wanted to test the waters: to see if the Harlots could hold space for me at my silliest and most expressive, as I wanted to be able to let loose at the burn. I'm an informal performance artist: I design costumes, and enjoy moving and expressing myself as the characters that I've designed. I began pet-playing at the cabin, scampering around the rooms in raccoon ears and a tail. In chaos mode, I naughtily nicked a few Sternis from the hosts' private stash, with every intention of either contacting the hosts and wildly overpaying for my crimes (I was gonna leave a 20€ for 5 shared Sternis), or if the hosts were not amenable, replacing the beers the next day. A couple Harlots immediately ran to the store and bought a crate of Sternis, which I paid for in full and shared with the group throughout the party after replacing the "borrowed" ones.

After a good night's sleep at the cabin, I was feeling much more humanoid and ready to do some logistic planning for the burn. Sunday lunch was delicious: the best burrito I've had in Germany. The pre-party info sheet had stated that doing shifts during the cabin party was optional. I am a bit of a workaholic at times, and I had spent at least 40 hours the prior week getting the Harlots' workshop program together, and probably another 40 the week before that.

While making my raccoon costume the day before, I'd had a bad hot glue accident, and my hands were covered in second degree burns and blisters. I confirmed with a couple Harlots that I didn't need to sign up for shifts. It seemed fair to me to get to enjoy the party without getting involved in the food, considering how much work I'd put in the prior weeks.

After lunch, Head Slut told me to help clean up. I reminded him that I had burns on my hands. He should have been well aware of this, as we had done yoga together that morning and I'd mentioned that I couldn't follow any poses that put pressure on my hands. The blisters were also big and visible on my skin. He began to chastise me in a hissing, condescending voice about sharing the load of effort. I reminded him that I'd put at least forty hours into Harlots work that week alone. He replied, almost yelling, that he'd done over a hundred, which certainly wasn't true on that given week. I said "I'm just saying, we all help out in different ways" as gently as I could, and removed myself from the conversation.

We had the Harlots main meeting in the living room of the cabin, and then planned to have a breakout meeting for builders. I knew I was going to beg them to let me not be Build Lead, and I was stressed about the conversation. It was pleasant and overcast outside, and there was a huge shaded table on the patio. I suggested that we move the Build meeting outside. Head Slut refused, citing that they were already in the living room and the laptop would be harder to see outdoors. I insisted – it was overcast enough to see a screen, and I didn't really need him to take notes anyways. We'd been indoors during the main meeting for ages. I wanted to hit my vape, feel the fresh air, and enjoy the beautiful patio while we had this challenging conversation. Head Slut raised his voice with me. He spoke to me as if I was a disobedient toddler instead of the hardworking team member who wanted to lead their meeting in a different location. I stood my ground, but I was shaken – now twice in a row, Head Slut had spoken to me with this brittle, hateful tone that I didn't recognize. Where was our friendship? A sweet Harlot I didn't know well noticed how Head Slut spoke to me, and gently comforted me during the Build meeting.

In the meeting, I shared my situation, my commitments to the effigy, and my feeling of being overextended as Build Lead. I wanted to step down, but no one volunteered to take my place. I then said that at least I needed a Co-Lead who had been to Kiezburn and been a Harlot before. The Elven Harlot raised their hand to volunteer.

Since I hadn't been able to help with food, I helped strike the cabin party. Bewildered and hurt by Head Slut's treatment of me, I considered leaving the Harlots, and shared my concern with a couple of sweeties who were also sticking around for strike. They hadn't seen my interactions with Head Slut, but they assured me that he was just cranky in general, and convinced me to stay. In hindsight, I wish so much that I had trusted my gut and gotten out. Burning with the Harlots went so much worse than I could have possibly imagined.

I first asked Head Slut for a boundary conversation after the pre-party. I was really taken aback by his new way of treating me, and wanted to clear the air and get to the root of it so we could move on. He would repeatedly agree that we needed to talk, but never at that time. Meanwhile, everything became so tense. During small logistical conversations that shouldn't have any emotional weight, there was an anger in his tone that I had never heard from him before. Each time I backed down right away – I didn't want to escalate this conflict. Our conversations and walks in the park had stopped. At one point I texted him in the group chat expressing excitement that I was moving to his neighborhood, and he didn't respond. Once, on a logistic phone call where he was criticising me for accepting a Harlot's offer to make signs for the witch hut, I asked him, "What is this really about? What's going on?" He didn't answer.

Head Slut's other friend had been Inventory Lead, and no one had replaced her after she dropped out. But I needed to know the status of inventory for the sake of build. I informally became Inventory Lead, reviewing and updating the inventory spreadsheet, identifying missing materials, and setting up a contest to encourage people to help out gathering supplies. I was now leading inventory, the program, and build, far more than any other Harlot. I was also lead for a tentacle and the eyes of the effigy, which were now established as an elaborate electronic make with LEDs, mirrors and microcontrollers. I was co-organizing this witch rave, and facilitating at least two workshops. I was in trouble, and I knew it.

Build Weekend

Build was brutal. I arrived the Thursday before the burn to work on the effigy. On Saturday the rest of the Harlot Build team arrived. The Elven Harlot, my supposed Build Co-Lead, messaged the group that they had forgotten about a work meeting, and would not join us until Tuesday.

For much of Saturday and Sunday there were only four or five of us. Heavy storms passed through quickly and aggressively, meaning we constantly had to reprioritize, move things into shelter, and dig emergency ditches to prevent flooding. When it wasn't storming, it was brutally hot. I have dyshidrotic eczema, a condition where my skin becomes irritated due to prolonged contact with water. I hadn't had a flare-up in over a year, but the days of constant sweat and humidity caused me to have the worst outbreak of my life. I developed an itchy, painful, blistering rash on my hands, chest, feet, and thighs, with the worst aggravation on my hands, where some of the blisters started to crack into small wounds. In order to prevent more blisters from developing, I had to avoid getting my hands wet as much as possible. As build weekend progressed, every moment was colored by an undercurrent of itching and pain.

Saturday night, I had a panic attack from being overwhelmed by all my responsibilities, and misplaced my phone.

Throughout Build Weekend, every time we spoke, Head Slut glared at me, and treated me like a disobedient child. I was trying to spend most of my time at the Harlots build, while still keeping my effigy project moving forward, and everyone seemed angry at me that I couldn't be in two places at one time. Head Slut had no sympathy for my stress or my health condition. I never initiated conflict, and tried to keep things cheerful despite my own exhaustion and the struggles of build. When I asked him to help dig flooding ditches and he said he didn't have the capacity, I honored the boundary without question. When he gave away our unlabeled shovels to an unknown camp and then refused to go look for them, all I said was "bro!" before hauling my ass up and down the landing strip, asking every person I saw about the shovels. The Tool Haus said he deserved a spanking, and I wanted to find a fun way to tell that to him. I was still hoping to lighten the vibe. I complimented his food and tried to make cute jokes. But our friendship seemed to have evaporated into thin air. I needed to talk to him, to let him know my boundaries around communication had been crossed and to understand what was aggravating him so much. But every time I approached him, he snapped at me, and I didn't know how to broach the conversation from there.

Sunday

On Sunday, I did the dishes after dinner. I could feel my hands getting worse in the dish water. I knew how Head Slut had behaved last time I couldn't wash up at the pre-party, and I cursed the irony that my hands were once-again out of commission. I wanted to get ahead of the conversation, so I approached him and told him about my health condition. He told me that not helping with food was unacceptable, and suggested that I help prep. (Helping with food during build had never been stated as a requirement for build team members.) I explained that handling wet materials of any kind was aggravating, and that acidic things like tomatoes and lemons were extremely painful due to the tiny open blisters. He again stated that this was unacceptable. I offered not to eat with camp the next day, and then ask a Harlot with no lead roles to pick up my dish cleaning shift on Tuesday. The shift request seemed fair to me, since lead roles didn't receive a shift credit this year, and it felt like the amount of hours I'd contributed so far was really disproportionate. He glared at me again and didn't say anything.

That night, I hoped to do a solstice ceremony burning resins and meditating. I had left my tealights and a box of witch rave deco in the kitchen when I first arrived on Thursday, and since my tent was full with other people's belongings that I'd offered to house during the rain, I hadn't yet collected them. Head Slut was in the kitchen, and I asked him where my stuff had gone. "I put it with the other deco in the backstage tent" he said, stomping out, unwilling to show me where he'd put the things. I went to the backstage tent, and my deco box, clearly labeled "WITCH," had been dumped out and strewn together with other deco in boxes and on the floor. I cried while my Harlot friend searched for the tealights. I didn't understand what I'd done to deserve this animosity.

Monday

I did not eat Harlots food on Monday. My Harlot friend thought I was being melodramatic by not eating, but they hadn't seen most of Head Slut's aggression towards me. I was just trying to reduce conflict by honoring the agreement I'd made to not eat since I can't physically clean. Monday evening, after eating at the Kiezburn volunteer kitchen, I came back to Harlots' camp. There was leftover salad in a bowl, and it looked good. I was visibly eying it but didn't plan to ask for any. Head Slut and another Harlot were in the kitchen with me. Head Slut offered the other Harlot the leftover salad, and when he refused, Head Slut said, "well then I guess I'll just eat it myself", giving me a sly, nasty side look as he walked away with the bowl. This is an example of how he treated me throughout build – subtly passive aggressive in public, then snapping at me once we were out of earshot of anyone else. It was devastating. On top of the stress of my excessive build responsibilities, the constant pain and irritation of my skin condition, and the exhaustion that we all felt – I was grieving the loss of a good friend who suddenly was treating me like he hated me.

Tuesday

The bullying continued on Tuesday. One of the Harlots let me know that Head Slut had been suggesting around the camp that I was faking my water-induced skin condition because I still was taking a shower every day. I needed to take brief showers in order to keep the blisters on my hands clean, as well as my other infection, and a 3 minute rinse was not as aggravating in the same way as extended immersion in water and soap during dish washing would be. I could have shared this with him if he had only asked me about it.

When the Elven Harlot finally showed up, I handed off the Build Lead responsibilities to them and headed over to the Effigy. It was a tough day at the Effigy site – scorching hot, behind schedule, and volunteers were dwindling. Morale was low. When I got back to camp, I tried to match the happy, excited energy of the arriving Harlots, but they felt like they were from a different universe. They were sparkly and chipper, fresh from their beds. Meanwhile I'd been out here, doing physical labor, fighting heat exhaustion, staying up too late, and being woken up too early by the sun for six days. I felt a bit feral. I was already deep into a challenging burn, and I'm sure they could sense it in my energy.

The end of my hopes for reconciliation with Head Slut happened that evening: Over the course of Build, I had accidentally drunk and shared a few of the wrong beers from our large group order. I had forgotten that I had ordered Sternis as a joke reference to the cabin party shenanigans, instead of my usual Helles, and I didn't have my phone to check the spreadsheet. At camp dinner, Head Slut tried to frame my beer hijinks at the cabin party and my genuine beer mixup that day as thievery. He said that he was concerned about my ability to respect consent in a kink context because of this "boundary crossing". Another Harlot spoke up to defend me, saying the things were unrelated, I made a joke, and the conversation moved on. But this is a serious allegation to make about a kinkster. Our reputation as safe play partners is essential within the community, and although I am not perfect and always growing as a kink top, I deeply care about the wellbeing, desires and boundaries of my play partners. He had known me for months at that point. He'd watched me try to enforce a culture of safety in my own rope community, we'd had an overlapping play partner, and we'd had long talks about how we manage consent in our kink practices. But he was calling me dangerous because I'd borrowed some cheap beer – beer whose replacement I paid for? It didn't make sense. And to bring up his concern at the dinner table in front of everyone instead of coming to me privately felt so manipulative. At this point, it was clear to me: this man was no longer my friend. He was sick of my vibe, didn't want to talk it out, and wished I wasn't in his camp. And he was going to take it out on me by getting people to perceive me as unsafe.

During the opening Harlots circle on Tuesday, I shared that build had been really hard, that I was exhausted and feeling fragile, and to please be gentle with me. "Don't break them!" one Harlot cried. I hoped that Head Slut was able to hear this.

On Tuesday night I still hadn't found my phone. At 4am, while trying to fall asleep, I suddenly realized that my partner and my parents were surely losing their minds worried about me – they don't understand festival culture and that people sometimes drop out of the online world. At the time of losing the phone, I had made plans to call them all. They're all worriers. I started weeping, loudly and uncontrollably – about the pain in my hands, about the bullying from my friend, about the stress of my obligations – but mostly about how I was letting down the people who actually cared about me. I decided to pack up and leave for the night, and find a hotel in Jüterbog to charge my phone. I put on some music to hide the sound of my crying as I got my bag together. A Harlot friend came by a while after I'd stopped playing the music, gave me a hotspot to email my loved ones (though none of them check their damn email), and convinced me to stay. When I woke up at 10:45 the next morning, I tried to feel good in my body and at the burn. I wanted to arrive. I played one dark folk song at about 11am, louder this time, as I stretched and tried to embrace the day.

It was definitely selfish to play music that night and morning. I'd heard something about living room music being okay all night, and at night I played the music at a level that wouldn't gather complaints in a real living room. But I wasn't in a living room: I was in a tent, surrounded by other exhausted people. Harlots, in case it wasn't clear before: I'm truly sorry that I woke you.

Wednesday

Wednesday evening I made fresh squeezed orange juice for the Harlots. I poured a splash of vodka in my own cup, and offered it to anyone who wanted it. I had a non-sexual workshop on flirting that night that I felt woefully unprepared for. I have a fear of public speaking, and I had hoped to prepare notes or slides and practice with my flirting assistant. I considered cancelling, but the Elven Harlot, who had volunteered to be my assistant, seemed enthusiastic, and I really thought I had some good advice to share with the queer community. I feel really passionately about FLINTA* folk empowering themselves to be more assertive in their dating lives while still respecting consent. Let's take more initiative, but not emulate the aggressive pick-up-artist bros, you know?

During dinner, Head Slut initiated a conversation about playing music at night. I wasn't ready for it, as I was hoping to center myself for the workshop. I'm sure I handled that conversation poorly, alternately taking accountability and trying to excuse it by explaining how emotionally dark that night had been for me. I then brought up possible hours that music was okay – I had plans to host a little gothic tea party Friday evening to avoid the madness of the Friday tradition, which I wouldn't be partaking in. The Harlots clearly wanted me to never play music again, and suggested no music after 10pm, and quieter than living room volume – even if they weren't at camp. I ended up tearing up again: I already couldn't tie rope, hook up with cuties, or juice oranges because of my hands, and now I felt unwelcome hosting my witchy tea party. I normally never cry, and it felt quite destabilizing.

Nonetheless, people were already starting to gather for the workshop, and I hate reneging on commitments. I quickly smoked a cigarette with the Elven Harlot, where we discussed the basic concept of the workshop. I would be demonstrating flirting with them, and wanted them to give or revoke consent based on their true boundaries, and also revoke consent occasionally as a demonstration to show how to handle rejection gracefully. I ran over to the goths, who lent me black nail polish and a splash of absinthe for good luck. Then I ran back to the workshop tent and launched into my diatribe about flirtation.

The workshop went, overall, reasonably well from my vantage point, considering how flustered and under-prepared I was. I wasn't inebriated, having had only two half-drinks, but I was definitely stressed. I managed to channel my nervous energy into a somewhat chaotic, humorous off-the-cuff monologue about flirting. At one point I mentioned that people at clubs will often not be sober, and you have to be careful about consent. I said that chemsex is a complex topic that requires a deeper discussion, but I gave a brief example of a time I kissed a woman at a club before realizing that she was 22 and inebriated. I refused to hook up with her despite our mutual attraction and her strong desire to do so, because I felt uncomfortable about her ability to give true consent.

The workshop time flew by much faster than I'd expected, and I didn't get much chance to pair people off and get them flirting, like I'd planned. Before I knew it, our time window was almost up, and I still hadn't walked through the body language examples where I'd demonstrate deepening a flirtation. I asked the Elven Harlot to choose a setting for our final flirting demo. They suggested KitKat. I agreed, and began talking through ways that I gently get closer to people while asking for consent. They then said, "and we're high, hehe" and made a cute goofy face. I paused for a second – I hadn't planned for this context. But I felt the pressure of time, and continued the process, giving the Elven Harlot compliments, asking to touch their thigh, and then asking for a kiss. We were out of time. I hadn't done the workshop that I planned to do, but at least I had done something.

I needed a breather. I ran back to our private camp with a couple of workshop attendees to juice a few oranges to share. I distributed the orange juice to five people, and at my suggestion one of my workshop attendees offered people my vodka. I chatted with folks for a minute. I mostly heard good feedback about the workshop – people thought it was funny, one person said it was practically stand-up comedy. Some said that there was good info and they felt empowered. Some people wished there was more time for actual flirting, which I totally agreed with.

The Elven Harlot overheard someone saying to a friend that they'd been triggered by the conversation about consent in unsober environments. As far as I am aware, this person did not speak to the Elven Harlot directly, nor did they say that either of us had overstepped during the workshop. Inebriation and consent is naturally a very triggering topic – many people, including myself, have experienced sexual violence while inebriated. I am saddened and regretful that my workshop brought those feelings up for someone, and definitely learned something from this feedback – I'll be more careful about announcing trigger warnings in the future. However, I don't think inebriated sex should be a taboo thing to talk about – people are constantly hooking up while inebriated in Berlin at sex positive clubs. Head Slut does it all the time. I deeply believe that it is not innately non-consensual for two people who are both experienced at cruising and a particular type of inebriation to choose to hook up with one another in low-risk ways while not sober. But if we refuse to talk about it, we won't learn as a community how to navigate the consent and safety implications that can show up – for example, if someone is too high or too inexperienced to give risk-aware consent.

I was in no headspace to play at the SLINTA* play party that followed the flirting workshop. I had originally planned to facilitate this event, and wanted to make sure it was going okay for the other facilitator without me. I popped my head in, and laid out some toys to share with the group. I knit for a couple minutes and watched folks interact with one another, but when cuties started flirting with me and asking me to play, I excused myself to work security for the rest of the event.

A side note on lessons learned: an event like a SLINTA* play party needs security at a burn, especially since we had the back panels of the tent open for fresh air. I ended up bouncing quite a few wanderers.

Thursday

The next morning, while brushing my teeth, Head Slut and the Elven Harlot approached me, extremely aggravated. Head Slut started talking to me in a loud and angry voice while I asked to finish brushing my teeth. My mouth full of toothpaste, they aggressively told me that they needed to have a conversation with me. I asked them to slow down, as I was still waking up. I assumed that this would be Head Slut finding more things to nit-pick about, and asked them if we could have the conversation later, after I drank some tea, ate something, and took a shower. I needed some caffeine before I was ready for whatever new drama was coming. They refused, saying the conversation had to happen now. At one point, I matched my voice to Head Slut's tone, and he immediately accused me of "screaming at him". I said, "no, I am not screaming. We are both speaking in loud, elevated, emotional voices." Seeing no choice, I agreed to speak with them right away. To my surprise, it was the Elven Harlot who wanted to talk to me, and so we found a shady spot away from camp to speak.

The Elven Harlot expressed how much it weighed on them that someone had been triggered by the mention of having sex while not sober. I listened, and expressed my empathy for the person. I said that next time we should have a list of potentially triggering topics. This didn't seem to appease them, and they stated that they felt that this discussion had been bad for the Harlots "brand," and, by implication, that my continuing to be in the Harlots camp was bad for the Harlots brand. At the same time, they confessed they had a crush on me, which made me uncomfortable – I never would have consented to do a flirting demonstration with them if I had known they had a crush on me. I find them to be gorgeous and compelling, but they're not my type, and they had really left me hanging in our Co-Lead roles. I would never have chosen to give such mixed signals by fake flirting and complimenting and kissing someone who was actually interested in me. We had a strange, awkward conversation in which I simultaneously was gently not reciprocating their interest, while also defending myself as they started suggesting that they wanted me to leave the camp. I reminded them exactly what I'd said about chemsex, that I had advocated people be alert to others who may have compromised consent, and that they had been the one who suggested we pretend to be high during the flirting demonstration. "So we both fucked up, right? And now we can learn from this for next time" I said. "Right…" they said, but they continued to threaten to kick me out of camp. I asked them if we could talk this over with the larger Harlots camp, and they said no. Their thoughts didn't feel continuous – it felt they had concluded that I needed to leave the camp without a proper reason. They mentioned that they'd spoken with Head Slut, and they had come to the decision together. They also mentioned the Friday consumption ritual, and wanting a happy environment at the camp. It became clear to me that Head Slut wanted me gone before Friday, so that he could get inebriated in peace without someone he was in conflict with nearby, and that he'd advocated this to the Elven Harlot, leveraging whatever complex thoughts they were having: guilt about the triggered person, displeasure from being around me in my stress and physical discomfort, and perhaps emotional confusion from my fake flirting in the workshop – but the Elven Harlot was wholly on his side, and wanted me to go away.

Apparently, after all the fallout, the Elven Harlot described me as drunk during the workshop to other Harlots. Perhaps it was in good faith - I was shooting from the hip and making a lot of jokes - or perhaps they were further trying to distance themselves from the concerns over the triggered person, after they recognized they also might have some accountability there. I want to make it very clear: I wasn't even buzzed. I had one weak vodka and orange juice before dinner, probably two hours before the workshop, and a single mini shot of absinthe immediately before the workshop. Both less than a standard serving, only enough to calm my stage fright a little. If that minute amount of consumption while leading a non-sexual workshop is so taboo that it warrants dismissal from a camp, you need to let people know beforehand.

The Elven Harlot wanted me to go to Welfare. I wanted to go as well. I was anxious and underslept, my rash was out of control, and I had been bullied for days. The camp no longer felt like a safe space for me unless some constructive conversations happened. I could imagine a scenario where Head Slut took some accountability for his behavior and explained where his anger was coming from so I could also take any needed accountability. I needed him to commit to treating me more kindly so I could feel safe. If this wasn't possible (and I wasn't optimistic), I needed to distance myself from the Harlots camp.

I came up with a plan: I would finish doing some self care and center myself. The effigy lead had told me that if I didn't get the eyes up today, that I wouldn't get reimbursed for the materials. I also needed to finish making art for my witch rave dream grant to be reimbursed. There were hundreds of dollars at stake. But I also understood that this camp conflict needed to be de-escalated. So: I would try to hand the octopus eye work over to some of my co-makers, then pack an overnight bag and go to Welfare. After explaining the situation to them, dialoging with the Elven Harlot if they joined me, and possibly setting up a conflict-resolution conversation with Head Slut, I'd stay in a hotel in Jüterbog for Thursday night and work on my deco art there. This would give my hands a chance to dry up and heal, and my mind a needed night's sleep. It would be nice for me and surely my camp to all have a little space. I'd run some errands and get some nice snacks and drinks as an apology for playing music and drinking the wrong beer. Then I'd come back Friday evening, restored and grounded, go dancing away from camp, and on Saturday I'd move my tent to the sound camp woods and focus on preparing for the witch rave. The Harlots that were stressed by my presence would barely have to see me, and could enjoy their Friday ritual. I discussed my plan with a couple Harlots, who seemed supportive. Head Slut was sitting with them. I also mentioned to the group that I felt I was being bullied by Head Slut, which he indignantly denied.

By the time I got my appetite back after these stressful conversations, the Harlots' breakfast was cold, and the goths next door were offering black crepes – how cute! Wanting a moment of joy in my horrible morning, I got in line for a crepe, which ended up taking quite a long time. The crepes were delicious though, gothic and bloody with berries. When I got back to camp, it was clear Head Slut and the Elven Harlot wanted me to go to Welfare immediately. However, I still needed to pack my bag, get hydrated and drink some breakfast tea – I had a shadow of a migraine, and caffeine, stillness and hydration are essential to prevent its onset. I didn't see why I should prioritize their demands, whose rationale felt very overblown to me, over my own self-care if the concern was actually my wellness. I hadn't yelled at anyone, I had never initiated arguments, I had not violated anyone's consent. I was just having a really hard time.

After crepes, I returned to my tent and began packing my away bag. After a little while the Elven Harlot entered my tent. I told them that I wasn't available for another conversation at the moment, but that we could talk more about the flirtation workshop later. They stepped into the tent anyways, blocking the door. I asked them to leave. They said that I needed to go to Welfare. I told them I was planning on it, once I packed and finished my self care. I again asked them to leave my tent so I could finish packing. They told me that if I didn't go to Welfare immediately, that the Harlots were going to kick me out. I asked them if this was a group consensus, or something that they and Head Slut decided. They said it was not a group consensus, and that they were not willing to discuss it with the larger group. I told them that this was really upsetting, and that I was feeling very emotionally distressed and didn't want to talk right now. I told them firmly that I was expressing a boundary and asking them to leave my tent. They continued to stand in the door and speak to me. Due to my deco boxes, it would not be easy for me to leave from the back door. I have a home invasion phobia after experiencing a break-in, and this feeling of being cornered broke me. I started crying, and shrieked "I thought you were a sex positive camp! I thought you understood boundaries! PLEASE leave my tent!" They finally left. I took some deep breaths, then stepped outside and apologized to them, explaining that my home invasion phobia had been triggered. Other Harlots were sitting nearby, and had surely heard me raise my voice. The Elven Harlot did not apologize in return for refusing to leave when asked. I was horrified that I'd been pushed to this point. I'm usually not confrontational in that way. I didn't even recognize the shrill, cracking voice that had come out of me. It was clear that staying in this camp was destroying my mental health. I asked the sweet Harlot who was involved with the Kiezburn infrastructure to use his radio to call the Carebears to get me out of there.

The first Carebear was a chill sweetheart. I had a big task ahead of me – my tent was huge (and intended to be a play room during the witch rave) and filled with deco, electronics for the octopus, and all my personal stuff. The Carebear gave me space from the Harlots and even offered to help me pack. Her shift ended around the time that the Harlots were coming back to camp after an event. I felt my anxiety rising – I had no desire to speak to Head Slut or the Elven Harlot, so after introducing myself to the new Carebear, I sat in the goth camp for a few minutes, in clear view of the back of my tent, and smoked a cigarette. I saw Head Slut angrily speaking to the new Carebear. After a few minutes, the Carebear hadn't come to talk to me, so I walked back to my tent, to discover four Rangers and Carebears in my tent, roughly and chaotically packing all of my delicate deco, valuable electronics tools, and personal kink toys. I shouted at them to stop, that I had not given them permission to touch my things. They refused to stop, saying that there was a limited window where all four of them were available to help me move. The lead Carebear was treating me like I was being booted from camp because I assaulted somebody – I can't imagine what Head Slut said to him. They then began carting my stuff across the playa. I asked them again to stop – I wanted to be part of the decision process of where I was going. At this point, I needed a minute to process, as I was weighing whether I would leave the festival completely. They refused to stop, and a non-consensual parade of my things crossed the playa while I raced beside them, alternately asking where we were going and monitoring the safety of the effigy eyes. Once we got to the sound camp woods, I was given the choice between a location literally on the Mighty Music Miners' dance floor, or an isolated clearing nearby. I chose the clearing. The Carebears and Rangers unceremoniously dumped my stuff there and left. My tent cannot be easily set up by one person. I was left with no sense of location, no knowledge of the nearest water or toilets, no access to a shower, no power, no charged light sources, and my stuff in shambles. During the move, my teapot was broken and my tree lamp lost most of its flower lights. The legs of my camping table were never found. I had no idea where my phone and medicine were. Thankfully, two guys who had helped build the effigy eyes set up my tent, and I spent the rest of the evening in the dark, fumbling through my stuff, locating toilets and water, and trying to reorient myself in these winding woods. There was no way I could make it to Jüterbog or leave the festival at this point in the night.

The Kiezburn awareness structure failed me enormously that day. I called them because I was having a panic attack after a campmate wouldn't leave my tent or allow me to perform self-care. Then they tore through my tent like bulls in a china shop, leaving me traumatized with my things broken and lost, in one of the loudest spots of the entire festival.

I know that there has been some dialog amongst the Kiezburn orgas regarding my situation, and I'd like to advocate for future RAD awareness teams to consider training accountability members on the following concepts:

• Speak to everyone involved in a conflict before taking action.
• A person who has just had a negative experience might be emotionally dysregulated and not able to properly advocate for themselves.
• When a situation extends between multiple shifts, have a handoff system so that the new shift has some sense of what is going on.
• Do not touch people's things or enter their tents without permission unless there is a critical need.

I do greatly appreciate what the burner community is trying to do with their alternative non-police care infrastructure, and I hope that Kiezburn continues to learn from its mistakes and refine its systems. Throughout the rest of my burn I leaned on the Carebears heavily, and I am so grateful to the kind, magical people who helped me.

That night, I went to Welfare to get some food and explain my situation. A kind Carebear gave me a pen and paper to take notes while she hunted down some food for me. After writing a survival To-Do list, my thoughts lingered angrily on the Elven Harlot talking about the so-called Harlot Brand. I thought about how both the people involved in pushing me out of camp had at one point had unrequited interest in me. The following phrase emerged in my mind: "Harlots Burn Witch Because Witch Won't Fuck Any Harlots." I thought it was funny, and the Carebear did too. I then thought back to all the lovely anecdotes I'd gathered throughout the festival. I had some content, and I knew the Gazette wasn't going to publish another issue. I decided to write a witch's newspaper: cunty, playful and full of riddles. I finally found my phone and meds with the help of yet another shift of angelic Carebears, but I still couldn't sleep due to the booming music of the neighboring soundcamp. Instead I scribbled out the first issue of Teatime on a scrap of cardboard, and finally fell asleep at dawn when the music stopped.

The Aftermath

The rest of the week, I didn't feel emotionally safe going back to camp to collect the rest of my stuff. I did try twice. The Carebears had used the camp wagon, which I had insisted on purchasing and had not yet been refunded for, to move me. The first time I went back, an OG Harlot firmly asked me to return the wagon. I felt that I needed it – I had no idea how I'd get my giant load of art and my heavy glamping setup out of the woods without it, and I still needed to transport the effigy eyes to the octopus, which were a hundred centimeter diameter with a heavy wooden frame. It felt like a small bone to throw me, after how deeply I had been inconvenienced, losing my access to the shower, the food, and space in the van back to Berlin. Maybe they would let me hold onto it and find another way to dispose of greywater – one Harlot even had a cargo bike. I proposed this, and the OG Harlot was not receptive. I didn't want more drama. I had purchased it for the Harlots, and I wasn't going to give anyone any more ammunition for this rhetoric about me being a thief. But I thought I was entitled to my camp fees back, and at this point I was concerned about getting reimbursed for anything. I agreed to return the wagon once I had been reimbursed for it and for my camp fees. The OG Harlot agreed and said she would ask the Elven Harlot to reimburse me right away. I promised to return the wagon as soon as I received the money. We shook on it. I was not reimbursed until weeks after the burn, so I kept the wagon, decorating it and pushing it around the playa, serving fresh-squeezed juice. At one point a couple newbie Harlots were sent to my new campsite to retrieve it. They hadn't been told about the reimbursement agreement or that I'd paid for it – just that I'd taken it. Once again, my behavior was being framed in the worst possible light.

The second time I went back to Harlots camp with a Carebear, hoping they'd be able to provide an emotional buffer while I looked for my missing stuff. At this point Teatime has been printed and distributed around the burn, including the cheeky headline about the Harlots burning me. Head Slut must have read it, because he approached me angrily, snapping that he needed to talk to me, until he saw the Carebear and then scuttled away. I didn't feel comfortable after that going onto the Harlots' site to look for my things – the Carebear took a look but didn't find anything. My fan, my sandals, and my lovely water thermos were missing until the end of the festival – the thermos, brand new and gorgeous, which had been labeled with my name and left on the Harlots' kitchen shelf, was covered in scuffs as if it had been dragged on asphalt. Many other items never showed up, and at least one of my nice toys is still in Harlots storage.

Apparently Head Slut wrote a RAD report against me, although it seems he hasn't submitted it. I presume this was a pre-emptive strike in anticipation of me coming forward with my narrative. A Harlot friend had read it, and says he has "nothing". His main complaint is that I wasn't self reliant: that I hadn't brought a bowl, that my hands were disabled, that I needed medicine. I did need help this burn – burning is an intense, survivalist experience, and sometimes health issues occur. We want to be self-reliant, but sometimes in this environment we must rely on each other. Head Slut's reaction to my skin condition, and his relentless battering of my mental health, were one of the most ableist experiences of my life. My heart goes out to anyone who struggles with the ableist world on a daily basis, and my eyes will forever be more alert to people being ostracized because they need help with their disabilities.

The rest of my burn was surreal, artistic, and very scary. At first it felt somewhat freeing – I could now engage deeply with my performance art, channel my pain and darkness into creativity and activism without imposing on my camp. Writing Teatime was so fun and cathartic. I leaned into the raccoon pet play as a source of solace, engaging with the feral, hunted animal I felt inside of me. But things got more grim as I found myself unable to get a good night's rest in my new campsite. I felt enormously alone and vulnerable in those woods. The dance floor pounded all night right beside my tent, and the sun scorched during the daylight hours. I had some uncomfortable interactions with people who invaded my privacy at my isolated campground – one of whom reached out afterwards to apologize for crossing my boundaries. It was scary and vulnerable being alone in the woods, and I had trouble feeling safe falling asleep in my tent. I kept trying to leave the festival, but it was impossible to coordinate between my exhaustion and having no van to transport my gear or camp to keep it safe. Along with my giant tent, deco and electronics, I had a large metal shibari frame I'd brought for the Harlots camp, which they were not willing to transport back to Berlin. After absolutely terrible sleep on Thursday and Friday nights, by Saturday I was suffering severe sleep-deprivation-induced mental distress. The sound of loud music had become completely overstimulating, and when the witch rave started, the music hurt my ears and I couldn't even stay around for the party. So much of my work had been for nothing, and yet I was still stuck at Kiezburn, sober and alone, getting more and more tired and disoriented and enflamed. I tried to find some joy: on Sunday I built a scrappy interactive altar with miracle berries, tea, and herbs, and enjoyed cleansing and connecting and healing with burners who stumbled across it. But at night my anxiety came back again like a wall of bricks. I ended up having another panic attack and leaving the festival in a rush in the middle of Sunday night. I took everything I could carry, but many of my things got left behind and were never recovered.

The hypocrisy of the lead Harlots' behavior really pains me – particularly with regards to my mention of inebriation at the flirting workshop, as if they are some strictly-sober pristine kink community. Far from it. I volunteered at a Harlots takeover at KitKat, which involves a demo spin-the-wheel smorgasbord of impact toys that are applied to curious clubgoers. I watched the Elven Harlot work the wheel for a bit, and sobriety was not vetted – everyone seemed to be having fun, but some of the curious volunteer impact bottoms were clearly not completely sober. Head Slut also definitely engages in inebriated sex with people he doesn't know well – he first shot his shot with me by taking me home after a night of partying, and he's told me many stories of his club adventures. And he had no moral high ground to stand on during this burn: apparently he was extremely inebriated on Friday and Saturday. On Friday, two younger Harlots complained to me that he made them uncomfortable: he was super inebriated and erratic and repeatedly going in for unwanted hugs. One person in another camp who ran into him described him as "more fucked up than they'd ever seen someone at a Burn", and their camp had to throw water at him and his companions in order to get him to leave their camp.

Personally, I would wager it's likely that the person who was triggered at my workshop felt worse about the roleplay where the Elven Harlot pretended we were high, than by my mention of caution with flirting and the realities of inebriation in public social spaces. When I spoke with a couple of people who had attended the workshop, and told them the workshop was the reason I got pushed out of the camp, they were each completely shocked because it seemed so unwarranted.

I also feel exploited as a worker. I put so, so many hours into the planning for the camp – surely more hours than almost any other Harlot. But when my efforts to meet all my obligations left me overwhelmed and exhausted and needing some time to recharge, I was met with a hostile environment where any minor mistake or inconvenience – forgetting to bring a bowl to the burn, or asking someone with a car to pick up medicine for me as part of their grocery run – was added to my tally of misdeeds. I totally would have understood not being invited to return as a Harlot. Build your community how you please. I had no intentions to ever camp with Head Slut again anyways, from the moment on Sunday that he made me feel unwelcome eating because I needed accomodation for my skin rash. But it is an extreme act to push somebody mid-festival out of a camp when they expected to have access to food and power. More so if it is their first time at a particular festival and have no other friends there, if they have no way to get home, if they're a femme who will be forced to camp alone, if they don't have a way to get food, or if they are sick and exhausted. I've never in my life heard of somebody being ousted from their camp mid-burn who was not being confrontational, violent, or creepy. Let me be frank, lead Harlots: if this is how you maintain a safe space, y'all really lost the plot. The reason we have all these rules about trigger warnings and sobriety and consent in the kink community is for one reason: to not harm each other. I was deeply harmed by being ousted from my camp – I was so sleep-deprived, overstimulated, underfed and scared while alone in the woods, that my body experienced it as psychological trauma. It reaggravated my C-PTSD, and I'm still having trouble with agoraphobia months later. I don't know if my trust in community will ever fully heal.

Of course, I made many mistakes myself. I should have gotten out after Head Slut started mistreating me at the pre-party. I should not have taken so many responsibilities on, and I should have fought harder to get out of some of them. I should have prioritized my sleep over these responsibilities, and definitely over fun at night. I feel terrible about playing music that one night, and I'm sure that I was a bit brusque at times. I should have posted a trigger warning on the workshop, and I should have pumped the breaks when the Elven Harlot suggested we roleplay being high. At many times, I did a bad job advocating for myself, getting tongue-tied when explaining to people what was happening, what the extenuating context was, or how a situation was affecting me.

Head Slut never reached out to me again. He never checked in to see if I was doing okay after the burn – just removed me from the group chat when I mentioned accountability, and asked the Elven Harlot to remove me from the larger Harlots group. So I am seeking accountability in this document, instead. If you convince a good new friend to go to a festival where they don't know anybody very well except for you, usher them into your camp, and allow them to take on enormous amounts of camp responsibility? If you, as camp lead, offer no solutions when they warn you that they are overextended? If you then rally your other friends, who don't know this person, to get them pushed out of the camp because you're annoyed that they're stressed and sick? If a major motivator of pushing them out is that you want to get wasted on Friday without them around harshing your vibe? If that's how you handle conflict, if that's how you value friendship? If that's how you prioritize your own experiences over other people's, if that's how little empathy you have for people you've spent deep, connected time with? You might be a bad person. You definitely shouldn't be leading camps where people rely on you for food and structure. And you need to do some serious soul searching about your entitlement towards women you're attracted to.

Near the end of the burn, one Harlot spilled some tea to me. "Are you ready to gag?" they asked, with a snarky smile. "During the closing Harlot ceremony, he said: 'the theme of this burn was generosity. And sometimes, generosity is about enforcing your boundaries.'" We laughed, but it's a stunning thing to say. It's as cringey as it is cruel.

The statement about generosity and boundaries was especially ironic, because all I had ever needed from him (at least, before the social sabotage reached an unforgivable level) was better boundaries: a caring conversation where I told him that the way he had been speaking to me was not okay. I would have acknowledged the challenges I was facing, how I'd bitten off more than I could chew, and taken accountability for the fact that my projects were impacting him as well. I would have asked him for some grace and space, reminded him of how much I'd contributed to his camp already, and begged him to believe me that my health issues were very real and painful. I would have asked him how I could try to prevent aggravating him going forward. As I prepared for this conversation over the days before and during the build, I kept imagining us taking a moment to look in each other's eyes and acknowledge and honor our friendship. We would commit to kindness, and to finding a copacetic way to enjoy the rest of our time in this crazy, challenging environment.

But instead, here we are. Scorched earth between us. My reputation in the kink community damaged despite no incident of boundary violation, my nerves still flinching at shadows when I walk through wooded parks. Throughout the burn, I kept thinking of witch burning: of how unusual, powerful, queer, and unpartnered femmes are cast out of societies for the crime of being unapologetically themselves.

They still burn us.