2024-01-04•Liz

A Veteran’s Review of Screw The Roses, Send Me The Thorns: Three Decades Later

Introduction: Revisiting a Classic

When Philip Miller and Molly Devon published Screw The Roses, Send Me The Thorns in the mid-1990s, they created what would become one of the most influential primers in BDSM literature. Now, nearly three decades later, I sit with my dog-eared copy and reflect on its wisdom through the lens of experience. So much has changed in our world – BDSM has journeyed from underground clubs to mainstream consciousness – yet this book’s mix of irreverent humor, practical advice, and earnest love of “sexual sorcery” still echoes in today’s kink communities. As an educator who’s witnessed the scene evolve, I find myself savoring both the timeless truths in its pages and acknowledging the aspects that now feel dated or limited.

Reading it again, I’m struck by the authors’ core message that “SM is sexual magic. The right blend of trust, fantasy, and sensuality creates an intensely erotic and deeply intimate stew”goodreads.com. In these pages, Miller and Devon promise clear explanations for the curious, alongside solid safety tips and “steamy suggestions”goodreads.com. They deliver on that promise with a style that is equal parts authoritative and playful – a style that, in many ways, paved the road for the candid conversations about kink we have today. Before diving into where the book shines and where time has shifted our perspective, let’s honor what Screw The Roses still gets wonderfully right.

The Enduring Strengths

Humor as a Gateway

BDSM gear displayed for sale, illustrating the “fancy toys” and fearsome images that newcomers often find intimidating. In an era when BDSM education often took itself painfully seriously, Miller and Devon’s irreverent humor was a revolutionary gateway. They write, “We like to project fearsome images and flash fancy toys around, but when you toss us all in the cauldron and boil us down, you find that we are just plain folks having a love affair with fantasy.” This wry de-mystification of kink helped dissolve the gothic pretension that sometimes surrounded the scene. I remember reading those lines in the ’90s and exhaling a sigh of relief between nervous chuckles – it gave me permission to explore BDSM without feeling like I had to become someone dark and otherworldly.

The enduring genius here is how comedy lowers defenses. By poking fun at the “fearsome images” of leather-clad dominants and high protocol, the authors make a radical point: kinksters are, at heart, ordinary people who happen to relish extraordinary fantasies. Newcomers are invited to laugh and thus let go of fear. Even today, in my workshops with beginners, I channel this approach. I might open a class by joking about how all the floggers and ropes are really just adult versions of toys – because when the audience laughs, I know they’re listening without fear. Miller and Devon understood that humor can escort you past shame and anxiety, right into the playful curiosity that BDSM truly deserves. It’s a lesson other educators have since embraced (and one reason resources like Lee Harrington and Mollena Williams’s Playing Well With Others also infuse wit into their guidance). Not everyone adores the style – some critics found the jokes “tedious and sometimes even offensive”goodreads.com – but for many of us, that light-hearted touch was the key that unlocked the dungeon door.

The Emphasis on Communication and Trust

An intimate moment of trust: Open communication and mutual vulnerability form the bedrock of healthy BDSM dynamics. If I could inscribe one message from Screw The Roses onto every dungeon wall, it would be the authors’ insistence that “making S/M work is dependent upon developing honest, sincere communication and profound trust.” Nearly 30 years later, this principle remains the bedrock of ethical BDSM practice. Miller and Devon devote considerable attention to negotiation – encouraging partners to discuss their desires, boundaries, and fears before a single rope is tied or whip is swung. In my own classes, I still emphasize many of the same fundamentals they outlined: explicitly negotiate your scene, use safewords, check in often, and never assume consent without clear communication. Modern research validates this focus – studies of BDSM practitioners find that their relationships often have higher levels of trust, open communication, and relationship satisfaction than the normsexualhealthalliance.com. By building a culture of explicit consent and dialogue, kinksters create a “sense of security and understanding” that not only keeps play safe but can deepen intimacysexualhealthalliance.com.

Reading Screw The Roses now, I appreciate how ahead of its time it was on these points. Remember, in the mid-90s the broader culture barely had language for talking about sexual boundaries. Yet here were Miller and Devon, effectively saying: talk it through, in detail, until you both feel safe. Their sample negotiation checklist – an extensive menu of activities with space to mark yes/maybe/no and specify limits – remains one of the most comprehensive I’ve seen. I’ve adapted versions of it for my own uses over the years, updating the language and adding a few new activities that have entered the public kink consciousness since 1995, but the spirit is unchanged. That granular approach to consent (“let’s discuss exactly what we’re going to do and not do, and how far we’ll go”) has saved countless people from bad experiences. It empowers newcomers with a script for those crucial conversations.

What strikes me, too, is how lovingly the book reinforces that trust is a two-way street. Dominants are reminded that a submissive’s gift of surrender is built on deep faith – earned through honesty and care. Submissives are reminded that they have power too: the power to say no, to set terms, to expect respect. This mutuality laid out in Screw The Roses still underpins the credo “Safe, Sane, Consensual” that we hold dear. In an age when consent is finally a mainstream discussion, this quirky BDSM guide was preaching it from the start. And because they couched these lessons in friendly, everyday language rather than dry academic terms, the message landed: communicate or it’s not real BDSM. Period.

Safety Through Stories

Another of the book’s enduring strengths is how it teaches through storytelling. Instead of just dryly instructing how to flog or how to bind someone, Miller and Devon sprinkle in narrative vignettes – like the tale of Terry and Mark’s first scene – to give context that pure technical instruction lacks. This approach is reminiscent of the case studies one might find in an Esther Perel book: we meet a couple, we see their nerves and excitement, we watch how they negotiate and fumble and ultimately soar, and we learn through their experience. For me, reading Screw The Roses as a novice, those stories were invaluable. They answered the “why” behind the “what.” It’s one thing to know how to perform a basic spanking; it’s another to understand the headspace it creates, the emotions that might surface, and why aftercare (the soothing and processing period after an intense scene) is so important. The authors gently walk readers through these scenarios, imparting safety lessons almost by stealth.

For example, in one story a dominant notices his partner’s hands have gone cold and immediately pauses to check circulation – a subtle demonstration of best practices in bondage. In another, a novice submissive panics mid-scene, and the couple stops to communicate and adjust, illustrating that safewords and honest signals are there to be used, not just talked about. By embedding such moments in narrative, Screw The Roses manages to cover technical safety (like “always have a pair of safety shears when doing rope bondage”) without reading like an instruction manual. It feels human and real. I still believe this storytelling strategy is why so many people from my generation credit the book with being their trusted guide – you see yourself in those stories, and you absorb the safety rules almost subconsciously. It’s an approach modern authors have continued; Tristan Taormino’s The Ultimate Guide to Kink, for instance, includes essays with personal anecdotes for the same reason. Data and checklists alone don’t convey the emotional landscape of BDSM; stories do. In that regard, Screw The Roses hasn’t aged a day – it still reminds us that behind every technique is a person, and their story, that truly matter.

Where Time Has Shifted Perspectives

Gendered Assumptions in Dynamics

While Screw The Roses remains a treasure trove of insight, some aspects of its 1990s worldview feel conspicuously antiquated now. A primary example is the book’s handling of gender in BDSM roles. Miller and Devon chose, as they note briefly, to use male pronouns for dominants (“tops”) and female pronouns for submissives (“bottoms”) throughout the text, largely as a writing convenience. Even in the ’90s, this was a simplification – and they acknowledged in passing that of course women can be dominants and men can be submissives (not to mention same-sex play, etc.). However, the overall effect is a book that defaults to the He as Dom and She as Sub dynamic. Today, the scene is far more diverse in gender expression and role alignment than the text suggests. We recognize that power exchange has nothing to do with one’s gender identity – there are fierce female dominants, male submissives, non-binary switches, and every other permutation under the sun. The rigid binary framing in Screw The Roses, however unintended, can alienate readers who don’t fit the mold.

Modern readers and educators have rightfully critiqued this bias. As one reviewer noted, the book “seems to assume that every reader is interested in a power-exchange relationship in which there is a dominant male and a submissive female”, and it expects readers to tolerate that biasgoodreads.com. At best, this framing is a relic of the authors’ own heteronormative perspective; at worst, it perpetuates the old stereotype that real BDSM is “Master and slave girl.” Miller and Devon defended themselves by saying they wrote about what they knew, and indeed they did consult others for certain chapters. But looking back, one wishes they had invited a more diverse set of voices or examples. After all, the irony is that the modern BDSM community in North America was heavily influenced by the gay leather scene – yet that legacy barely registers in the book aside from a brief section coyly titled “He as She & She as He.” That section touches on cross-dressing and role reversal, implying a world beyond cisgender norms, but doesn’t deeply engage with what we now understand as the rich spectrum of kink identities.

The scene today celebrates that spectrum. At any given munch (casual kink meetup) or play party, you’ll find people of all genders in all roles. We even have educational groups and conferences focused on dominants who identify as women or subs who identify as men, etc., to make those folks feel seen and supported. There’s an increased awareness of pronouns, and many event name tags now include them. None of this was on the radar in the mid-90s. Screw The Roses didn’t intend to exclude, but by speaking as if “the dominant” = a man and “the submissive” = a woman, it betrays a cultural blind spot of its time. It’s a reminder that even as we carry forward the book’s lessons, we must update the language and examples to reflect all who love kink. Inclusivity in kink literature has come a long way – books like Easton & Hardy’s The New Topping Book make a point to use gender-neutral language and include scenarios beyond the old male-dom/female-sub pairing. Reading Screw The Roses now, I mentally overlay those corrections: every time it says “he” for a top, I think “or she or they,” and I encourage new readers of the book to do the same.

Rethinking “Natural” Dominants and Submissives

Another perspective shift in the decades since Screw The Roses is how we view the idea of “natural” dominants or submissives. Miller and Devon often write as though people fall neatly into one of two camps: tops who inherently enjoy control, and bottoms who inherently enjoy yielding. They do acknowledge the existence of switches (people who enjoy both roles), albeit with a lighthearted joke about switches facing funny dilemmas like whether to “turn the other cheek” for revenge. But the overall tone suggests that knowing your role is almost a matter of fate or deep wiring. In my experience – and indeed in the stories of many kinksters over the years – this is an oversimplification. While some individuals do feel they have an innate dominant or submissive core, just as many of us have learned that our roles can be fluid and contextual.

I’ve grown skeptical of rigidly categorizing people as “a natural dom” or “true sub.” Over three decades, I’ve watched many friends (and myself) evolve in our kink identities. A person might start out convinced they’re only a submissive, then discover the joy of taking control with a different partner years later. Or someone might dominate in the bedroom but submit in their emotional life, blurring the lines of what “role” even means. The truth is, power exchange dynamics are a dance between personalities, and those personalities can bring out different facets in each other. I’ve known self-identified dominants who bravely experimented with bottoming for the first time well into their 50s – and they said it immensely improved their topping, giving them newfound empathy for what it feels like to be so vulnerable. Likewise, some long-time submissives try their hand at domination and find an unexpected empowerment in it, even if it’s not their primary inclination.

Contemporary kink literature is much more attuned to this fluidity. We talk about being switch-friendly or acknowledge that roles can shift over a lifetime or even from scene to scene. There’s also less pressure now to choose one label and stick to it. Back in the 90s, identifying as a switch sometimes felt like you weren’t “serious enough” about one role or the other – a notion that thankfully has faded. Now we understand that being a switch can mean you embody both dominant and submissive energies fully, not that you’re half-hearted about each. If I could add a chapter to Screw The Roses, it would delve into this richness: encouraging readers to explore all sides of themselves without shame, and to find what feels authentic not once-and-for-all, but in each relationship or moment. The book touched on it, but the community’s perspective has expanded – we now see dominance and submission less as fixed identities and more as roles we play, negotiate, and reinvent as we grow.

Cultural Context and Privilege

It’s also important to view Screw The Roses in its cultural context – and recognize its limitations. The world of BDSM depicted in the book is, frankly, a rather homogeneous one: largely white, middle-class, heterosexual, and American. The authors write about “scene clubs with the structure of support groups” and accessing kink resources via early internet bulletin boards. Implicitly, this assumes the reader has access to urban centers, a degree of tech literacy, and the free time and money to attend classes or buy gear. In the 90s, that was a fair assumption for the visible BDSM subculture – it skewed towards those with a certain privilege. But it also meant that people of color, those from conservative cultures, or folks without disposable income saw little of themselves reflected in these guides.

Re-reading now, I notice the absence of discussion around how kink intersects with race, or how economic disparity might affect one’s experience in the scene. For instance, the book doesn’t consider that a Black submissive might have very different feelings about certain role-play scenarios than a white submissive, due to historical traumas or cultural context. It doesn’t address how someone in a rural area with no clubs might explore BDSM differently than someone in San Francisco or New York. These nuances simply weren’t on the radar then, whereas today they’re active conversations. Educators like Mollena Williams (co-author of Playing Well With Others) have spoken and written movingly about being a Black woman in the kink scene, and Kevin A. Patterson’s Love’s Not Color Blind examines the role of race in polyamory and kink communitiespanicdiscourse.com. Such perspectives highlight things earlier BDSM books missed: the ways in which our identities and social contexts can shape our kink experiences and access.

To its credit, Screw The Roses at least nods to diversity – for example, it briefly mentions same-sex play, and one review notes that the authors did include some acknowledgment of queer folks and even interracial relationshipsgoodreads.com. But these are cursory mentions. They don’t delve into, say, the unique challenges a gay male submissive might face seeking mentors in a mostly straight environment, or how a disabled dominant might need to modify techniques. Nowadays, our community and literature are increasingly aware of these factors. We talk about kink at the intersections: kink and disability, kink and mental health, kink and religion (what it means to be kinky in a devout community), etc. Those layers of conversation simply weren’t present in the mainstream BDSM discourse when Miller and Devon were writing. So, while I continue to recommend Screw The Roses for its fundamentals, I do so with an asterisk: “Remember, this is one couple’s perspective from a specific time. It’s okay if some examples don’t resonate with your life – there are other resources now that fill those gaps.” The landscape of kink has broadened, and thankfully, so have the voices representing it in print.

Technical Evolution: Skills and Safety in 2025 vs. 1995

Updates in Bondage Safety

One of the joys of revisiting a 30-year-old “how-to” book is seeing which technical tips stand the test of time and which have been refined by new knowledge. In the case of Screw The Roses, the basic safety rules for bondage and impact play remain solid: they warn about avoiding vital areas when striking, checking circulation for bound limbs, and never leaving a bound person alone, even for a moment. All of that is still BDSM Safety 101 today. However, the world of bondage, especially rope bondage, has evolved significantly with greater understanding of human anatomy and potential injuries. Miller and Devon suggest using at least three-eighths of an inch thick cord (about 1 cm) for bondage, which was good advice to prevent thin cords from cutting into skin. These days, many rope enthusiasts prefer even wider ropes or carefully tied flat bands to better distribute pressure. We’ve learned that it’s not just circulation we must watch, but nerve compression as well.

For example, it’s now common knowledge in rope communities which anatomical areas are highest-risk for nerve injury (upper arms where the radial nerve runs, or the sides of knees for the peroneal nerve, to name a couple). Medical case studies in recent years have documented how certain bondage positions can cause specific nerve damage – such as one survey of rope suspensions finding that the radial nerve in the upper arm was the most frequently injured, involved in over 80% of reported nerve injuriespmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov. In practical terms, this means contemporary rope classes teach people to avoid placing rope bands in the middle of the upper arm (a classic placement in some Japanese-style box ties) unless you’re very experienced and careful. We emphasize paying attention to any tingling or numbness (signs of nerve pinching) in addition to the old-school two-finger spacing to check circulation. We’ve also popularized tools like under-arm padding for certain ties, and quick-release mechanisms.

Screw The Roses couldn’t have included this level of detail simply because the community was still compiling that knowledge. For instance, the book does mention not to tie someone in a way that could damage nerves or leave marks that don’t fade, but today we can be far more specific about the hows and whys. One piece of advice I give now that you won’t find in older books: invest in a pair of EMT safety shears (trauma scissors that can cut rope or leather quickly without poking the skin). Miller and Devon advise having scissors on hand; we now basically mandate shears as part of every top’s kit. The spirit is the same – always have a way to free someone fast – but the tools and techniques have improved. Likewise, the book’s guidance on spanking and flogging holds up (avoid kidneys and spine, etc.), yet we’ve added nuance like understanding how different implements disperse force differently on the body.

Reading their technical tips is a bit like looking at an old cookbook – the recipe works, but you might update some ingredients based on modern taste. They recommend, for example, a specific kind of nylon cord for beginners because it’s cheap and won’t lock into stubborn knots. Today, most rope aficionados prefer natural fiber ropes (like jute or hemp) for their grip and aesthetic, but we also know those require more upkeep. The authors didn’t dive into things like that, whereas nowadays you could fill a small book just with rope material science and tying methodology (and indeed, some have!). So while I still applaud Screw The Roses for stressing safety first, I would gently guide a new reader to supplement it with updated information – perhaps a class or an online tutorial on rope safety – to catch the finer points discovered since. Technology and research have caught up with kink, and our collective knowledge toolbox is bigger in 2025 than it was in 1995.

Evolving Ideas of “Safe, Sane, Consensual”

Another technical (or philosophical) evolution in the BDSM world since the book’s publication is our framework for defining ethical play. Miller and Devon championed the credo Safe, Sane, and Consensual (SSC), which was then the gold standard: only do things that are safe, ensure everyone is mentally sane enough to consent, and get that informed consent explicitly. SSC was a powerful statement, especially to differentiate BDSM from abuse in the eyes of the public and law enforcement. The book dutifully promotes SSC as the guiding light. In the years since, however, the community has grappled with the realization that not everything we do can ever be 100% “safe” or objectively “sane.” This gave rise to more nuanced models like RACK: Risk-Aware Consensual Kink and PRICK: Personal Responsibility Informed Consensual Kink.

The shift here is subtle but important. RACK, as described by BDSM educators in the late ’90s, acknowledges that “nothing is ever 100% safe” and that what one person considers safe or sane might not be the same for anotheren.wikipedia.org. Instead of pretending we can eliminate all risk, RACK asks participants to be fully aware of the risks involved in a scene and then consensually proceed if they accept them. This philosophy opened the door to activities that might be considered edge play (more extreme or risky) as long as those involved go in with eyes open. PRICK similarly emphasizes personal responsibility – each player must educate themselves and own the risksen.wikipedia.org. The term “sane” has also been critiqued; it can sound like judging someone’s mental health or the rationality of their desires. After all, a desire to be bound and flogged isn’t exactly “sane” by vanilla societal standards, yet it can be a valid consensual desire for a kinky person. So the newer acronyms dropped the sanity clause to avoid stigmatizing things that look irrational from the outside but are engaged in consciously by consenting adults.

Looking back at Screw The Roses, I see SSC woven through its advice – and it absolutely was foundational. The book needed to assert SSC because in the 90s BDSM was still fighting for basic legitimacy (remember, this was around the time sensational headlines and talk shows were freaking out about “S & M cults” and the like). SSC was our community’s banner: “We police ourselves. We only do what is safe, sane, consensual – so don’t panic, we aren’t crazy or evil.” But culture moves on, and we’ve become more introspective about our own slogans. Now I teach newcomers that SSC is a starting point, but also introduce them to RACK for a deeper understanding. For example, is fire play safe? By SSC, one might say “No, fire is never entirely safe.” By RACK, the question becomes “Do you understand the specific risks (burns, property damage, etc.) and have you mitigated them and agreed to them? If yes, proceed.” Screw The Roses couldn’t foresee these internal community debates, but it’s heartening that the principles it instilled – communicate, know your limits, keep it consensual – provided the fertile ground from which these later ideas grew. Even the authors’ frank discussion of how some activities have inherent risks (they talk about, say, breath play as extremely dangerous and not for beginners) was an early nod to the risk-aware mindset. In short, we’ve layered complexity onto the framework they championed, but we haven’t discarded it. I think Miller and Devon would be pleased to see concepts like RACK and PRICK flourish, as they all ultimately serve the same end: making sure everyone is safe(ish), informed, and enthusiastically consenting when they explore “the roses” and “the thorns” of kink.

Personal Reflections from a Switch’s Perspective

One aspect of Screw The Roses that I view differently now is its treatment of switches – those of us who enjoy both topping and bottoming. The authors do mention switches (often with a playful tone, as if to say “we haven’t forgotten you, you indecisive lot!”). They even quip that switches face unique dilemmas, like whether a submissive who is also a switch might “get her revenge” by topping next time, or how a switch might struggle with what role to assume in a given encounter. At the time, I was just beginning to realize that I might be a switch. I remember clinging to those few lines, thinking okay, at least I exist in here, even if it felt like switches were portrayed a bit like mythical creatures or the punchline of a joke. Today, living comfortably as a switch for years, I have a richer appreciation for this identity than the book conveys.

The reality of switching is far more nuanced and fulfilling than Screw The Roses had room to explore. It’s not about confusion or “couldn’t make up your mind,” as some might have teased. For many of us, it’s about embracing wholeness – accessing different facets of our psyche with different partners or moods. When I dominate, I do so with the full empathy of someone who has handed over the reins and knows the courage that takes. When I submit, I bring the knowledge and respect of someone who’s shouldered the responsibility of caring for a partner in vulnerability. In my own journey, being a switch has been like becoming fluent in two languages; each one lets me express things the other cannot, and each one helps me understand the other more deeply.

I particularly appreciated that Miller and Devon at least acknowledged switch dynamics, even if briefly. They rightly note that “the exchange of power assumes many levels.” In one pithy section, they describe how some couples enjoy trading off roles, or how a person might primarily identify one way but occasionally crave the other side of the coin. This was validating. Yet, I found myself wanting to sit down with them and swap war stories: the book didn’t dive into, say, how switching within a single scene can be an intense bonding experience, or how some people’s dominance emerges only with certain partners who make them feel safe to explore it. I’ve met individuals who were stalwart community dominants for years, until one day they trusted someone enough to experience submission – and it blew their minds (in a good way). Those kinds of anecdotes aren’t in Screw The Roses, which tends to present roles in a somewhat static way.

I suspect this is less a failing of the authors and more a reflection of how the scene talked about roles back then. You “were” a top or “were” a bottom, and switches were the exception. These days, I see roles as hats we can try on. Some fit better than others, some people wear one hat their whole life, others have a whole closet of hats. And sometimes you wear one for so long it surprises you that another fits comfortably too. If I were mentoring a younger version of myself reading Screw The Roses now, I’d say: Don’t let the labels box you in. Use them as tools to communicate your current preferences, but stay open to evolution. The book plants that seed, but it was the community over subsequent decades – in forums, munches, and online groups – that truly watered it. Now, being a switch is just another valid flavor of kink, not a novelty. In fact, I find more people identify as switch or at least open to it than did a generation ago, likely because we’ve dispelled the notion that you must “pick a side.” That’s a cultural shift I’m grateful for, and one I think Screw The Roses helped catalyze by including switches in the conversation at all.

The Negotiation Framework: Still Gold

Despite any critiques of dated language or missing perspectives, there are parts of Screw The Roses that remain pure gold, untouched by time. Foremost among these is the negotiation framework the authors provide. Early in the book, they stress the importance of discussing preferences and limits in detail, and they offer a template with dozens upon dozens of activities (from spanking to sensory deprivation to role-playing scenarios) where each partner can mark their interest level. This was my first introduction to the concept of a “ BDSM checklist.” At 22, I found it simultaneously daunting and exhilarating – a laundry list of possibilities I had never even thought of, laid out matter-of-factly, with a prompt to say “yes, I’d like to try that,” “no, that’s off-limits,” or “maybe, under the right circumstances.”

Using that checklist with a partner became a rite of passage. I recall an early relationship in which we literally photocopied the pages (our copy was too precious to tear out!) and each filled it out separately, then compared notes over dinner one evening. The conversation that sprang from it was incredible: we discovered, for instance, that we both were curious about bondage but equally nervous about doing it wrong – so we agreed to practice together slowly, with scissors nearby, and maybe take a workshop. I admitted that I had a rape fantasy but was ashamed of it; he, bless him, didn’t flinch and instead asked me to describe what aspects of it aroused me and how we might role-play it safely. Miller and Devon’s text had given me the language and permission to broach that topic. (It’s worth noting, as the book does, that a fantasy of non-consent is not the same as wanting real non-consent – a distinction they handle carefully and which remains crucial. In fact, studies have since found that more than half of women have had forced-sex fantasiesen.wikipedia.org, underscoring how common and “normal” this private fantasy can be. The authors were ahead of their time in addressing it without shame, while emphatically condemning actual assault. SM, they remind us, is a realm of consensual fantasy.)

Back to negotiation: The thoroughness of that original checklist has set the bar for those that followed. Many modern BDSM books and websites have published their own negotiation forms (with yes/no/maybe columns, space for hard limits, medical info, aftercare needs, etc.), and most of them borrow liberally from the template in Screw The Roses. The reason is simple – it works. It prompts you to think about specifics. It’s easy enough to say “we’re both into bondage,” but the checklist asks: rope, leather cuffs, or metal handcuffs? Wrists only, or ankles too? How about gags – yes, no, what kind? Do you enjoy sensory deprivation like blindfolds? How do you feel about clamps on nipples or genitals? By going point by point, it ensures you don’t stumble into an activity thinking the other is okay with it when they’re not. That level of detail can make the difference between an empowering scene and a traumatic one.

Even three decades on, I use a version of this checklist when playing with a new partner. These days I might use a digital form or a printed PDF someone updated on FetLife, but the bones are the same. And each time I do, I silently thank Miller and Devon. They not only provided the tool, they normalized the process of negotiation as a totally expected, even sexy, part of BDSM. The book frames negotiation as the first step in seduction – a chance to flirt with ideas, to say “I’ve always wanted to try X” and watch your partner’s eyes light up or widen. It taught an entire generation that consent can be exciting, not a buzzkill. That lesson is perhaps more important than ever in today’s world. If more vanilla couples talked about their likes and limits as candidly as kink folks do, we’d probably see a lot healthier intimate relationships all around. So yes, if someone asks me what to take away from Screw The Roses, I’d say: Take their negotiation advice. Take it to heart, use it, cherish it. It’s evergreen.

Where the Book Truly Shines

Demystifying Taboo Fantasies

There are sections in Screw The Roses that, even after all these years, shine especially bright for their empathetic understanding of the erotic psyche. One is the authors’ treatment of common taboo fantasies. I mentioned the rape fantasy discussion above – that’s part of a broader chapter where Miller and Devon tackle the psychological underpinnings of BDSM desires. They talk about why someone might crave humiliation play, or the allure of consensual non-consent scenarios, in a way that neither glorifies nor shames the fantasy. This remains exceptionally valuable. Even in 2025, a lot of people struggle to articulate fantasies that feel politically incorrect or “wrong.” Having a resource that calmly says, “It’s okay to have a fantasy of being overpowered; it doesn’t mean you really want to be harmed. Let’s discuss how to explore it ethically,” is gold. The authors make clear the chasm between fantasy and reality – a concept that echoes what many sex therapists (like Esther Perel or Emily Nagoski) have explained: a fantasy is often symbolic and operates by different rules than our day-to-day ethics. By giving readers language to voice these desires and frameworks to enact them safely (with safewords, prior agreement on the script, etc.), Screw The Roses performed a kind of sexual therapy function. It certainly did for me; I felt seen and understood when I read their breakdown of the “rape scenario” fantasy – they acknowledged the shame someone might feel, dispelled myths (e.g., that having the fantasy means you secretly want to be violated or are psychologically damaged), and focused on how partners can consensually play with non-consent. That approach remains a model for how to handle sensitive topics in kink.

The book’s motto that “SM is sexual magic” comes alive in these discussions of fantasygoodreads.com. Miller and Devon argue that BDSM allows us to transform our fears and dark desires into something light and playful (or intense and cathartic, but ultimately positive). “We peer into the dark together, transforming it to light,” they writegoodreads.com, capturing something essential about kink that purely technical guides often miss: its transformative potential. By revisiting those passages, I’m reminded why so many of us find BDSM to be not just sexually stimulating but personally meaningful. The authors understood that a role-play scene can be more than entertainment – it can be a way to reclaim control over a fear, or to experience a kind of healing through deliberate vulnerability. They don’t use the clinical terms we might today (there’s no mention of “trauma processing” or the endorphin-driven “subspace” state, though they describe subspace phenomenologically), but the insight is there in plain language. This is where the humanity of the book shines through every bit as much as in the humor: the authors truly love the subject and the people who partake in it, and they approach even the scariest fantasies with compassion and curiosity rather than judgment.

The Humor in Horror: Calling Out Bad Behavior with a Laugh

Another gem that still sparkles is the authors’ use of humor to call out problematic behaviors within the BDSM scene itself. There’s a section where they list various “Scene Personalities” – caricatures of the types of difficult or cringeworthy characters one might encounter in kink circles. The “Martyr Submissive,” for example, who tops from the bottom by orchestrating elaborate sacrifices and then wailing about how much they endure. Or the “Celestial Princess,” the new young female sub who believes she’s the center of the universe and that every dominant should cater to her whims. These tongue-in-cheek profiles are funny, yes, but they also carry gentle lessons. If you recognize yourself a little in one of those descriptions, it’s an opportunity to self-reflect without feeling attacked. The humor cushions the critique.

I remember chuckling at those pages in my first read, and later, in my first year of going to munches and dungeons, seeing some of those very archetypes in the flesh and thinking, Ah, that guy over there lecturing everyone on what “real” S/M is – he’s the “Old Guard Preacher” from the book! The authors managed to capture enduring social dynamics: the know-it-alls, the drama queens, the folks using BDSM as therapy without actually dealing with their issues, etc. Those personas still exist (although I’d argue the community has gotten better at gently steering them or setting boundaries). By lampooning them, the book gave the rest of us permission to laugh and also be on guard. It taught me early on that just because someone’s into kink doesn’t automatically make them wise or virtuous – we have our share of toxic behavior and egos, like any subculture. But it delivered that message with a wink, not a wagging finger.

Even now, I sometimes reference these scene personalities when teaching newcomers about red flags. For instance, I’ll describe the “One True Way Guru” (that person who insists their way of doing BDSM is the only correct way) – directly echoing Miller and Devon’s humorous take – and people immediately nod and chuckle because they’ve met someone like that or can imagine it. It opens a discussion: how do we handle it when we encounter gatekeeping or manipulative behavior in our supposedly open-minded community? The answer often lies in what the book implicitly encourages: community support and yes, a bit of humor to not let the air of self-importance grow too thick. I appreciate that the authors loved the scene enough to poke fun at it. It’s a very humanizing touch – it says, we’re not immune to flaws just because we’re sexual rebels; let’s acknowledge our foibles. And by doing so, maybe we can all be a little more aware and avoid becoming walking clichés ourselves.

In summary, Screw The Roses truly shines in these parts where it balances on that knife-edge between earnest and playful, between psychological depth and levity. That balance in tone is something I strive for as an educator: to be authoritative yet approachable, serious about safety yet playful about pleasure. In that regard, Miller and Devon set a high bar that many of us are still trying to live up to.

Modern Context and Digital Evolution

Perhaps one of the most astonishing changes since Screw The Roses was published is how BDSM has moved into the digital age and mainstream culture. Miller and Devon wrote excitedly about then-cutting-edge technology like bulletin board systems (BBS) and online “lists” where kinksters could connect in the 90s. That section is almost quaint to read now – talking about 2400-baud modems and text-based forums – given that we now have a vast social network (FetLife) dedicated to kink, endless specialized Discord servers and group chats, and even BDSM content on TikTok (sometimes hashtag-disguised as “#KinkTok” to evade censors). The book’s advice on vetting people you meet online (like meeting first in a public place, etc.) is still spot-on, and in fact even more relevant in the age of swipe-right hookups. But the scale of online interaction has exploded. Back then, only a minority of enthusiasts were online. Now, virtually every newcomer’s first stop is Google or a Reddit forum or some YouTube tutorial on rope ties. The community’s knowledge base isn’t confined to sporadic club workshops; it’s globally shared at the speed of fiber-optic cables.

This mainstreaming of BDSM is a double-edged sword. On one side, it has led to greater awareness and acceptance. The immense success of Fifty Shades of Grey (for all its flaws, which could be another entire essay) undeniably dragged kink out of the shadows and onto bedside tables and movie screens worldwide. By 2017, researchers were finding that nearly 70% of the general population had fantasized about some form of BDSM, and about half had actually tried at least one BDSM activity in their livespsypost.org. Those are astounding numbers that would have seemed unbelievable in 1995. Back then, if you admitted in a casual setting that you enjoyed spanking or bondage, you might get shocked or confused reactions. Today, you might well get, “Oh, like in Fifty Shades? I was curious about that!” or “Me too, in fact here’s how we spice things up…”. A representative study in Belgium put it succinctly: interest in BDSM is widespread, with 1 in 10 people having engaged in more intense forms like power exchange or whipping, and around 8% identifying as BDSM practitioners in a committed waypsypost.org psypost.org. The contrast is striking. As the study’s author noted, the fascination with kink in mainstream media (pop songs, fashion, celebrity discussions) suggests many people are at least intrigued, even if they don’t fly a freak flag openlypsypost.org.

On the flip side, the mainstreaming and digitization of BDSM have brought challenges that Miller and Devon only hinted at. The book warned about “be wary of people you meet online” – sage advice that now extends to apps and social media, where anonymity and scale can facilitate predatory behavior if one isn’t careful. Our community has responded by emphasizing education and consent culture even more loudly. For instance, the mantra of “Consent, Consent, Consent” is ubiquitous at events, and the concept of enthusiastic consent has entered public discourse (meaning not just a grudging “okay,” but an active “heck yes!” from all involved). We’ve also had to contend with the fact that not all depictions of BDSM in pop culture are healthy – Fifty Shades, again, was both a blessing and a curse, because while it opened dialogue, it also showcased some unhealthy dynamics without always labeling them so. This has prompted many in the kink community to produce better educational content to guide the curious influx.

One thing Screw The Roses couldn’t foresee is how interconnected and fast-moving kink information would become. They mention going to “munches” or joining support networks in big cities. Now, someone in a small town can hop on a video call workshop taught by an expert from across the globe, or find an online mentor, or join a fetish-specific group (say, fans of a particular rope style or a niche role-play) with members worldwide. The knowledge that used to trickle through magazine subscriptions or furtive VHS tapes now updates in real time. For example, the moment someone refines a new tying technique or a new perspective on consent, it can be blogged about and reach thousands overnight. This is wonderful in terms of safety and inclusivity – we can spread warnings about dangerous individuals or practices quickly, and amplify voices (like kinksters of color or LGBTQ folks) that were previously sidelined. But it can also be overwhelming. There’s so much content that a newbie might not know where to begin or how to vet good advice from bad. In that sense, a concise, warm, beginner-friendly book like Screw The Roses still has a place. It’s a friendly port in the storm of information.

Lastly, it’s amusing to note how the authors thought BBS and Usenet were the big new frontier – whereas now, those are practically Paleolithic compared to VR kink meetups or the sophisticated fetishes-forum architecture of FetLife. If Miller and Devon time-traveled to today, I think they’d be amazed to see that even university campuses have recognized kink groups (there’s literally a list of colleges with BDSM clubs these daysen.wikipedia.org). What was once secretive has, to a large extent, come into the light. They might worry, too, about how to maintain the integrity of consent and trust with so many newbies flooding in via TikTok trends and viral erotica. But given their emphasis on communication and humor, I suspect they’d adapt just fine – perhaps running a lively Discord server of their own, dishing out advice and puns in equal measure. The tools change, the essence doesn’t: BDSM is, as they taught us, fundamentally about people exploring fantasy through trust. However those people meet – be it on a dial-up BBS in 1995 or a smartphone app in 2025 – the human element remains. In that sense, Screw The Roses transcends its time. It speaks to the human heart of kink, which is why it’s still worth reading even as we tweet and stream our way into the future.