A Seasoned Practitioner's Review of The Loving Dominant by John Warren

As someone who has spent over two decades navigating the intricate landscape of BDSM—both as a dominant and a submissive—I approached John Warren’s The Loving Dominant with a mix of appreciation and a critical eye. Originally published in the 1990s and later updated, this book was groundbreaking for its time. It offers timeless wisdom about BDSM relationships, yet also contains moments that feel distinctly dated under today’s lens. In this review, I’ll explore Warren’s core philosophy, where my real-world experience diverges from his theory, and how his guidance holds up against modern best practices. Throughout, I’ll weave in perspectives from contemporary experts and research to enrich the discussion.

The Heart of Warren’s Philosophy

At its heart, Warren’s message is clear: BDSM is fundamentally about connection, trust, and mutual pleasure. In his own words, domination and submission occur when one person “voluntarily gives up some or all of his or her power and freedom to another for the purpose of sensual excitement”, an enhancement to sexuality that “intensif[ies] the emotional connections” between partners. He emphasizes that two elements are universal in BDSM: an exchange of power and genuine consent. This focus on power exchange as a loving, consensual collaboration runs throughout the book. Warren encapsulates the ethical core of dominance in a powerful maxim: “In exchange for the power that is given us, we must find ways of using that power for the benefit and pleasure of both participants.”. In other words, the true dominant does not grab power for ego or control’s sake, but accepts the gift of submission and wields it responsibly to uplift their partner. This service-oriented approach challenges the crude stereotype of the selfish sadist and aligns with what I’ve observed in the most fulfilling D/s relationships.

Warren’s philosophy resonates with modern understandings of erotic desire. He notes that BDSM play often heightens intimacy rather than detracting from it. (Indeed, recent research suggests about one-third of people engage in some BDSM, and many report it enhances relationship intimacy.). Erotic imagination thrives on paradox – and what greater paradox is there than finding freedom in restraint, or empowerment through surrender? Eroticism draws on the hidden and forbidden; it “celebrates ritual and play, the power of the imagination, and our infinite fascination with what is hidden, illicit, and suggestive.” Warren intuitively taps into this notion. He understands that a consensual cage can set the mind free, and that by willingly playing with power we create a space where both partners can experience profound pleasure and connection.

Crucially, Warren underscores the responsibility of the dominant in caring for their submissive. One of the first lessons he offers new dominants is the motto: “NO UNINTENTIONAL PAIN.” In his view, a loving dominant must strive never to hurt a partner by accident or negligence. Any pain in a scene should be intentional, artful, and ultimately for the submissive’s benefit as well as the dominant’s. This ethic draws a bright line between BDSM and abuse. It’s a reminder that a dominion of trust and tenderness underpins even the fiercest of scenes. As Warren himself asks prospective dominants, “Do you get as much pleasure or more from erotically exciting your partner as from your own enjoyment of the sexual act?” – the clear implication being that the “Loving Dominant” takes joy in their partner’s joybookey.app. This mutuality of pleasure and care is the book’s most enduring message, and one that still holds true today.

Where Experience Diverges from Theory

Despite my strong agreement with Warren’s general ethos, there are places where my lived experience diverges from his framework. Warren tends to present dominance and submission in somewhat binary, static terms – you’re either a dominant or a submissive (and in his examples, typically male dom and female sub). As a switch, I find this rigidity limiting. In reality, many people’s roles in BDSM are fluid; power dynamics can shift like the tides, sometimes even within a single encounter. Modern BDSM educators like Dossie Easton and Janet Hardy emphasize that roles are increasingly fluid, noting that individuals may switch between topping and bottoming or even inhabit hybrid roles (like a “submissive sadist”) depending on context. Warren does acknowledge that “not all women are submissive,” and he includes a few anecdotes of female dominants, but the full spectrum of switchiness and role versatility is not deeply explored in his book.

Another aspect that gave me pause is Warren’s generalization about gender differences in humiliation play. He writes: “Nowhere is the difference between the psychologies of male and female submissives so markedly different as on the subject of humiliation play… The majority of male submissives seem to crave some degree of humiliation as part of their servitude… The vast majority of female submissives… seem turned off by humiliation.”. He then speculates about the reason, suggesting that for many women, humiliation “offers little contrast” to their daily lives – society already dishes out plenty of it – whereas men, largely shielded from daily humiliation, find it “novel and exotic” to experience in a controlled setting. In Warren’s view, a female submissive “hardly need seek more” humiliation given the degradation women often face in society, while a male submissive might relish the unusual taste of powerlessness.

There is a kernel of sociological insight here. In fact, some later scholarship notes that one of the most common forms of erotic humiliation in BDSM is forced feminization – “being ‘forced’ to act like a woman” – which many male submissives experience as degrading precisely because our culture values masculinity over femininity. The idea that being treated “like a woman” feels humiliating to men (while the reverse is usually not true for women) sadly reflects real-world gender hierarchies. However, I find Warren’s blanket statement far too broad. Desire is profoundly individual. I’ve known women who crave consensual humiliation as part of their submission, deriving intense release from it, and men who absolutely avoid anything humiliating. Warren’s own wife and co-author, Libby, contributes a first-person essay in the book that underscores how varied submissive experiences can be. She describes three progressive “levels” of submission – fantasy, clarity, and transparency – each representing a deepening trust and emotional openness as her D/s relationship evolves. Libby’s perspective is a welcome reminder that submissives (of any gender) aren’t a monolith; some enjoy playful brattiness, others seek spiritual surrender, and yes, some find erotic charge in a carefully negotiated humiliating scenario. Warren’s observations may have reflected the submissives he knew in his era, but they don’t capture the full diversity of today’s scene.

In short, while Warren’s overarching principles still ring true, I find myself more flexible on the particulars. He tends to speak in universals that invite exceptions. BDSM, to me, is less about fitting into a preset mold and more about co-creating a dynamic that fits the people involved. On this point, contemporary understanding agrees: “Submission often stems from a place of strength… meanwhile, dominance is not about power over others but about creating an environment where both partners can explore pleasure and trust.” Every individual brings their own desires and quirks, and power exchange works best when we honor that uniqueness rather than any supposed gender rulebook.

The Practical Wisdom in The Loving Dominant

One area where The Loving Dominant truly shines is in its practical advice. Warren covers the nuts and bolts of BDSM with a thoroughness that was likely revolutionary in 1994 and is still useful today. His chapters on negotiation and communication lay out clear guidelines for establishing limits and safe words. He stresses that the safeword is sacred – “the most important word in the BDSM vocabulary,” as he calls it – precisely because it allows us to draw a bright line between consensual play and real distress. (Warren even humorously notes that in scenes, words like “stop” or “no” might be ignored as part of a consensual struggle, whereas an agreed-upon safeword like “red” or “mercy” must never be ignored.)

Warren also delves into scene preparation and equipment with an experienced hand. I found myself smiling at his discussion of “plausible deniability” when it comes to kinky furniture. So many of us have that innocent-looking coffee table or ottoman that just happens to have conveniently sturdy legs or attachment points. Warren’s guidance on setting up your play space to be both functional and non-alarming to vanilla visitors remains eminently practical (and a trick many of us still use!). He covers a wide range of classic BDSM techniques – from basic rope bondage, to flogging and spanking, to sensory play – describing not just the how, but the why. Even decades later, a newbie dominant could learn a lot from these sections on how to wield their flogger or where to place clothespins.

That said, safety protocols are one area that inevitably require updating. The book came out in the shadow of the HIV/AIDS crisis, and understandably it emphasizes things like avoiding blood-borne risks. But our collective knowledge of safer sex has expanded since then. For example, Warren doesn’t cover modern tools like PrEP (pre-exposure prophylaxis for HIV) or the latest understanding of STI prevention and testing frequency – developments that arrived long after the 90s. Likewise, his advice on first aid and injury prevention is solid but could be more comprehensive in light of today’s best practices. BDSM educators now talk about concepts like RACK (Risk-Aware Consensual Kink), an evolution of the old “Safe, Sane, Consensual” credo that explicitly acknowledges no activity is 100% safe and encourages frank discussion of risks so that participants take informed responsibility for their choices. Warren’s book predates the RACK vs. SSC debate, so you won’t find that terminology in it – but to his credit, the spirit of his advice is very much “be cautious, be informed, take care of each other.” His mantra of relative safety and complete consensuality permeates the practical sections. If you approach his how-to chapters with the mindset that some specifics may have evolved (e.g., updates in medical info or technology), you’ll still find a trove of valuable guidance for running a safe and enjoyable scene.

The Art of Scene Construction

One of the most beautiful passages in The Loving Dominant is where Warren describes creating a BDSM scene as akin to an improvised dance. He suggests a good scene has a structure – a beginning, middle, and end, perhaps a general theme or goal – but within that, the dominant and submissive flow moment-to-moment, responding to each other’s cues. Warren writes that a scene is like a “jazz dance”, where “I know where I am and where I want to go, but the spirit of the moment, my sense of rightness, the influence of my partner, all come together… changing minute by minute.” (I’m paraphrasing his idea here.) This improvisational approach to dominance deeply resonates with me. Over the years, I’ve learned that you can’t script every stroke or every word in advance; you prepare diligently, then you feel into the encounter, adjusting as the energy unfolds. It’s what Perel might call “structured spontaneity” – you establish a container of safety and consent solid enough to then let go and revel in the wildness that emerges. Within the beats of a well-negotiated scene, there is room for creativity, surprise, even some laughter, as long as the trust is intact.

Warren captures this balance between careful preparation and playful spontaneity with an authoritative yet warm voice. Reading his descriptions, I was often reminded of the “erotic intelligence” finding meaning in our imaginative interactions. Warren’s approach treats a BDSM scene not as a rote script of actions, but as a living conversation between top and bottom. This insight remains a vital lesson: dominance is an art as much as a science. The dominant may be “conducting” the scene, but they must listen as much as lead. The give-and-take of energy – the dominant’s command met by the submissive’s response – creates a feedback loop, a rhythm. When done well, it’s like music or poetry. And when I read Warren’s take on it, I saw the echoes of all the great scenes I’ve been privileged to be part of, those moments where two people together create something transcendent and intensely personal. In that sense, The Loving Dominant still conveys the magic of BDSM that goes beyond technique: the almost ineffable chemistry that sparks when trust, fantasy, and desire collide.

Notable Omissions and Dated Perspectives

It’s important to acknowledge that The Loving Dominant is very much a product of its time. Some of the book’s blind spots and assumptions stand out when reading it in 2025. For one, the tone is heteronormative and gender-essentialist by today’s standards. Warren explicitly writes from the perspective of “a male heterosexual dominant,” and although he says he sought input from “sister dominants” (female tops) and various male and female submissives, the default scenario he references over and over is male Dom/female sub. Pronouns and examples largely follow the “opposite sex” pairing convention. There’s a frequent implication that dominants are men and submissives are women, which doesn’t reflect the true range of BDSM dynamics many of us see now (or even that existed then, albeit less openly). This isn’t to say Warren ignores other possibilities entirely – he does note “not all women are submissive” and mentions the existence of male submissives and female dominants. But you can feel the cultural lens of the early ’90s in his writing. Today, the BDSM community is far more outspoken about inclusivity: dominants and submissives can be of any gender, and we recognize non-binary folks, queer dynamics, and relationship constellations (polyamory, etc.) that Warren’s text doesn’t explicitly contemplate.

Similarly, the book is a bit of a time capsule in how it discusses BDSM community and communication. Warren talks about resources like local munches, phone lines, and even the bygone era of bulletin board systems (BBS) where kinksters would connect. It’s charming to read his description of early online forums, but it’s also dated. In the Foreword to the Third Edition, he acknowledges that the original was written “at a time when the Internet was largely a thing of corporations, governments and universities… Today, we can be much more open and the Internet has changed the world almost beyond imagination.”. That update was in 2008, noting that BDSM had moved from whispers to a more public conversation. Fast forward to now, and we navigate a sprawling online kink ecosystem: FetLife groups, Twitter after dark, BDSM Discord servers, and yes, the ever-present shadow of social media censorship. None of that is in Warren’s book, of course. So, readers should keep in mind that references to technology and community in The Loving Dominant are historically interesting but not practically relevant today. (If anything, the explosion of online BDSM discourse has only made some of Warren’s etiquette advice more crucial – e.g., the importance of discretion and maintaining one’s reputation, since the community, even global, can feel like a small town.)

Another dated element is the book’s language around gender and sexuality. Warren uses terms like “the opposite sex” frequently, and the idea of fluid or spectrum-based gender identities isn’t present. The concept of switches, as mentioned, is underdeveloped. He doesn’t really address, for instance, a relationship where partners might alternate roles, or engage in “service topping” (a bottom guiding a top to please the bottom). Nor is there any discussion of asexual or nonsexual kink (playing for power or sensation without sexual contact), which has since become recognized in the community. These omissions don’t negate the book’s value, but they do frame it as an introduction best paired with more contemporary sources to fill in the gaps. I suspect if Warren were writing today, he would include chapters on diversity of identities and perhaps more on ethical issues like consent culture, intersectionality (how kink intersects with things like feminism or queer identity), and the like. In fairness, The Loving Dominant was never meant to be an academic or cultural analysis – it’s a how-to with a personal touch – so perhaps it’s unsurprising that it doesn’t tick every modern box. Just know that if you’re coming from a 2020s mindset, you’ll need to translate some of the book’s assumptions into a more inclusive, current framework on your own.

The Psychology of Power Exchange

Where Warren truly excels, in my opinion, is illuminating the psychological depths of dominance and submission. Despite the book’s age, many of his insights into why people pursue BDSM feel perennial. For example, he recognizes the powerful contrast that drives erotic excitement. Warren notes that many individuals are drawn to BDSM for “the thrill of contrast between power and powerlessness, the enjoyment of intense physical and emotional experiences, and even as a form of escapism from their everyday responsibilities.” In other words, a high-powered professional might relish the opportunity to relinquish control, or a normally shy person might enjoy the role of a strict Master in the bedroom. He even quips that a lot of submissives simply take off their “Type A” suit when they play: “Many submissives… slip off the entire business-mandated Type A personality to submit to a trusted dominant.” This notion – that submission can be a “vacation” from the burdens of daily life and responsibility – rings very true. I’ve encountered countless submissives who describe their play in exactly those terms: relief, release, a deep breath. By temporarily handing over the reins, they find freedom. Similarly, dominants often speak of the responsibility they carry in scenes as a source of fulfillment – an almost therapeutic focus where nothing exists except the present moment and the partner before them.

Warren also touches on the idea that BDSM can be cathartic and contrastive. “An essence of BDSM is contrast,” he writes while discussing why something like humiliation might appeal to those who don’t experience it in daily life. This aligns with what psychologists have observed about erotic desire: it often thrives on otherness and tension. Sustaining lust in long-term relationships requires reconciling two opposing needs – safety and adventure – and that desire is stoked by mystery, distance, and the unknown. In a BDSM context, the power exchange itself creates that mystery and otherness. No matter how well I know my partner, the moment I put on their collar or they bind my wrists, we invoke something archetypal, something beyond our day-to-day personas. Warren clearly understands this erotic psychology. He even includes a section where he refutes the simplistic Freudian notion that BDSM is just pathology. With a touch of dry humor, he points out that traditional paradigms in psychology don’t account for “loving domination” or “sensual submission” at all – a gap that, thankfully, modern sexology has started to fill with more nuanced research.

One of the most valuable contributions in The Loving Dominant is the inclusion of Libby Warren’s first-person account of submission. Libby (John’s wife) offers a beautifully written essay in which she outlines three progressive stages she experienced: Fantasy, Clarity, and Transparency. In the Fantasy stage, she indulged her elaborate dreams of “the perfect Master” and ideal scenarios – the kind of hot-house imagining many of us nurture before we ever step into a dungeon. In the Clarity stage, real-life D/s taught her which parts of the fantasy were feasible or desirable, bringing a clearer understanding of herself and her partner. Finally, in the Transparency stage, she describes a near-spiritual openness, where she felt truly seen and accepted in her submission, with nothing left to hide. Each level represented a deepening of trust and emotional engagement. This framework is a thoughtful way to honor the emotional growth that can occur in a BDSM relationship. It’s not all whips and moans; for many, the journey of power exchange is also one of intense self-discovery and even healing. Libby’s perspective adds a nuanced, human voice – it’s one thing to list negotiation checkboxes, but another to articulate the soul of submission in this way. As a reader, I found her contribution grounding and relatable, echoing experiences I’ve had and witnessed in others. It also balances the book by providing a submissive’s voice alongside John’s dominant-centric instruction.

Technical Expertise and Safety

Technically speaking, Warren’s knowledge of BDSM practice is comprehensive for its scope. He guides the reader through a buffet of activities: bondage (with an emphasis on safety and circulation), impact play (from hand spanking to paddles and floggers), sensory deprivation, roleplaying, and even some edge play like needles and electricity. The tips he gives – such as how to maintain your rope (e.g. avoiding certain knots that can cinch too tight), where on the body it’s safe to hit and where to avoid, or the classic “open flame and long hair don’t mix” kind of common sense – all demonstrate a seasoned practitioner teaching from hard-won experience. I chuckled at his advice that a “thoughtful dominant who brings a sheet to catch drips of candle wax” will be more welcome at play parties than one who leaves a mess. That kind of practical etiquette, while minor, shows an attention to detail and consideration for others that any dungeon veteran will appreciate.

That said, certain technical discussions inevitably feel outdated in hindsight. BDSM knowledge has evolved, and community norms have shifted. For example, Warren’s section on edge play (the riskier forms of kink) covers basics of piercing, cutting, and electrical play, but doesn’t engage with the kind of risk analysis we’d expect today. In modern BDSM circles, we emphasize doing your homework and perhaps learning from experts before attempting extreme scenes. We’ve also seen the community move from the simplistic “Safe, Sane, Consensual” mantra to frameworks like Risk-Aware Consensual Kink (RACK) and even Personal Responsibility Informed Consensual Kink (PRICK). These frameworks highlight personal responsibility and informed decision-making, acknowledging that no activity is without risk. Warren’s book predates these acronyms; he doesn’t use them. However, he does strike what I’d call a proto-RACK tone. For instance, he never claims BDSM is completely “safe” – on the contrary, he notes that even a seemingly innocuous activity can turn tragic (he gives an anecdote of a submissive who had a heart attack merely cleaning his Mistress’s toilet because of his excitement). Warren is frank that some BDSM activities are inherently dangerous and must be treated with respect and caution.

One area where I would have liked more from Warren is a deeper discussion on aftercare and emotional safety. He certainly advises caring for your partner, and implies things like cuddling a sub and bringing them water after a scene, but the term “aftercare” as such isn’t emphasized the way it is in newer kink literature. Likewise, concepts like dom drop or sub drop (post-scene emotional lows) aren’t named, though experienced readers can infer the need to watch out for each other’s well-being beyond the scene itself. Again, this is likely a reflection of the time: the psychological nuances of kink were less mapped out in mainstream books then. Nowadays, we have a richer vocabulary for these experiences. Still, Warren’s overarching directive of compassion and “using power for the benefit of both” covers the intent behind aftercare even if he doesn’t spell out all the mechanics.

In summary, the technical content of The Loving Dominant is solid, especially for entry-to-intermediate players. It’s like learning from a skilled, slightly old-school mentor. Just remember that any specific how-to from 1994 (or 2008 for the 3rd edition) might have newer information available now. Pairing Warren’s guidance with a modern BDSM safety book or updated online resources (for example, current rope bondage tutorials, or workshops on newer practices like hypnotic play or CNC roleplay negotiations) would give a newcomer the best of both worlds: Warren’s wise fundamentals and today’s expanded knowledge base.

Recommendations for Further Reading

If you read The Loving Dominant and want to continue your BDSM education (as I always encourage – we should all remain students in the art of love and kink), here are a few additional resources I recommend that build on or update Warren’s foundation:

• “Playing Well With Others” by Lee Harrington & Mollena Williams: An inclusive field guide to discovering and navigating the kink community. Harrington and Williams focus on the “community” aspect of BDSM – from munches to conferences – offering a contemporary perspective on finding your tribe and learning the unspoken protocols of kink social life. This book is especially great for understanding how to meet partners and mentors in today’s scene (something that has changed a lot since Warren’s BBS days).

• **“The New Topping Book” and “The New Bottoming Book” by Dossie Easton & Janet W. Hardy: These updated classics are essential reading that complement Warren’s work. Easton and Hardy bring a warm, sex-positive, and often LGBTQ-inclusive tone, addressing things like switching and the emotional aspects of topping/bottoming in depth. Notably, they emphasize that roles in BDSM need not be rigid – tops and bottoms can co-create dynamics that defy traditional labels. These books acknowledge the fluidity and creativity in power exchange, much like I found missing in Warren’s binary approach.

• “The Erotic Mind” by Jack Morin: While not BDSM-specific, this is a fantastic dive into the psychology of desire and what turns us on. Morin’s insights into how taboo, longing, and even fear can amplify eroticism will resonate with anyone curious about why BDSM excites them. It provides a broader context for understanding kinks as part of one’s unique “erotic fingerprint.” Reading Morin alongside The Loving Dominant can deepen your appreciation for the psychological nuance behind the “erotic nature of contrast” that Warren mentions.

• “Come As You Are” by Emily Nagoski: Again, this book isn’t about BDSM per se, but Nagoski’s digest of the science of arousal and sexual response is invaluable. She explains concepts like responsive desire, the importance of context, and the way stress or trust can impact arousal. For BDSM practitioners, her work offers evidence-based reassurance that there’s no “one way” to get turned on, and it helps couples understand each other’s accelerators and brakes in sexuality. This knowledge pairs well with BDSM, since navigating scenes is much easier when you grasp each other’s arousal patterns and emotional needs.

• “Techniques of Pleasure” by Margot Weiss: For the more academically inclined, Weiss’s ethnographic study of BDSM communities (particularly in San Francisco) provides a critical look at kink from a cultural perspective. It sheds light on issues of class, gender, and economics in the BDSM scene. While Warren gives a how-to from within the community, Weiss looks at it from the outside, raising thought-provoking questions about what our play means in a broader societal context. It’s a different flavor of reading – more sociology than self-help – but it’s eye-opening and can inspire you to think about BDSM beyond your personal experience.

Each of these works adds something new: be it updated safety information, a more diverse worldview, or a deeper dive into erotic psychology. No single book has the definitive truth on BDSM, so it’s wise to read widely. Warren’s book, plus these, will give a well-rounded education to anyone serious about understanding both the techniques and the inner life of kink.

Final Reflections

Reading The Loving Dominant as a seasoned player in 2025 has been a journey of both nostalgia and affirmation. In many ways, John Warren’s advice and ethos hold up remarkably well. His emphasis on trust, consent, mutual pleasure, and loving responsibility is truly timeless. Those principles are the bedrock upon which BDSM’s credibility and ethics rest, and they transcend the book’s dated elements. I found myself nodding along when he asserts that “a BDSM relationship is more, not less, complex than one that is purely vanilla”bookey.app – so true, and thus it requires even greater communication and care. I silently cheered when he reminded dominants to check their egos at the door and focus on their partners’ needs. That “Loving Dominant” spirit is something our community still strives to foster, especially when newcomers might get the wrong idea from inaccurate pop culture (looking at you, Fifty Shades).

Yet, the book is also clearly a historical artifact from a specific chapter in BDSM’s evolution. It captures a moment when our lifestyle was just creeping into public awareness, when the DSM (the psychiatric manual) had only recently de-pathologized BDSM, and when many players still felt isolated outside a few big city clubs or dial-up forums. Today, BDSM has in many respects gone mainstream – surveys show a significant minority of couples experiment with kinky elements, and public understanding (while not perfect) is lightyears ahead of where it was in Warren’s day. We’ve seen BDSM depicted (with varying accuracy) in movies, TV, and literature; we’ve seen the rise of online communities that connect kinksters worldwide in an instant. Reading Warren’s book now, I felt gratitude for how far we’ve come. The “loving dominant” that Warren champions has, thankfully, become the aspirational norm in most BDSM circles I know. Consent and communication are openly preached; bullies and abusers masquerading as Doms are increasingly called out. In part, we have books like this to thank for laying that groundwork.

Of course, we have also moved beyond some of Warren’s limitations. We’re more attentive to inclusivity, acknowledging dominants and submissives of all genders and orientations. We’re more aware of the rich variety of kink identities – from primal players to pet players to those who practice fetish without any D/s dynamic at all. We’ve developed more sophisticated conversations around consent (discussing things like consent violations, restorative justice in the community, and continuous consent). None of that really appears in The Loving Dominant, so modern readers should supplement accordingly.

Nonetheless, The Loving Dominant’s core message endures: dominance, at its best, is an act of love. Warren concludes, essentially, that BDSM done right is a win-win scenario – an erotic art where everyone involved should feel satisfied and enriched. I share that view wholeheartedly. In a poignant quote, Warren reminds us that in BDSM “here, perhaps more than in any other aspect of your life, you are free to choose your own route to ecstasy.” To me, this speaks to the ultimate liberating power of kink. It’s a domain where adults consensually design the experiences that bring them meaning, pleasure, and connection, unfettered by a vanilla script of how sex or love is “supposed” to look. We get to write our own story, scene by scene, in collaboration with those we care about. That’s a beautiful thing, and The Loving Dominant stands as an invitation and guide into that creative, intimate, and yes, loving endeavor.

In closing, I recommend approaching Warren’s book with both appreciation and a critical mind. There is much to appreciate: the warmth of his advice, the clarity of his explanations, the ethical backbone that could steer any novice away from harm. At the same time, bring your 2020s sensibilities to it. Question what doesn’t sound right to you. Discuss its ideas with fellow kinksters who might have different perspectives. Use it as a conversation starter with your partners about what style of D/s you want to create. The BDSM world has room for many truths and styles – as many as there are unique people. Warren offers one seasoned practitioner’s truth. Take from it what serves you, leave aside what doesn’t, and above all, remember that your kink journey is your own. As we say in the scene nowadays, “Your kink is not my kink, but your kink is OK.” The loving dominant (or submissive) that you aspire to be should reflect your values, your desires, and the specific magic between you and your partners.