BloodSisters: Leather, Dykes, and Sadomasochism Whips it Good

Sometimes it feels as though queer culture is locked in an ouroboros of the worst kind; an endless and pointless series of assimilationist arguments on the intersections between identity and kink. You’ve heard these debates before. Should expressions of kink be allowed at Pride? Is it acceptable to refer to yourself as a faggot on social media? How problematic is it to call someone mommy or daddy while their entire fist is wrist-deep inside you?

BloodSisters: Leather, Dykes, and Sadomasochism does not entertain itself with such concerns. It is not a squeamish film; it is not worried about where on the gender spectrum one must exist to call themselves a dyke, or whether public whipping is an acceptable display of queer pride. While the excellent 1995 documentary illustrates the long existence of this discourse—particularly in a time when SM was less understood in the mainstream—its approach is less defensive and more educational: highlighting a wide swath of people and personalities within San Francisco’s contemporary lesbian leather scene. As it examines a microcosm of a microcosm, the film is an invaluable sociological record. But BloodSisters is even more appreciable as a portrait of queer identity, diving deep into the intricacies of solidarity and sexual pleasure simply by allowing its subjects to speak for themselves.

Like a unique crab scuttling beneath the rock of some obscure shore, the leatherdyke is a species seldom observed and rarely portrayed; often overlooked in favor of the more common Tom of Finland subtype. Watching BloodSisters becomes a form of representational therapy, immersing you in a world of butches and femmes and non-conformists and everything else, all united in sisterhood under the black animal-skin umbrella of pleasure in pain. 

This is BloodSisters’ greatest strength: even within the limits of San Francisco, the palette of participants, both cisgender and trans, is remarkably diverse. Every talking head brings a different perspective on their engagement with sadomasochism and queer desire (some serious and some humorous), and there’s a sense that even if the documentary folded in another fifty subjects they'd have unique viewpoints too. All interviewees share one key idea, however: every dyke, lesbian, “prep-school butch,” BDSM instructor, and leather pageant competitor feel that a better grasp of their interest in kink allowed for a more comfortable understanding of their broader selves.

If BloodSisters contains a narrative thesis, this is it. For a film so focused on (consensual) pain and torment, there's an effusive, almost gentle thread of euphoria and confidence through knowing one’s identity which gives the documentary so much punching power even thirty years later. Those of us who already participate in the world of Leather, Dykes, and Sadomasochism might naturally attune to the frequency and find joy in the simple yet meaningful pleasures of representation. But those on the outside, who have little knowledge of this world or might be standing at its precipice, will still find value in a message which encourages viewers to take that step and dive into the murky, difficult waters of self-acceptance. Of course, you don't have to take it so seriously. As one couple jokes, this is a kink that can require dragging fifty pounds of equipment into the bedroom just to get off. It's best to have a sense of humor about beating up your partner.

Crucially, BloodSisters expands its eye formally beyond the scope of interviews and conceptually beyond the ground floor of bedroom play, incorporating footage from local parades, competitions, demonstrations, and even the 1993 march on D.C. for LGBT+ equality. As the film suggests, queer and kink communities are inexorably intertwined, both united in a struggle against institutions which orchestrate their destruction through focused intent and malicious inaction. Solidarity is a key focus of BloodSisters: the idea that petty differences of opinion on kink and ascribed morality should be put aside in service of a much more important goal. The shadow of AIDS and the hope for liberation loom heavy over the film’s last third; for all the jovial eroticism and hot dykes contained within, footage of the AIDS Quilt spread across the National Mall remains a striking image. After all, how different is caring for your partner after a scene from caring for others in your community?

There's almost too much to cover in BloodSisters, more than a reasonable review can gush about and nearly more than the film’s 77 minutes can hold. If you're seeking a film with a deep dive perspective on what feels like a nearly-extinct queer scene, this is your movie. If you're looking for an enthusiastic and demystifying primer on sadomasochism and the psychology of its participants, this is your movie. And if you’re just looking for a date-night pick featuring dykes getting stuck by needles and threatening each other with knives? Hey baby, this is your fucking movie. 

It's a document, a drama, a comedy, a turn-on, a miracle; a soul-soothing representational balm for any lesbian who dresses up in leather jackets and rolls around in pain. It's wholly beautiful, and one of the most humanistic queer films you're likely to find. As the final interviewee notes, with a gallery of dykes behind her: “I hope that young women would look at these photographs and know there were women like them… it's a simple thing; a small thing. But it's really, really important.” That we’re still talking about BloodSisters three decades on is living proof.