Scene Work: What BDSM and Theater Tell Us About Identity

I came to BDSM the same way I came to theater; it was intuitive. I’ve always known who I am.

Before I ever negotiated power exchange, before I knew a double column tie, before I laced up Pleaser shoes with the intention to kick, I learned in a different temple of power. I learned to build trust, to build tension, to build a world, and to transform through the art of storytelling.

What is theater if not the ritual of using bodies, costumes, and negotiation to transcend through art, and what is BDSM if not the exact same thing?

Both theater and BDSM are spaces that are alike in so many ways. They are spaces where identity is not just expressed but constructed. Through carefully crafted rituals and agreed-upon rules, both thespians and Dommes alike prove that identity isn’t some fixed, unshakable foundation, but instead an ongoing performance shaped by what we do.

So often we are faced with messages about “finding” ourselves, as if identities are something to be lost between our couch cushions or under the bed. Or as if we accidentally leave parts of our personalities in a box at the bottom of our childhood closet. We think about who we would be if we stopped performing, performing professionalism for our bosses or performing an affable demeanor for the cashier at Trader Joe’s as they ask us about our plans for the raw vegetables we’re buying. To which we certainly never reply that we will likely forget about them in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator and then rediscover them in a week’s time, wracked with guilt.

But what if, instead of identity being something to discover underneath who you project yourself to be, performance is exactly how identity emerges? A Shakespearean actor isn’t secretly Hamlet under his doublet and gaskins, yet something emotionally genuine seems to happen through their performance. Similarly, a submissive who kneels before me isn’t pretending to submit, but the performance of kneeling itself creates an authentic experience of power exchange and trust.

Judith Butler famously argues that identities, especially gender, are constructed through repeated actions. We become recognizable through what we repeatedly do, and in turn, this becomes who we are. You may feel as if you were born a submissive, and I may feel that I was born to become a BDSM provider, and both may, in fact, be true, but these identities are only truly formed through the repeated actions that allow our specific destinies to come into the world.

Neither an actor nor a Domme simply becomes a character or simply steps into their role as soon as the audience files into the theater or a sub enters the dungeon. Identity is built through repetition. Actors often spend months rehearsing, researching, blocking, and brainstorming until what they do no longer feels like a series of mechanical acts, but embodied habits. Likewise, BDSM providers will often develop rituals that are repeated scene after scene, with sub after sub. Not just negotiation and aftercare, but perhaps also laying out implements in a specific way, lighting candles, or spraying a signature perfume into the air. These practices are not just superficial; they are a gateway to the role to be inhabited and made meaningful.

This, to me, reflects a much broader philosophical insight: actions do not just express identity, they produce it. Identity isn’t some strange resource that you can only mine from the depths of your psyche when you’re reading a self-help book or have just smoked way too much weed; it emerges through repetition. Kind people aren’t born that way. They become kind through repeated acts of kindness. In the same way, a Domme or submissive is not defined by some inner essence, but by a pattern of repeated intentional practices that give those identities coherence over a length of time.

Anthropologist Victor Turner has this idea of liminal spaces, or thresholds to pass through. On the other side is a world where normal expectations are suspended and new ways of becoming are not just possible but encouraged. Both the stage and the dungeon are liminal spaces. Upon crossing that threshold into these spaces, you know that symbols take on new meanings, relationships change, and the rules are simply different. Yet, this transformation isn’t dependent on the location. It occurs because participants repeatedly enact the behaviors that belong to that world. When we look at it this way, the stage and dungeon both do not reveal some hidden identity; they create an environment where that identity can be performed into existence.

This is why, when it comes to identity, repetition matters so much more than singular dramatic gestures. No matter the sincerity of the isolated gestures you may do, it is instead the return, the practice of doing again, that gradually shapes identity into existence. The actor does not simply have the ability to access the character of Hamlet fully in one big grand inspired moment; instead, Hamlet emerges gradually through a series of repeated acts. Similarly, in BDSM, roles are not simply established through singular acts of dominance and submission. In actuality, roles emerge through recurring patterns of negotiated behavior.

Philosophically, this heavily aligns with Aristotle’s concept of virtue ethics, which emphasizes developing virtuous character and practical wisdom to reach what he calls eudaimonia, which translates to “human flourishing.” To reach eudaimonia, a single isolated act of goodness is not enough. One must instead cultivate the habit of goodness. We are what we repeatedly do. But both theater and BDSM take this a step further and add another valuable insight into the mix. What these two spaces show us is that the process of becoming is not something we do alone. It is actually a shared experience, a choreography between people. So identity isn’t formed in a vacuum; it is formed in response to others who agree either explicitly or implicitly to sustain a pattern with you.

Over time, these repeated actions begin to blur the line between performance and personhood itself. What may begin as a consciously conducted roleplay actually starts to turn into embodied knowledge, and the body will begin to respond before the mind even has a chance to form a complete sentence. A certain way of walking, elegant and measured, may evoke a certain mental state. A certain controlled usage of language may work to shift attention a certain way. A certain ritual recognizes a particular shift of power. In this sense, identity isn’t something we step into once and then wash our hands of; it is something we step into again and again until the act of stepping itself becomes second nature.

The implication of all of this is that there is no final version of the self simply waiting to be uncovered. It will not be uncovered by doing a specific set of actions, by listening to the influencer who tells you the things that may have worked for her, or by being loved in just the right way. There is only the ongoing practice of becoming. The stage does not reveal who we are. The dungeon does not reveal who we are. They do, however, show something far more difficult to sit with or perhaps even liberating to some: that who we are is never finished because it is always being done. The self isn’t something to uncover under who you are with your boss, your friends, your cat. It is something we do repeatedly, and every gesture, every act, every habit hardens into character until performance becomes indistinguishable from identity.

Theater and BDSM both expose what everyday life tries so hard to conceal: that we are all performing all the time. The difference is that on the stage or in the dungeon, this performance is conscious. We choose a role, negotiate the terms and conditions, and in doing so reveal that identity is not something to be possessed but practiced and, in the end, a life is nothing more and nothing less than the sum of performances we repeat until they become who we are.

With sincerity and seduction,

Dolly Diatima