By Mrs. Delilah Duval
I’m a queer Black woman, mother, and leatherwoman, self-styled The Consent Queen. This crown wasn’t handed to me; it was forged from the ore of mistakes, hard lessons, and deep community love. My identities shape how I navigate the world and how others perceive me, creating power dynamics in every room I enter.
The Hidden Nature of Power
Power in consent work is widely misunderstood. People think it only belongs to whoever holds the whip, title, or microphone. In reality, power constantly circulates—visible and invisible, offered and imposed.
When I started as a consent educator, I would watch people dismiss their own power: “I’m just a regular person.” Then I’d watch others defer to them because of reputation, connections, or sheer presence. Power doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it whispers in the background, shaping negotiations before anyone speaks.
One of my core teachings in the world of consent is that we must acknowledge not only the power we hold, but the power others perceive us to have. Sticky situations arise in those unspoken spaces between “what I think I’m offering” and “what you feel I’m expecting.”
The Weight of Reputation
Reputation has gravity. When people know your name, see a particular sash or patch, or see you introduced as “the consent educator,” there’s already an assumption of authority. That reputation opens doors but also creates pressure. Will people feel safe saying “no” if they think they might offend “the Consent Queen”? Will someone new to the community feel they must defer to me just because I’m standing at the front of the room with a microphone?
From my work, I’ve learned to ask: How do others see me right now? What assumptions might they be making about my role, authority or expectations? Without asking or considering these questions, I might unknowingly enter negotiations where the power balance is already skewed.
This plays out in my professional cuddle practice, where I offer therapeutic platonic touch and somatic boundary work. Clients arrive vulnerable; longing for touch, nervous about boundaries, hopeful but uncertain. I hold tremendous power not because I’m “the expert,” but because I offer what they need most: human connection.
When someone craves touch to that extent, saying “no” can feel impossible. That’s why I build in pauses, invite regular check-ins, and remind clients that consent includes changing your mind. Consent isn’t a contract you sign once—it’s an ongoing conversation that must stay alive in real time.
My Personal Journey to Accountability
I haven’t always gotten this right. Early in my leather journey, alcohol clouded my judgment and I crossed boundaries I should have honored. I couldn’t keep the agreements I made, causing pain for others and myself. Those moments became turning points.
On November 22, 2020, I stopped drinking. That date marks both my sobriety anniversary and the day I traveled with my ONYX Pearls pledge line to buy our vests; my first sober day, marking commitment to myself and to my community. The next month, I received my earned patch.
This choice wasn’t about perfection, but rather about responsibility. I felt called to make a declaration that if I truly wanted and deserved to stay in this community I love, I needed to build boundaries that protect both myself and others.
The Heart of It All
Leather and kink communities are built on webs of accountability. We don’t just play together, we teach, learn, correct, and grow together. My work involves delivering workshops or creating infographics; and on another plane, it involves being part of a cultural shift moving our community from assuming that compliance equates to consent to recognizing that consent requires much more by way of mutual clarity, courage, and care.
In my workshops, I remind participants that consent isn’t just about what happens in the dungeon. It’s about how we build relationships, hold power, and honor each other’s humanity. It’s about creating spaces where “no” is as welcome as “yes,” and where reputation builds trust rather than leverage.
I carry my lived experience, my missteps, my growth, and my deep belief that consent is not a side conversation. It is the center. I want to model a vision of leadership where power is acknowledged, shared, and held with care, rather than denied or abused.
My message remains constant and I hope to continue to amplify it: consent is not about control, it is about connection. Not about protecting egos, but protecting people. Not a box to check once, but a living practice to which we must recommit on a daily basis.
Here is the thing. Titles will fade, reputations will shift, and roles will change. What remains is the question: Did I honor your humanity while honoring my own?
That, to me, is the heart of consent.