Primal Arts 2025

I am late writing this one and maybe that is fitting. The energy of Primal Arts is still running through me, like it always does. This event has become my favorite place on earth, the one that cracks me open and shows me parts of myself I only seem to find here.

This year did not start the way I hoped. Work would not give me the time off I asked for, which meant I missed setup. That hit me hard because I have been there at the start every year going back to the Dark Odyssey days. Arriving late felt wrong. But the moment I stepped out of the car and got boots on soil, it started to feel right again. The whole Flogging Farmers polycule was there. I am not romantically tied to them anymore, and I felt a knot in my stomach about that. But that fear dissolved almost immediately. It just worked and has been working well so those fears were unfounded.

I staffed again this year, working teardown and running the Braxi Taxi two hours a day. I made it my mission to get people where they needed to go, especially up and down that hill. Accessibility matters here, and I wanted to do my part. That hill is a beast even for the able-bodied, so I put myself behind the wheel and made it easier for as many people as I could. Often times missing bits of the ritual fire playing taxi but it was worth it as an act of service.

Being on staff always makes me cautious about seeking play. I put up my ISO and let whoever wants to play come to me. That way, nobody feels pressured. This year I worried I might not get much kink in at all. I was wrong, and I am grateful for it.

I had some incredibly charged moments this year. The kind of moments where your heart pounds and the night air feels electric. Some scenes stayed soft and sensual, some burned hot and rough. I had a first impact scene with someone who started out shy and was laughing and glowing by the end. I shared quiet moments that were just as intimate as any rope tie or strike. I left each encounter with my chest open and my whole body humming.

The rituals were stunning this year. Each one landed with its own weight, its own flavor. I love that the rituals at Primal are not tied to any one faith or tradition they are explorations of the self. They are invitations to find your own meaning. You can go deep or just stand in the firelight and watch. I stepped in when it felt right and let the night take me where it wanted.

The art was everywhere this year and it was breathtaking. Carved logs for ritual nights, hammered cauldrons, charcoal drawings, dreamcatchers, drums, body paint. It felt like the whole camp was alive with creation.

And the connections. Gods, the connections. From a beard scene that made me grin like an idiot, to wordless call and response that felt like speaking without sound, to finding someone local I now get to see outside of camp. These moments are why I come back. They are what make me soft inside even when I am baring my teeth.

The Primal Hunt was fierce this year. I scrawled names into bones for every capture, each one a mark for the hunters to hold later. The energy of the hunt was thick in the air, and even missing "the feast" (Which i heard many spicy stories about) I felt like I was part of something ancient.

When Leeland handed out rewards at the last fire, the whole crowd lit up. The cheering, the energy, the way it rippled through everyone present, it felt primal in the truest sense of the word.

I left this year hungry for more. Hungry for more connection, more ritual, more play. Primal Arts feels like home, and the people are my people.

Here is to 2026. I want it hotter, louder, and even more alive. I want the smoke, the sweat, the wild rush of running through the dark, and the quiet moments where time stops and the world falls away.

Dear Reader, 
A little over a week ago I was at an event in Maryland called Primal Arts Fest. There alongside 170 or so other amazing, kinky people I found a home and a family. For 6~ish days and 5 nights I allowed myself to be vulnerable. I opened my mind and heart to the people around me, to my authentic self; unburdened by the worry if I would be enough. To my very pleasant surprise, I was bolstered instead of harmed; I was elevated instead of laid low, I was cared for and accepted instead of othered or dismissed. 

Since leaving, friends and family (who are of varying degrees of in-the-know about how I spent my vacation) have asked me how I felt? Did I enjoy my vacation? What did I do? To them only a few things have remained unchanged regardless of what percentage of the specifics I keep to myself. “It was a transformative experience.” I’ve said it dozens of times in the past few days and it is the most truthful answer I can give. This is due in part to the leadership of Sam and Leland, due in part to the nature of our community, due in part to numerous staff, presenters, volunteers, and attendees milling about that hill in Maryland, and due in part to my own commitment to make this a special time in my life. Acknowledging that something is special is easy though, sharing how and why something is special is harder. And doing it in such a way that it conveys that magic to a reader is harder still. So Future Self, Kinky Friend, please don’t judge me too harshly for the “ink” I spill in this humble attempt. 

Before heading to PAF I was scared that it was going to be some clique-y orgy party or a weird hippie cult thing… While both fears held meager kernels of what I would experience; both were far from the truth. Yes PAF was a sex positive event and I’m sure that if an orgy had broken out it would’ve been met joyously; and yes throughout the event a powerful current of spirituality rumbled along as serene and unstoppable as a glacier. But again more than anything else PAF was a safe place; the spirituality was a result of a family comfortable enough to entangle their beliefs with each other in a respectful way, the sensuality arose from the intimacy afforded by vulnerability and trust. PAF was indeed a sexy, spiritual event and so much more. There were scenes between people who have known each other for years, and new friends alike. There was coffee (Truly excellent coffee, Thanks Lucky Shot) and conversations. There were growth moments where people pushed their own boundaries. There were moments of quiet introspection. There was dancing and music that pulled me out of myself and bound me to the community. There were educational discourses, lectures, and presentations. Sparks of romance were tended and kindled. There was a handfasting. Mountains of delicious food… And through it all there was Kink. 

My first day at PAF I was anxious and cautious about coming out of my shell. That lasted until my first class, Finding Your Primal Voice. In this class we were encouraged to give voice to long (or not so long) past stages of our development. We were asked to examine what we edit out of our interactions; and why we allowed circumstance and situation to take part of our voice. We talked about shame and expectation. We laughed, we yelled, we exclaimed, we Ohm-ed, we SCREAMED, I cried. I found the experience cathartic and honestly it was scary to be open with that group of strangers about the shame I carry with me and the weight of expectation that I let myself and my family place on my shoulders. But I did it. From the experience I took away a lot; most importantly I’ve begun to recognize my internal burdens so that over the coming year(s) I can work on them and ultimately release them. 

Following Finding Your Primal Voice I attended several classes throughout the event, each one reinforced the message that I was beautiful just the way I am. Each one reminded me that I was enough. Each one helped me doff the armor that I have hammered around my psyche out of fear of being seen and found wanting. An especially difficult and rewarding moment for me was following a wonderful class on making prints from painted bits of our bodies. I walked through camp clad only in paint. This was difficult because I was exposed, in public, and not the fondest of my body that I’ve ever been. The payoff came from the reaction of those that saw me. I don’t know if it was just because they could see my discomfort, my uneasiness, or my anxiety, but over and over people rained compliments on me. They told me I was beautiful; a few people whistled. I felt seen and I liked it; and as I do, when I made it to a shower I cried… Again.

Fair warning: My final anecdote ends in tears. What can I say? I like sad, It’s like happy for deep people. Credit to Sally Sparrow for the quote I just butchered. 

On our last night at PAF the organizers set up stations around a massive, dazzling bonfire as they had every night. I likewise, danced around the fire reveling in the scene arrayed before me. My eyes drank in the sight of powerful drummers beating out a reckless cadence, beautiful and daring souls levitating around us suspended from hooks, all the while vibrant flames flew forth from stalwart hands who had only moments ago held them close. And everywhere friends and lovers drew one another close to share in myriad small, intimate moments. Moments to bind the past week to our very cores, to ground us, and connect us.

Yet as these marvels both exotic and mundane played out around me I stepped out of the warmth of the fire. I stopped dancing. I turned to a station where a new friend was going to do the most perverse thing to me I could imagine. They invited me to kneel before them on a bed of astro-turf and rice, they ran a blade over my exposed skin, and they said words I hope I never forget, “Ty, you are beautiful; you are strong. Welcome home. We are your family and we are glad to have you with us…” At that moment my last wall fell and I sobbed as they held me. All the while the knife danced over my skin unfelt, rice bore into my legs unacknowledged, my world was consumed by the knowledge that at last I had found a place to be myself unbound. 

PAF wasn’t just tears (All of which were the good kind) and personal growth though, I also had the opportunity to flex some of my primal muscles. From cuddling, to long walks in the woods, from grappling with worthy foes, to dancing around a fire with reckless abandon, to private moments that will evermore live only in memory. At Primal Arts Festival I found a place to be wholly myself, unreserved and unafraid. I found a place filled with family and friends. I found a place that I intend to make a foundational part of the evolving story of my life because I have been indelibly marked by these moments and a host of others each as cherished as what I record here. Because I now know that no matter what I face or where I go, I am beautiful. I am Strong. We are not alone. 
We Are Primal.

.
— Ty

This camp had me pushing my body in ways I didn’t plan.

Created a bond forged from rope, and giggles. Compassion, and pain, and trust. A person grounding me in my purpose while I rose into the air, being the voice with the words I needed. Calm, centered, correct.

Strengthened the link with breath, blood, and steel between myself and my life partner. Roaring, breathing, face breaking laughter. The person who wants the least to cause me pain, causing such intense pain, with focus and deep love.

This camp rewrote my experiences with rope and hooks.

It established that when I say no, I mean it. When I am silent, I have reasons. In that silent observation I saw so much. In the anger it caused and what people will say in that anger I found more appreciation for my intuition. That I will not be shamed for my choices.

I was told that the holes that were created in my skin are linked with holes in my spirit. That I should be on the watch for things creeping in that may cause sadness that ordinarily wouldn’t be as hard. That this is normal, my feelings are nothing to be worried about. This was good advice and I am grateful for it. I have been deeply sad as the week has gone on and let myself sink in to it, stretched out on the grass, bees buzzing their condolences to my losses, reminding me of all the ohsogood, the maple tree swaying to my heartbeat.

I’m trying to say, something magical happens each time, with each camp, and sometimes that magic revs up the good stuff already present, sometimes it’s something brand new, sometimes it’s here to stay, sometimes I only needed it for a time.

Thank you

— Sam

It know it sounds solipsistic when I try to explain it, but Primal Arts Fest ’23 felt to me like being surrounded by hundreds of people I knew who knew me and wanted me to be happy.  Even though it was cold, windy, & rainy out, emotionally, I felt like I was in the very heart of hygge, like I was being supported by the hands of loving gods on a breezy summer night with Texas panhandle stars overhead, in warm, calm water with no sharks, water moccasins, alligators, or jelly fish.  In my mind, I kept hearing Coleman Barks’s voice reciting the end of Rumi’s “Moses and the Shepard”: 

When you eventually see through

the veils to how things really are,

you will keep saying again and again,

“This is certainly not like we thought it was!”

Spark
So often in life we lose sight of ourselves.
Whether we stamp it down to conform,
Or we have it beaten out of us,
By those who think it wrong.
We lose our spark,
The glimmer of our truest desires.
The starlight of freedom.
We forget how to be who we want,
Instead of who society thinks we should be.
But for some of us,
We keep hold of the spark,
We hold it deep inside ourselves,
Where not wind, nor rain,
Nor truly any force of man or nature,
Can take it from us.
And when the time is right,
That spark may be nurtured,
Into a roaring fire,
That will burn away all the incessant trappings,
Of a society that thinks it knows,
What’s best and correct for all.
We will stand naked before the flame.

The Hunter’s Moon

–

The moon looks amazing tonight. As I walk around, it keeps hiding behind the clouds. Peeking through, and around the clouds.

–

Playing coy with me.

–

Like a delectable prey frolicing in and around the dancers by the fire.

–

Enticing me to chase after it.

–

While the moon is safe from me in the clouds, the fire and revelers will not stop my teeth from sinking into its quarry.