no clowns

Yes to Spanking, No to Clowns: Creating a Yes/No/Maybe List

Planning a scene isn’t a blindfold-and-go adventure. It’s not jumping in the car and hoping you hit the right highway without gas, snacks, or a clue. It’s work. Not heavy, boring work—honest work. Before the whips, before the cuffs, you build the map. That’s what the Yes/No/Maybe list is: not a toy, not a formality, but the blueprint that keeps your kinks from turning into a shitshow. Without it, you’re guessing in the dark, and nothing kills a scene faster than two people realizing they’re not even playing the same game.

The “Yes” column is where the hunger lives. This is where you stop pretending and write down what you actually want: the sting of leather, the slap of an open hand, the way your body melts when someone finally presses hard enough. It’s permission to admit your filth without shame. It’s a declaration—fuck yes, I want this. Nothing coy, nothing polite. These are the doors you want flung open.

The “No” column is the locked vault. The hard stops. The things that, if crossed, don’t make you edgy—they make you betrayed. You don’t need to defend them. “No clowns.” “No knives near my throat.” “No piss, ever.” Whatever it is, it goes here. No questions, no negotiations. And the second someone tries to nudge that line, you know they’re not safe to play with.

Then comes the dangerous middle—the “Maybe” list. This is where curiosity and doubt flirt. It’s not surrender, it’s not refusal—it’s the gray zone. “Maybe if I trust you.” “Maybe if I’m already half-drunk on endorphins.” “Maybe, but not tonight.” The Maybes keep the door cracked, let the unknown slip in without forcing you to commit. It’s where exploration lives, where limits bend without breaking. And it’s just as valid as the Yes or the No.

The real power comes when you sit across from your partner and say it out loud. The list becomes conversation, and conversation becomes negotiation. You compare notes, you trace each other’s maps, you see where the paths overlap and where they don’t. Rope might be your high, while it barely registers for them. Puppy play might make them light up, while you’d rather saw your arm off than crawl around in a collar. That’s fine. The point isn’t to match perfectly—it’s to know, to respect, to plan the trip together without hitting potholes you could’ve avoided.

And here’s the thing most people forget: the list breathes. It mutates. A Maybe becomes a Yes after trust sharpens into steel. A Yes becomes a No after one bad night makes it feel wrong. Nothing is permanent, and that’s the point. Kink is fluid, desire is unstable, and the only constant is that you keep updating the list as you evolve.

Because in the end, this isn’t about paperwork—it’s about survival. It’s about clarity. It’s about respect so sharp it cuts through the bullshit. A Yes/No/Maybe list doesn’t just tell you what you’re into; it tells your partner that you’re serious enough to name it, to claim it, and to protect it. Without that, you’re just tourists wandering into traffic. With it, you’re navigators—writing your own map, drawing your own boundaries, and daring each other to drive further than either of you would alone.