Queer Burner

It was maybe 6:30 in the morning—sun already bleeding over the playa, casting everything in that golden, cracked-light kind of way—and I had no idea who Gareth was. I was dusty, overstimulated, hadn’t slept much, and honestly just wandered over to the campfire circle looking for a place to sit and shut up for a while.

But what I stumbled into wasn’t a workshop. It wasn’t even a “class.” It was a group of people—strangers, mostly—sitting cross-legged in the dust, still wearing last night’s glitter, goggles hanging from necks, boots scuffed from dancing too hard. Gareth was one of them. Not standing, not posturing. Just there. Present. Asking questions that didn’t have easy answers.

Someone mentioned they’d been triggered by a scene the night before. Another said they’d hurt someone by accident and didn’t know how to make it right. Gareth didn’t jump in with answers. He waited. He asked, “Do you feel safe telling us more?” And when the person nodded, he listened like it was the most important story in the world.

The conversation wound its way through trauma, caretaking, guilt, power, play, and forgiveness. No one rushed. No one tried to be the smartest in the room. And yet somehow, Gareth quietly anchored it all. He wasn’t leading the group—he was the group. But with this uncanny emotional intelligence that helped us stay honest without becoming fragile.

At one point, someone said, “I don’t know how to tell when I’m being submissive because I want to be, or because I’ve been taught to be accommodating.” The silence that followed was so heavy it felt like prayer. Gareth didn’t flinch. He nodded. And softly said, “That’s the question I ask myself, too.”

That cracked something open for me. Because here was someone clearly experienced, clearly holding a lot of wisdom—and he wasn’t claiming to have solved it. He was showing us how to keep asking.

As the sun climbed higher, people started peeling off—some to nap, some to breakfast, some just overwhelmed by the intensity of what had passed. But I stayed. A few of us did. We ended up talking for hours more, not about sex or kink or roles, but about truth—what it means to be seen, to take up space, to touch and be touched without shame.

Watching Gareth in that space—not “teaching,” but facilitating curiosity with care—redefined something in me. I’ve sat in on more consent workshops than I can count. I’ve taught them. I’ve hosted them. But nothing has stuck with me quite like that morning around the fire.

Gareth doesn’t preach. He doesn’t posture. He invites. And that invitation—to stay curious, to stay soft while holding strength—is probably one of the most radical acts I’ve witnessed in this community.

I came for the quiet. I left with a sense of direction.