Tuesday, May 13, 2008

"Beat me"

I am not someone who requires a constant influx of noise to soothe or reassure the reality of my existence. Nor do I require constant reminders of my mortality with the nudging of news on the hour and the mindless drivel which vomits from a television screen on a daily basis. Conversely, I often crave silence.. the cessation of noise, the absence of sound for the cacophony within my mind provides a noisesome background of demand that sometimes arouses madness.

I sit in my quiet office, no radio, just the muted hiss of air through the network of pipes which snake through the tiled ceiling providing white noise as an accompaniment to my chaotic thoughts. I am so restless I feel like screaming to the prefab walls until they shake and crack and fall to dust around me. I pace like a restless cat to the window, a wraparound panorama of sky and lake and soaring Tower and want to launch myself into the crisp delicate blue air and soar into the infinity of sky and bathe in the rays which spill down and kiss gold into steel and embrace infinity in the guise of possibility.

I DON’T want to be here …. I want to be somewhere where the water pounds onto the shifting sands of shale and rock and salt spray stings my eyes and a breeze from beyond whips colour into my pale cheeks and stings the tips of my breasts into hard aching points and I want to feel your hands on them, calloused, rough, demanding, pulling and twisting and squeezing until I feel my heart leak into the bruised flesh. I want to feel the sharp slap of the wind against my exposed flesh, numbing and stinging coolness into the burning expanse of need and I ache to wrap you in my fingers, and feel the throbbing reality of your want.

I want to drop to my knees in the pounding surf and feel the sharp cut of stone and sand in abraded knees as I take you in my mouth and gulp the hot salty realness of you and choke as you surge down my throat and stretch wide my mouth to service and lave and lick you into breathless want and demand.

I want to wrap my long thighs around your hips and feel you sink into me and feel your fingers dig into the flesh of my buttocks until I feel the hot, warm trickle of blood and the feel of you deep inside, pounding agony into my cervix until the tide crashes in and matches the rhythm of your body and calls to the hot wet inside me and I dissolve into a million droplets of foam which dance the waves of the ocean and soar into the sky.

Once a creature who saw mind and body separate, with the surging loss of youth comes a commensurate increase in my embrace of the realities of flesh. It is as if the trickling away of time has ignited a configuration of want that sometimes frightens me in its intensity. Always a creature of gross appetite and need, I find an atavistic delight in immersing myself in sensation engendered by the flesh and seek increasingly the confirmation of pain to spear awareness and bring me to a realization of the now.

Which brings me to today’s musing …Morningstar posed a question – what is the difference between a masochist and a pain slut?

I don’t know if I can answer that. Always, I have thought of myself in terms of masochist not pain slut as if admitting to the latter somehow taints the perception of my own intrinsic worth. It’s not the “slut” word… I embrace that word and take it to myself and roll in the implication and suggestion of its own etymology. I reject the negative connotations of the word “slut” engendered by a society terrified of the great and powerful beauty of a woman’s sexuality and potential for raw delight in a body – which unlike a man’s – possesses an organ designed only for pleasure and serves no dual purpose and exists only to elicit the most delicious of physical responses. Responses, which in our complicated psyches, spill from the pure plane of corporeal realities into a realm of spiritual and emotional enchantment that enslaves and compels.

Merriam Webster online defines it as “a sexual perversion characterized by pleasure in being subjected to pain or humiliation especially by a love object” ..

Then, Wikepedia defines “painslut” as “BDSM culture, a "Painslut" is a person who enjoys receiving a heavy degree of pain but may or may not necessarily enjoy being submissive.”

Ahh … so perhaps the difference lies in the “why” and the “extent”.

Both a masochist and a painslut crave pain and actively seek it out. To both, the sting of nerve endings abraded and abused, the twist deep within as you remind yourself to breathe, the reaching within to find the strength needed to tolerate the crack of whip, the sensuous, frightening slap of hand against flesh creamed and made soft through gender and care and find in the slow trickling of crimson drops of reality along flesh a beauty that brings you to tears are experiences sought with not just a physical yen but an emotional and spiritual need that can be almost overwhelming in its intensity.

And I know too that each of us is unique with our complicated psyches and grab-bag of life experiences, mixed together with personalities and emotional needs that are singular only to our own selves … yet there are similarities I believe that exist and are parallel in many of us.

I do not feel that I seek the pain for the physical reality of its sting but for what that sting does to the reality of selkie … it focuses me. Because it has such a massive presence when it arrives, pain is not something that can be ignored or overlooked or put to the side. It is an “in your face”, ‘deal with me” reality that one has to face straight on and embrace and take into yourself … for only then can you disarm pain, break it into increments that can be digested and savoured and ingested. And in so doing, all extraneous interruptions become negligible, unimportant.

Buddhism makes a separation between pain – which is a physical manifestation - and suffering – which is a mental state. I myself believe that embracing pain, facing it and accepting it, is in its own way, a vindication of life. When I am being tortured, I am not being spiritually raped but rather, embraced in a way which reaffirms (to me) that I am alive. I do not harbour fear of total annihilation, which I believe to be the antithesis of the human spirit (because like all living organisms, above all we seek to live) because I know that the hand wielding the pain is so very beloved and trusted.

And in the sublimination and acceptance of the pain, I find an overwhelming relief, a letting go that is orgasmic in its intensity. Extraneous worries, nagging thoughts, irritants that can torment me into insomnia and anxiety simply melt away as my universe shrinks into a soft, wonderful little ball of sensation and acceptance of the reality of what is occurring … a deep velvet dark place that is not frightening but comforting in the extreme and such a reaffirmation of life that it astounds.

But I do not think I could seek that pain as a means in itself. Even knowing what peace it might bring, I think I would find it daunting to actively seek the lash and agony of its promise. What gives me the inner strength, even a compulsion to experience it is the knowledge that in so doing I am pleasing someone who means more to me than anything else in my life.

I get such an overwhelming sensuous rush from knowing I am giving him pleasure – that he is experiencing something intense and incredibly compelling that I truly believe that he could strip the skin from muscle and fibre, rend me with his bare hands until nerve endings screamed and that atavistic part of me sighed defeat. That feeling – that the pain is merely a tool and a way to pay homage to him who I adore – is what separates me I think from a pain slut and makes me instead, a masochist.



Buffalo said...

Is it possible to enjoy robust health without experiencing illness?

Can one truly revel in pleasurable sensations without experiencing painful sensations?

Is there a fine line between pleasure and pain just as there is between sanity and insanity, love and hate?

Is a masochist someone that revels in all manner of sensation?

selkie said...

Buffalo, I think you're right - without the contrast, there is no capacity to grasp the realities of the moment -

and I do think masochists probably do revel in sensation - I know that I am sensitive to many things; to noise, smells etc; also, my pain tolerance, naturally, is unusually high.

Beth said...

Mmm ... I wouldn't use the term 'painslut' myself. I mean, for me. If I have to distill my self-definition (in this arena) to such few words, I'd say I'm innately submissive, with masochistic tendencies. For me, the latter is part of the former: I submit to his need (willingness) to cause pain; I submit to his discipline. And while the pain can be pleasurable, there are times when ... it's just not, especially if it's in the form of a punishment. So then it cycles back to submission.