I am a masochist. I derive sexual pleasure from pain. While this will not be news to anyone who has read this blog, I have decided to explore the nature of my masochism. I found this very difficult to write about, I suspect because some of these thoughts and feelings have been buried so deep for so long that letting them into the light feels unnatural and exposing.
One night last week, while at home on my own and having drunk a fair amount of wine, I sent this tweet:
This is my weak spot. Alone. Few wines.
I had 30 years of self harm before I found mistresses.
Garage with electric cable?
Just go to bed?
— Bibulous One (@BibulousOne) March 19, 2016
A couple of the lovely, warm and caring people who inhabit my twitter timeline tried to nudge me towards the ‘go to bed’ option, perhaps recognising that I might be in a dark and self destructive place. One, who I know to be something of a masochist herself, suggested that if I really needed a rush I should restrict myself to clips. This was good advice as clips or pegs applied to the nipples is about the easiest form of self stimulation and leaves no marks. Here was someone who understood that, as a practising masochist, I might NEED that little surge of endorphins that pain can induce. Yet she recognised that, in a seemingly precarious mental state with my self control blunted by the wine, to take myself into the garage with a length of electrical cable might be a bad idea. How nice that someone I have never met both understood and cared.
From a young age until my late 30’s self inflicted pain was the limit of my BDSM experience and it is the place to which I still return in the right (or wrong if you look at it that way) circumstances. I don’t suppose that throughout that long period it ever really occurred to me to seek out others with these tendencies. The University I attended didn’t have the “Fetish and BDSM Society” that it has now. I resisted the temptation to point this society out to my son when I took him there on an open day recently. Through two marriages my masochism has always been dealt with outside the confines of my perfectly vanilla relationships. In fact the first time I ever actually discussed my kinks with someone I wasn’t paying to listen to me was in the last few months. After more than 40 years. Burying something so important so deep for so many, many years has been isolating and frustrating.
I have used belts, paddles, a hairbrush, electric flex, curtain track and a car fan belt. And probably much more. I have bought riding crops then thrown them away after a couple of uses, from fear of discovery. Away from home and desperate for stimulation I have walked into the garden of a hotel to rip a stick from a tree, hiding it in my jacket as I returned to my room. I have cut birch twigs from my own garden, an erection growing as I meticulously bound them together, knowing full well what I was going to do. The erection is usually there because this a very sexual experience for me. It seems important because it allows me to use the term ‘sexual masochism’ rather than the more alarming ‘self harm’.
For most of my life any time I have found myself alone in the house the insistent, nagging, temptation has got a hold of me. “Go on,” it seems to say; “You know you want to; just a few swipes; maybe put those pegs on your nipples for a while.” And sometimes that is all I do. At others it turns into something darker, prolonged and more violent and I find myself questioning where self harm begins.
Since I have been seeing mistresses more regularly the need for self inflicted pain has reduced, though I still catch myself contemplating it from time to time. Clearly it surfaced the other night when I shared my thoughts on twitter.
What actually happened?
Well, just as I had allowed these nice people to talk me down someone else in my TL, a dominant with a sadistic streak, replied saying only: “garage with cable.”
Garage. With. Cable
So I did. Just a bit. I had a cold and my heart wasn’t in it.
I sent her a picture of the marks.
Then deleted the conversation because there is still a part of me that stands by the garage door and, seeing only a middle aged man hitting himself with a piece of electric cable, laughs at the discordant scene. Cruel bastard.