Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Masochistic Mastermind

I have always prided myself on my ability to compose a scene. I remember even before I was actively practicing BDSM in real life, I could write the hell of a BDSM sex scene in my role playing days. Perhaps back then they weren't as realistic or well-informed, or possessed elements as varied as I can manage now, but I felt my intimate literacy to be at the very least more creative than most of my role play partners.

I have always been a gifted sexual composer. I'm always composing elaborate kinky operas in my brain when I'm bored, aroused, or both. I remember being disappointed when I was younger in the lack of creativity from the older writers I wrote with. I was also disappointed in my first partner, who built the foundation of my sexual experience on reluctant blow jobs and quickie anal. I was so full of fantasies, but never once was I able to experience something that came close to them.

You might be thinking, well, that makes sense. Real BDSM rarely exists in reality in the same way we paint it in our minds. I understand that. My masturbatory material are comprised of the fantastic. Ridiculous situations that could never exist in reality. Sex slave harems. Demons with spiked phalli. Automated prisons designed for sexual torture. That's not what I'm speaking of. I can paint a realistic, achievable picture just as well as I can dream up the impossible. It's the practical scenarios that I have been disappointed in never seeing.

I draw inspiration from random elements I encounter every day. I see an MMA training kit, and think of all the bondage opportunities that might be had from it. I go to purchase plastic grass for an art piece and test it on myself as a flogger material while walking through the store. Peach told me she had a treadmill, and I went on for quite a while depicting what various tortures one might accomplish with such a thing. Particularly, attaching a pair of nipple clamps to an s-type and the treadmill and playing with the speed. Tying the s-type to the treadmill. Urging the s-type to keep going with calculated flicks of a cane. Or some sadistic combination of all three.

I often tell Peach the wonderful tortures that pop into my head. As a result, she insists that I have to be a sadist. Her evidence is my laughter when someone else is being beaten and my penchant for devising devious delights. I can see the validity in her confusion, especially since she lacks even a drop of masochism.

However, I readily deny her assertion. I'm not a sadist. I derive no pleasure from the infliction of pain. Sure, I have your basic emotional schadenfreude every humans possesses, but physical pain, while sometimes funny, is not arousing to me. I do not come up with these "scenes" for lack of a better term because I want to inflict them on someone else. The creativity stems from the desire to experience them.

I have tried to explain this to her, but lacking the comprehension of the masochistic mindset, it's not something she understands. I don't blame her. I really don't understand sadism. Well, I understand it on an intellectual level. They derive pleasure from the infliction of various forms of pain, but not having the capacity to experience that pleasure, my mind has a hard time understanding it. I find the practice of sadism and dominance to be utterly exhausting, so I fail to comprehend how the other side enjoys it.

As much as I seek to have an aggressor to enact my own creations upon me, in my lack of empathy for sadism, I can often feel selfish for wanting to be acted upon. I am the receiver of the sensations, and, in my need to reciprocate, I worry that the giver isn't getting enough out of it. I can't wrap my head around the sadistic nature or fully see the dominant mind.

And that is even more amusing to me, since I've been spending a lot of time writing from the aggressor's point of view in my recent forays into romantic fiction. Perhaps I understand more than I realize, or perhaps I'm simply projecting through the eyes of the masochist.

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