A View from the Floor

We do love our Sadists, don’t we?

We love what they can do for us, love the way they make us feel, love the beast within them that crawls out and threatens to destroy us.

Of course, we also love the control they have over that beast. I don’t think any of us want a psychotic monster with no control.

Yet we love the illusion that they could destroy us. That they might want to destroy us.

Or maybe it’s just me.

I’m not looking for some erotic waltz. I’m not looking for him to make sure I’m enjoying what he’s doing. A huge part of my enjoyment comes in the loathing it, the pure pain of it, the intensity that breaks me down, the fear and breathlessness, the knowing he does not care if I “like” it. I will take it and I will revel in it because my beast is as hungry as his.

The oft quoted Marquis de Sade said; “If the objects who serve us feel ecstasy, they are much more often concerned with themselves than with us, and our own enjoyment is consequently impaired. The idea of seeing another person experience the same pleasure reduces one to a kind of equality which spoils the unutterable charms that come from despotism.”

I understand this.

It doesn’t exactly fit in with the politically correct and responsible ideals most involved in BDSM spout.

But I get it.

A Sadist…

Doesn’t enjoy giving pleasure. A Sadist enjoys giving pain. When dealing out that pain to a masochist, the Sadist knows that “The degradation which characterizes the state into which you plunge him by punishing him pleases, amuses, and delights him. Deep down he enjoys having gone so far as to deserve being treated in such a way.” (The Marquis again) But he’s not doing what he’s doing to give pleasure to anyone but himself.

The pleasure of the masochist is secondary.

I dunno. I think I’ve gotten off track here.

I guess my mind is rolling the idea of Sadism for mutual pleasure around, tasting it, and finding it lacking.

My pleasure comes from him hurting me, yes.

But it’s not…

I dunno.

Most of the pleasure comes from knowing that he doesn’t give a shit if I’m enjoying it or not. My pleasure comes from taking it, from being reduced to that which will submit, surrender and revel in the being used for his own pleasure. It comes from the intense emotions those things create, from my own inner beast being brought out and beaten into a humbled pussy cat.

When we scene and things hurt…

I feel rage. The rage of someone being physically hurt and unable to fight it or stop it.

I feel powerless and out of control yet I feed off his power at the same time, absorbing his pleasure thru my pores, with every breath, every burst of laughter that hits my ears, with every tear and drop of blood.

Even when he only beats upon my emotions there is the mutual feeding of our darkest wants and needs.

Argh!

I’m babbling and babbling and not making any sense.

Maybe I can’t wrap my head around the “erotic sadist” thing because it’s just not like that for me, for us. It never has been.

We don’t do what we do as foreplay for sex.

We may or may not fuck when we’re done.

It is satisfying in and of itself, not a means to a boner and a good lay.

The fact that it arouses me hurts almost as much as the physical pain. He’ll use that to hurt me more. Sometimes we will culminate in crazy, animal sex or his use of my exhausted and broken down body. But that’s never the goal, it’s never the reason we start.

It’s sexual, at times, but it’s not a wholly sexual thing for either of us.

It is all about power.

And it is all about the fact that he likes to HURT people.

And I need to be hurt.

Sometimes when he hurts me I hate him. But I always thank him when he’s done.

I know I’m not making any sense.

Maybe you’d have to see us play to understand, feel the energy yourself. I don’t know.

Time to stop because I really don’t even remember what I started out trying to say. Lol.

I think I was going to go into the mental aspects of Sadism and pain - since that’s been a hot topic on MDS lately - but in trying to untangle the mind briars I seem to have gotten a bit lost.

~peace

I wrote some about this a year or so ago but a recent poll on another site brought it back to the forefront of my little brain - so I thought I’d explore it again, from a slightly different angle.

“Fear can be headier than whiskey, once man has acquired a taste for it.  ”~Donald Dowes

True, hmmm?

Edgeplay.  The stuff we do that it is hard to claim is safe or even sane.  The stuff that is risky, that rides along the edge of safety, often dipping across the line, over the edge into dangerous.

Knives.  Blood.  Breath play.  Fire.  Electricity.  Nails and needles, oh my!

None of these things can be rationally considered safe in their edgier forms.

Take knife play, for instance.

Safe enough, I suppose, if one is using a cold piece of flatware to pretend they have a sharp knife.  Or using the back, unsharpened edge of a knife to give the sensation, the illusion of being cut.  But many knife enthusiasts don’t play it safe.  They cut.  They draw blood.  They use knives and scalpels and bits of glass.  They make scars.  Big scars, small scars, pretty scars in fancy designs and ugly scars that thicken and hurt even three years later.  Education and knowledge can make you more safe than blindly diving into these activities but (unless you’re a surgeon, I guess) nothing is going to be…  truly safe.

People flinch.  They move.  They breathe too deeply.  A hand gets a cramp.  A knife is sharper than you thought and goes deeper than expected.  The possibility of accidents occurring in knife play - in all edge play - is exponentially higher than in our more sane, more tame methods of play.

So why do we do it?

Because we relish the fear.

Feeling it.  The rush, the knotted stomach, the trembling breath, the near shut down of the mind as it focuses on one single sensation, one single moment.

Causing it.  The power, the rush, the thrill that I cannot explain because the ability to cause it is not in my psychological make up.

We crave fear.  We wallow in it.  It is addictive and glorious.

The poll question that inspired this went something like:

Have you ever been scared in an edgeplay scene?

• no, I live for the rush
• yes, my partner went TOO far
• I don’t touch edgeplay
• no, my partner and I have the safeword thing down

And I was baffled.  I couldn’t answer the poll.  Because all I could think was….

Of course I’ve been scared.  Being scared is the whole point!

What is edgeplay without fear?

It’s a watered down, sanitized, trendy and false representation of the things those of us who lovingly walk that edge do and enjoy.

Without fear you are not on the edge.

“Fear made my mind a blank, and a yearning so sharp it was like pain made breathing difficult” ~Phedre, Kushiels Dart, Jacqueline Carey

These pictures? I find them all to be incredibly sexy.
Common denominator?
Not a small girl in them.
(The last two are courtesy of our friends embre and her Master N over at www.slavenextdoor.com)
I know embre personally. She’s a beautiful, sexy, vivacious, incredibly HOT woman. (We’ve done “quicksand” videos together. You can find that over at www.pamelaroseproductions.com . Cool stuff, even if it’s not your kink. Definitely a ton of fun to do!)
So…
Anyhow…
Why is it I can look at these pictures and find them gorgeous and yet I am so fucking hypercritical of myself?

It’s just stupid.
What does it take to finally become comfortable in our own skin?
I KNOW that the models and actresses of today are too fucking thin. I really don’t enjoy looking at them much. Skin and bones, bodies the size of a fourteen year old girls, asses smaller than one of my hands, every tit perky and small.
Bleh.
And yet we’re bombarded with visuals of this.
It’s almost impossible to find mainstream images of even average girls, much less chubby ones.
They are NOT considered sexy enough. Pretty enough. Whatever enough.
Sure, you can find bondage and BDSM and fetish sites with heavier girls but most of that is poorly done and borders on the grotesque - catering to obesity fetishes.

I”m talking about NORMAL girls here.
Yanno…
The average size in America right now is what? A twelve or fourteen?
And yet the models are zeros and ones and maybe a five. Cindy Crawford, super model of the nineties, is considered “too heavy” at a size six or eight.
WTF??????????????????????????????????

How did what is normal become so skewed compared to what we are shown in film and print?

And how is a normal woman supposed to feel decently about herself in comparison?

It’s bad for our teenagers and the twenty somethings.
But I honestly believe it’s worse for those of us in our thirties and fourties.
We grew up in the seventies and eighties.
We never had the body type that is so common now.
It’s been, somehow, bred into these girls or something.
And we can’t compete with that.
We have had children. We’re no longer “young”. Change doesn’t happen very quickly - or at all - no matter how we strive for the perfect body.
We’re soft.
Our breasts are not perfect and small and perky.

We are called fat.
Even when we are average in size we are called fat.

Now…
I am a little fat.
I wear a size fourteen.
I’ve gotten much softer and dimplier than I was five or six years ago.
And I’m fucking miserable over it half the time.
Because I compare myself, incessantly, with what I see every time I pull up a picture online, every time I turn on the tv, every time I open a magazine.

Even though I DO NOT want to look like these women…

I find myself lacking.

And it’s awful. Horrible.
To mentally understand that there is more to “attractive” than a flat stomach, visible collar bones and stick limbs but to be unable to feel good about yourself.

It effects everything.
Even with Taylor I get all twisted up and uncomfortable because I am terrified that he’s disgusted by what he’s looking at.

Despite what my mind knows when I look in the mirror it turns into a carnival mirror, distorting me into a horrible figure that is much worse than the reality of my looks.

The worst bit is…
I don’t know if there is any way to change the way we feel inside.

Embre… the above model… is just as twisted up about how she looks as I am.
I find her gorgeous.
Why can’t we see ourselves the way we see others?
Why do we have to compare?

And why why why why WHY is the world so intent upon force feeding us unrealistic and less than normal images to compare ourselves to?
When will we say enough?

Back when my grandmother was young it was important to eat right and keep yourself slender.

A size eight was very, very slender.

I’m giving myself the rest of the year to work on this.
I have to instill a change in myself.
Perhaps lose a bit of the weight I’ve put on in the past five years. Not so I can look like a model but because I prefer myself in a size twelve.
Perhaps talk it out with myself, really work on my own psyche and figure out how to feel good about myself… the rest of the world be damned.

I dunno.
But I’m gonna work on it.
Because I touched on this subject two years ago and the world around me - and I, myself - have gotten worse, not better.

I always say I can do anything I really put my mind to.
I’m going to do this.
I am.

Gorgeous picture, isn’t it? I see every emotion D/s provokes in me in this single photograph.

I”m going to jot down a bunch of disjointed nonsense today. Forgive me. (or just don’t read it, man. It IS my blog, yanno, and I can write what I want! Lol)

“All my soul follows you, love encircles you and I live in being yours.” ~Robert Browning

I think I’ve used this quote before. No matter. It just shows how true it holds for me.Would I die without him? Of course not. But I would not be the me I am with him, would definitely lose some spark, some shine, that makes my life so wonderful with him.

As his, I am complete. Without him… less so.

———————————————–

And now, even though I am not gorean and I actually have a rather distasteful opinion of most goreans….

“”The whip is good for us,” she said. “Perhaps it is hard for you to understand that, as you are not a woman. It makes our womanhood a hundred times more meaningful. The essential point here is not being whipped, of course, which hurts, but being subject to the whip, and being truly subject to it. You see the distinction, I am sure.
We know that men are by nature sovereign over us. That comprehension requires no greater insight. Accordingly, men must then either fulfil their nature, or deny it, and in denying their nature, deny us ours, for ours is the complement to theirs. Accordingly we despise men who surrender their natural sovereignty. Surely, we would not be so stupid, would not be such weaklings and fools as to do that, if we were men. It would be too valuable and too glorious a thing to give up. Its surrender would be a tragedy.
But we are not men! We are women, and want, truly, with everything in our hearts and bellies, to be women, and we cannot be women truly if men are not truly men! Lay down the whip, and we will attack you, and undermine you, and use your own laws, institutions, and rhetorics to destroy you, inch by inch. Lift it, and we will lick your feet in gratitude.
Own us, dominate us! Enslave us, properly, so that we may love you as women are meant to love, wholly and irreservedly, totally, without thought of ourselves!” She looked at me, tears in her eyes. “Is it so wrong to want to be ourselves?” “
~Renegades of Gor

I do love this quote. It makes me want to kneel, to profess my surrender in any way I have. *insert happy sigh here*
I don’t think my feelings on men, women and the relationship between the two have to be universal. No one has to agree with me. Femme Dommes unite! Lol. I am not cutting you down or belittling your way. It’s just that, for me, the above quote is it; the way (my) life should be, the way that works for me, the way that ignites my soul and warms my heart and leaves me feeling right and at peace with the world. You think what you want, I’ll think what I want, and so long as we don’t press each other for change all is good. Right?

“On my knees I think clearer.” - U2

And if that isn’t the truth.
I never see more clearly than I do from my view from the floor.

And this is the end of my garbled, disjointed, illogical and incoherent mutterings.

~love