(The following article is a submission from a man who describes his pleasure in receiving erotic pain. I’m honored to post this article for this man has the courage to speak his ‘truth’ in a fine manner, and perhaps this affords other men who read it the opportunity to reflect upon their own fetish(es) and desires. To ensure privacy the author of this article below wishes simply to be known as “Pain Pig”.)
Pain. Man’s enemy through the ages. To many, it is synonymous with suffering, sickness, and all things negative and undesirable. Yet, there are those of us who see the lovely face of this villain in its erotic guise. I am referring specifically to physical pain here. For those of us who revel in the delight of erotic pain, discussion is always a dicey venture. Enjoyment of this sweet torment is always viewed with suspicion by those who do not share this special appetite. Attempts at explanations by those of us who find delight in the delicious sensations of erotic pain inevitably result in the drawing of conclusions. Self-loathing, a step missed in the maturation process, or an organic malfunction of the brain are all suspects. Surely, something is wrong. Something needs fixing.
Volumes have been written both defending and rejecting the validity of the enjoyment of pain in a sexual context. I confess that I have not read any of them in depth, nor do I wish to. As a sexual being, I claim this enjoyment as my right. The following adaptation of a statement that appears at the beginning of a rather well-known religious film sums it up pretty well. For those who enjoy this form of sexual expression, no explanation is necessary; for those who do not enjoy it, no explanation is possible.
So I offer no defense (none, in my opinion, being necessary,) but an attempt to convey what I experience.
Most of my adventures in pain take place with the same partner. We are a work in progress. We delight in giving each other what we desire. There is not, contrary to the assumptions of many, any beating up or being beaten up involved in the process. Mutual caring, trust, arousal, satisfaction and, yes, fun are the products of our time together that come to mind for me. I cannot, of course, speak for others who enjoy BDSM sex, but for myself, I am speaking my truth. Without these emotional modifiers, the intense enjoyment would, indeed, be unendurable abuse.
I longed to experience the role of a masochist for many years. The craving was deep, but despite its long-standing intensity, there were hurdles to pass. Shame was one, probably the biggest one. My Master (sounds like kind of stale terminology, but it’s part of the dynamic and part of the fun) zeroed in on this before the first stroke. Surely, I was sick to want this. What if somebody found out? What if I wasn’t any good at it…would I be laughed at? The “any good at it” anxiety stirs a chuckle in me a year later.
I was fortunate to find a patient and intuitive man to lead me on the journey. He helped me to find the courage to honestly share that I was afraid of what lay beyond the door, and that I wanted him to take me by the hand. He agreed to do so. He hasn’t let go once. He asserted to me that he is a man who loves inflicting loving pain in a sexual context, and allowed me to express my desire to receive it. After several discussions, when the time came for leather to meet skin, the jockstrap I was ordered to wear to our first meeting dropped to the floor without a shred of hesitation. We engage in a mutual labor of love, and are open and vocal in our expression of appreciation for each other.
So what about this pain? How do I “process” it?
Well, first of all, the word “process” has a mechanical-sounding ring to it that I find a bit at odds with what I feel to be deeply visceral reactions I experience. It sort of gets back to that “explanation” thing… Still, I will try my best.
Much is attached to my focusing on the erotic attributes of my Master. Of course, I could go into how physically hot I find him to be, but those declarations are for his eyes and ears only. What I can share is my admiration for his confidence. Not too long ago I told him what a beautiful man he was. “I know,” he replied. Don’t get the wrong idea. He wasn’t being conceited or boastful. He was just being sweetly honest about his self image, a personality trait that I am sure he has achieved as the result of a good deal of personal effort. Talk about hot!
Giving myself to this man is a joy. His confidence arouses me, and the confidence he displays in me as he tests my limits with strap, flogger, or cane is a gift that I cannot describe. Pain may not be everyone’s route to a deep connection, but it certainly fans my desire. I find myself, with great joy, surprising myself in my ability to “take it like a man,” and take it I do. This may sound like giving in to tired old stereotypes of manhood, but the act of submitting to and enduring such an open display of strength and dominance from another man leaves me with a sense of my own power and fulfillment that is difficult to describe. Strength is met with strength.
There is a distinct learning curve. The path to fulfillment is not always (well, in truth, seldom) an easy one. The member of the local polar bear club probably needed some toughening up before his first plunge amid the chunks of ice floating in the river. Biting into a raw habanero chili was probably not the first step for the man with the cast iron stomach who now wins contests to see who can eat the hottest peppers on the face of the planet. But we belong to a fraternity of those who love sensations. We share membership with those who want to drive the fastest cars, jump from bridges with bungee cords, and sit through Quentin Tarentino movies. We arrive in steps.
Here again I bless fate for leading me to a man who observes me carefully. He is an expert at reading my clues. He reads my body for signs that I am near the edge, looks into my eyes, feels my skin to sense the heat his strokes have kindled. But above all he soothes and assures me, makes me feel safe in his care, and leads me to the next step, always asserting his control. This makes each encounter more exciting. I trust him, and eagerly anticipate, rather than worry about what will happen next in our sessions. I can always ask him to stop, but have almost never felt the need to ask him to do so.
Focus is a component of accepting erotic pain. A natural instinct is to find a refuge somewhere in the mind. Think of something, someone, or somewhere else. And it can be fun to indulge in momentary fantasies of being a badly behaved schoolboy, an impudent slave, or the victim of a swarthy, handsome Arab. But the question arises, “Why am I here?” I am learning to accept pain at face value, as a gift. Let it hurt. Meet it on its own terms. React in primal ways: moan, whine, beg and cry. Lay vulnerability bare. How many opportunities do we have to do this in our lives? My limits are expanding as I acknowledge truths. I love being ordered to strip naked. I love being positioned and secured to the wall or bed. I love to be strapped and whipped, clamped, bitten and penetrated. I love being under the care of a man who understands and respects my love for these things.
Rewards, and the promise of them, are another element of sweetness and spice that temper the intensity of a hot, painful encounter. I think of our last session together. I was to the point where the endorphins were flowing, and a profound feeling of peace and contentment surrounded me. I received the ultimate reward, the gift of my Master’s body, a shift of focus to the source of satisfaction, an opportunity to return pleasure by nursing at his nipples or cock, to tongue his most sensitive area, or to drink his piss in a hot, steaming shower with the water soothing my welts. Full circle for both our efforts.
There is no summary of our loving exchanges to be written, no conclusions, justifications, or explanations. Our explorations, I sincerely hope, are only the first chapters in a book in which we discover new pathways to touch the essence of the men that dwell within our bodies.