Suffering and Pathos

[Albee]

As on any forum about sexuality, there's much discussion on BDSM Talk about what turns each of us on, or what our preferences are.

But, for me, SM (and by extension BD) has at its core suffering.

And pathos-- suffering to be witnessed by others.

But it's real suffering, not just the experience of pain. It is acid in the wounds of the soul and the body. A pain that has permanence.

Entwined with eros.

I know it's asking a lot (if I'm honest probably more than I'm willing to offer), but would anyone be willing to explore that suffering?

 

[Albee]

It is a pain that slices surgically to the core of our very being.

 

[HarlotMinx]

Um.... I'm not entirely sure if this is a personals post or a real thread.... so I'm going to pretend it's a real thread and treat it as such.

I find that idea a bit odd because I have always felt that BDSM is for me at least at it's core about service. Moon (my mistress) is currently going through a stressful period. We've cut back on our play and I think it blows her mind (she's had bad experiences with partners in the past) that I would willingly clean, cook, drive her about, take care of the cat for no play or sex in return. I think she feels that I don't get anything in return when the truth is I get to serve which has it's own joy. So while I do love suffering I currently have none yet am very much still hers.

poppet

 

[Essene]

Hmm...

I think different people come to BDSM for different reasons. For people who are masochistic, BDSM can really help work out the self destructive thing, but in a more constructive manner.

Physical pain is a tangible medium for working out emotional pain.

 

[intothewoods]

There is a difference between eroticized suffering and suffering, as others have pointed out on this forum. Glamorized suffering, we might call it. That's not suffering. That's submission as an Olympic event.

The idea that I may be drawn to suffering - unconsciously seeking out ways to bring about my own suffering - is pretty scary. It's deeply masochistic and fucked up to believe at some core level that you deserve to suffer. But we're all a little fucked up.

I don't even know if there is a connection between enjoying pain and seeking out actual suffering.

 

[Homburg]

The whole "It's all about suffering" line doesn't fly for me. Do leper colonies make you stiff? Hey, if they do, maybe it is all about suffering for you. Suffering has too many connotations for accidental pain, and that just ain't no fun. If one of my kids cuts her foot and suffers because walking on it is painful, I just don't enjoy that. Seeing those Sally Struthers infomercials with the starving children? That's suffering, but, wow, you'd have to be messed up to get a thrill out of that.

Saying it is all about suffering oversimplifies the whole interchange into blandness. When one of my girls suffers from a cold or the flu, it just ain't sexy. When she suffers because I have bound her in some unpleasant position and I am twisting the clamps I've put on her nipples? Yeah, now we're talking. But I'm not enjoying the suffering. I'm enjoying the whole scene.

 

[BiBunny]

I'm not drawn to suffering because I think I "deserve" it. But I will suffer for love, physically, psychologically, and emotionally, as a way of showing my devotion. And I enjoy it and need it on some weird level.

When he tortures me hard and says, "You'll suffer for me because I want you to, won't you, my pet? And because you need to suffer for your Master?", I love him more than I've ever loved anyone else in my life in those moments.

 

[bethpage]

The rambling from my thoughts-

Suffering has many connotations. I think the part thats not optional, starving children, accidental injuries, severe emotional pain, etc, is the what most people think about when they say 'suffer'.

But within BDSM there seems to be many other connotations, but the main connection between them is that is is a *choice*. If you are practicing SSC/RACK or however you choose to call it, then any physical or mental suffering experienced is optional--you can shut the scene down at any point if its too much, unlike real life. And just knowing that you can often lets you deal with a much higher level of intensity (haven't done much playing, but thats my experience in the rest of my life, especially with martial arts vs injuries).

Masochism is another level, that I don't really know too much about. But I have been reading into the psychological aspects of self-mutilation (cutting), and it is all related. For me, anything up to a level 4-5 out of 10 just gets my attention--its another sensation and can work with pleasure--and while it then goes to 'pain' it would not reach 'suffering' until it was a 8 or 9 and didn't stop. And I've found that when there is hurt in the soul, then physical pain can give it a more concrete outlet. Some things that might be considered painful (like hot wax or scratches) can just feel good, which may be the base or masochism. But like I said, I haven't really explored that area.

 

[Albee]

For me it's not all about suffering, but that's a big part of it. Particularly when I was young.

Our family did a pretty good job of hiding it, but one good scratch to the surface would reveal all the alcoholism, drug addiction, adultery, child molestation, murder, and mental illness that made our lives a hotbed of fucked-upness.

When I was in my twenties it never would have occured to me that I was angry-- but now, seeing old pictures of my friends and me, I'm the one who always looked like he was a blink away from a fist fight. Especially once I got to college, there were many lonely secrets.

But one night I found myself alone in the dark with a girl who was as filled with rage as I was.

It was New Year's Eve, around 1984. I met her that night and never saw her again. She was very homely, the homeliest girl I ever went to bed with. Her hair was oily and matted, her complexion bad, and her face oddly asymmetrical.

Everything else about her was average, so middling, in fact, that it was unusual. She was neither smart nor stupid. Not funny or humorless. Neither vibrant nor sullen. Not very nice or particularly unkind.

There was nothing unremarkable at all about her except her physical ugliness which was so extreme, and made her so unlike other people, it was kind of like what we used to call "a handicap."

Except there was this one incredible moment with her that has lasted with me for a lifetime.

She was frigid. Her pussy dry, closed and painful. She told me that she and a few boys had tried to fuck, but she wasn't able to let any of them in. I tried too. I pinned her wrists to the bed so she couldn't push my hips away and shoved at her closed pussy with my cock. What number was I? How many guys had tried to do the exact same thing until finally blaming her for the failure and leaving her yet another night older and still a virgin.

Finally I just met her eyes with mine, reached down, and pushed one finger into her dry pussy. I knew it hurt.

Her throaty whisper was thick with anger and loathing. Loathing of herself, of me, of the world, of boys, of girls, of whatever monstrosities her parents had inflicted on her in childhood.

She said just two words..."You bastard."

I can still hear her today. Expressing with such purity a lifetime of suffering and defiance, a defiance hidden behind that carefully manufactured cloak of mediocrity which abjectly defined her every moment as one tortuous effort after another to not ever, ever draw attention to her ugly face.

And me, my fingers inside her, my face cold, unsympathetic and unyeilding.

But my heart knew her suffering as if it were my own.

She offered me such intimacy, so much truth. And though I don't think she was capable of sexual physical pleasure, her eroticism was overwhelming. We were 25 and life was all about sex. And she had the courage to make the sex about who we really were. It couldn't have been about anything else. What could we have done, hugged and caressed one another with a soft love neither of us knew or understood?

We knew about pain. We knew about rage and defiance. And for that short moment she let me see that the rage and the defiance and the pain could be about romance and lust.

She let me see that we could bare ourselves and be sublime.

 

[YourCaptor]

As on any forum about sexuality, there's much discussion on BDSM Talk about what turns each of us on, or what our preferences are.

But, for me, SM (and by extension BD) has at its core suffering.

And pathos-- suffering to be witnessed by others.

But it's real suffering, not just the experience of pain. It is acid in the wounds of the soul and the body. A pain that has permanence.

Entwined with eros.

I know it's asking a lot (if I'm honest probably more than I'm willing to offer), but would anyone be willing to explore that suffering?

Explore it... top or bottom?

 

[Essene]

I don't even know if there is a connection between enjoying pain and seeking out actual suffering.

*nod* Just because I've "enjoyed" both in the past does not mean that they're not mutually exclusive.

I also get the whole suffering in the form of devotion thing, but I take it one step farthur, and will devote myself to relationships that make me miserable, thus enhancing my suffering.

I need a new hobby.

Yup.

 

[eastern sun]

For me it's not all about suffering, but that's a big part of it. Particularly when I was young.

Our family did a pretty good job of hiding it, but one good scratch to the surface would reveal all the alcoholism, drug addiction, adultery, child molestation, murder, and mental illness that made our lives a hotbed of fucked-upness.

When I was in my twenties it never would have occured to me that I was angry-- but now, seeing old pictures of my friends and me, I'm the one who always looked like he was a blink away from a fist fight. Especially once I got to college, there were many lonely secrets.

But one night I found myself alone in the dark with a girl who was as filled with rage as I was.

It was New Year's Eve, around 1984. I met her that night and never saw her again. She was very homely, the homeliest girl I ever went to bed with. Her hair was oily and matted, her complexion bad, and her face oddly asymmetrical.

Everything else about her was average, so middling, in fact, that it was unusual. She was neither smart nor stupid. Not funny or humorless. Neither vibrant nor sullen. Not very nice or particularly unkind.

There was nothing unremarkable at all about her except her physical ugliness which was so extreme, and made her so unlike other people, it was kind of like what we used to call "a handicap."

Except there was this one incredible moment with her that has lasted with me for a lifetime.

She was frigid. Her pussy dry, closed and painful. She told me that she and a few boys had tried to fuck, but she wasn't able to let any of them in. I tried too. I pinned her wrists to the bed so she couldn't push my hips away and shoved at her closed pussy with my cock. What number was I? How many guys had tried to do the exact same thing until finally blaming her for the failure and leaving her yet another night older and still a virgin.

Finally I just met her eyes with mine, reached down, and pushed one finger into her dry pussy. I knew it hurt.

Her throaty whisper was thick with anger and loathing. Loathing of herself, of me, of the world, of boys, of girls, of whatever monstrosities her parents had inflicted on her in childhood.

She said just two words..."You bastard."

I can still hear her today. Expressing with such purity a lifetime of suffering and defiance, a defiance hidden behind that carefully manufactured cloak of mediocrity which abjectly defined her every moment as one tortuous effort after another to not ever, ever draw attention to her ugly face.

And me, my fingers inside her, my face cold, unsympathetic and unyeilding.

But my heart knew her suffering as if it were my own.

She offered me such intimacy, so much truth. And though I don't think she was capable of sexual physical pleasure, her eroticism was overwhelming. We were 25 and life was all about sex. And she had the courage to make the sex about who we really were. It couldn't have been about anything else. What could we have done, hugged and caressed one another with a soft love neither of us knew or understood?

We knew about pain. We knew about rage and defiance. And for that short moment she let me see that the rage and the defiance and the pain could be about romance and lust.

She let me see that we could bare ourselves and be sublime.

I love this story. Thank you.

I also have found an outlet for the pain in my soul through BDSM, but it's changed dramatically over time.

For many years, I was haunted by a childhood grief and loss that was as fixed in my identity as the color of my eyes. It was like the foundation that the "house" of my life had been built on. And I spent many confused years trying to both pretend that it didn't exist, that I was strong and not weak, while it simultaneously leaked into every aspect of my self-expression. Every song I composed was in a minor key. Every poem reeked of tragedy.

When I discovered that sex could be linked to that pain, providing a vent to release its noxious fumes, I rather quickly became addicted. Like when I use alcohol, drugs and cigarettes to modulate my emotional turbulence. Suddenly sex could be used in the same way, and I began to crave it. And pine for it. And could never get enough of the kind of release I wanted. And began to suffer for it. And this new kind of suffering simply reinforced my underlying belief that suffering is the truth of this cold world.

But addiction isn't poignant. It is a mean, hungry wolf.

I have seen my children flinch in response to my voice, because they didn't know what kind of mood I'd be in. Years ago, I saw my husband flinch. I saw my mother and my brother flinch. When I am frightening the people I live with, when our own home is neither safe nor warm, fuck the embrace of "suffering" and its poignant truths. It's time to take action.

I began daily spiritual practices that led me to understand that the only truly effective way of dealing with those deep wounds and soul conflicts is directly. That it's my responsibility to untangle those internal knots, instead of tightening the knots in my children and my community. For a while I became concerned - was my interest in BDSM so linked to those deep pains that it was unhealthy to pursue it? Would I be able to practice my spiritual path and still be a "slave"?

I'm still learning the answer to that one. But I think it is "yes." And in the process, my feelings about suffering have radically changed. I am no longer interested in suffering. I no longer feel like crying every time my soft spots are touched. I'm no longer interested in supporting the stories of my old fucked-upness, and instead feel like I have so much to offer to my family, my community, my lovers, my master that dwelling on my pain is a distraction.

I still feel pain, both my own and others. But I don't dwell in it. Nor do I wish to.

I went to an artists' workshop this weekend, and was astonished when someone, a stranger, said "J., you have such a deep well of joy." This has never been my perception of myself. But I can't think of anything that would make me happier.

 

[Albee]

I love this story. Thank you.

Ooh! Ah!

ES liked my story!

The old ball and chain read it too. I was interested to hear that my wife didn't think the girl in it was a sympathetic character.

First, the story is true. The girl was real.

And to this day, she's made an indelible imprint on my sexuality.

I joke about "the ball and chain" but the truth is that it has been many years since other women or past sexual experiences have turned me on much. My wife is the thing. Like it or not, she gets me off like a motherfucker and nobody else does.

While I reminisce about sex I had when I was single, that New Years Night and maybe one other experience are the only memories that still get me off.

I think I wrote pretty good about the suffering.

But I apparently failed to communicate how fucking sexy this girl was. It was like peeling Sylvia Plath's onion and instead of finding self-pity you got smacked hard in the face at the place where sex meets death. She was pure sultriness utterly stripped of style. Throaty hostile sexuality.

Honestly, I have a couple of regrets about the experience.

At the time I was too young to understand it. I knew I was turned on. But that "You bastard" moment was just that, a moment. It wasn't until years later that I recognized how extraordinary it, and she, was.

And it saddens me that she, to this day, has probably never realized how sexy she is.

In general, I've found that attractive women tend to be better in bed. It has nothing to do with them being better looking. It's because they're more comfortable with their bodies and more confident in their allure. They're more open.

But this girl on New Year's Eve was on a whole different level like that. She took offer her clothes. Then she stripped her skin. And then, without a hint of apology, she let me see that her soul was a hotbed of fucked-upness and lust.

Jesus Christ!

Which is why banging a woman like my wife for more than 20 years is so hot. Every year she finds a new piece of herself to show me. She's brave enough to shed the self-consciousness of youth and stare what brings her to shuddering orgasm straight in the face. On my good nights, I have the courage to go there with her.

 

[Lizzie_Borden]

I joke about "the ball and chain" but the truth is that it has been many years since other women or past sexual experiences have turned me on much. My wife is the thing. Like it or not, she gets me off like a motherfucker and nobody else does.

That's oddly.... beautiful.

 

[Albee]

That's oddly.... beautiful.

That just...makes my heart skip a beat.