When the Whip Comes Down
My desires were not normal to others, but they felt perfectly natural to me. If people had known what I was, what I did, what I liked to have done to me, they surely would have shunned me
I loved pain. I needed to be beaten and whipped, kicked and abused. This gave me not just pleasure but comfort, a feeling that life was in balance.
Being tied and flogged was a strange form of intimacy. This satisfaction of my needs was a sharing of a deep secret which so few knew.
The physical pain masked my psychic pain. In the throes of a beating, nothing else existed except the whip. Lost in the welts and the blood was the guilt I felt for being who I was.
Bound, I was tied to the moment, experiencing only that. The sting was my penance, my punishment for not being someone more worthwhile.
In those hours of total submission, I could lose myself in someone else’s control. I was no longer responsible for my life. The snap of leather on my skin kept me in the here and now. There were no other thoughts, no other feelings except that sharp bite. This pain was real, tangible. There were marks on my flesh to prove it. This was not some nebulous, esoteric angst which was impossible to identify.
In those moments, I could almost hear my father’s voice. “You want something to cry about!?” the lash mocked. “I’ll give you something to cry about!” It brought all my focus to my screaming nerve endings, and away from my head. It was a trade-off — one kind of pain for another. But physical pain could be healed, comforted, lovingly attended to. This is what grounded me and kept me in the moment.
It would take a thousand lifetimes to understand all the ways we hide from our true pain.
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