"I've noticed several ways in which exercise resembles BDSM. [...] If you know where to look, you can find dominance, intense physical sensations, a bottom's headspace, fetishism, and exhibitionism."- elfin

My experience seems to be from a slightly different perspective, but it could also be compared to BDSM. Exercise and weight lifting is a very important part of my life. When I force myself to endure more and more and more, when I exert my strength to the utmost in order to get those last reps, I start snarling and growling aggressively. It is as if I am pitting myself against a dangerous and worthy foe. That opponent is myself, my own physical limitations that I continue to struggle mightily against.

Pain is weakness leaving the body. I bathe every muscle in that tempering fire to make me stronger. It forges me into a keener blade for battle, so that next time I may fight even more savagely against a worthier foe. The soreness after a workout says to me: you are a warrior, you fought hard and well, you endured past the limits of endurance. Here is your badge of courage.

Sometimes I watch myself in the mirror to check my form. Depending on my mood, it can be inspiring in more than one way. I see my worthy old foe there, the physical body that I am struggling to force into the mold that my iron will demands and my weak flesh continues to passively resist. I bare my teeth and show my enemy that I am a challenger to be reckoned with. Then I get down to the savage business of breaking my opponent down with the heavy iron, rep by rep by rep. The body in the mirror is a mere subject I regard with contempt, controlling it with my will and punishing it repeatedly for its deviations from the perfect form that is my goal.

Sometimes the person in the mirror is my friend, my companion in iron. Another sweaty, snarling animal is suffering alongside me in a companionable way. Check that form and smile a little through the pain. You're not alone.

Sometimes it's just me in the mirror. I nitpick and criticize a little, want to take off a little here and add a little there, but secretly I'm pleased with the progress I see. It's not nearly fast enough of course, but it's coming along.

I am a work in progress. Look at those muscles coming through, shining with honest, hard earned sweat, and admire a little. Hey, that looks good. I look pretty tough. Let's do a few more reps to even better effect.

Fetishism? I worship the iron. I live in the weight room. A long black bench is the foremost shrine in this holy temple. I lie down on it like a willing sacrifice to the old gods. Just saying the word "reps" to me gets my juices flowing, makes the adrenaline start to run. Call it an addiction. I want to work out.