Calliope1976

It's the question of the hour, folks, and the one I see asked most often in the community. Though really, questioning any of what we do - whether it be submitting, dominating, inflicting pain, receiving pain, etc. - really is the question. More often than not, however, it's the reason for submission i see asked about the most. Of course, that may very well just be a case of being more aware of the things that pertain to me. Regardless, we all seem to question our place in this lifestyle. At least at first. We want answers to why we work the way we do, why we choose to live the lives we live.

i'm definitely no exception to that rule. i spent the first few months of my exploration trying to figure out why i have this intense desire to submit, but it was like trying to decipher some ancient mystical code. There were no obvious reasons, no specific events or traumatic experiences from my past that preceded my interests in BDSM. For as far back as i can remember i've just possessed certain very submissive qualities. Now for someone like me, someone who likes to know how everything works - especially how i work – this quickly became an exercise in frustration. i wanted answers, specifics, some concrete reason for why i think and feel the way i do. “That’s just the way you are” wasn’t an answer, at least not one i was willing to accept.

But then i had one of those “ah-ha” moments. The light bulb came on over my head and i no longer simply understood it, i got it. i can’t explain what happened, i have no recollection of what, specifically, spurred my deeper understanding. All that matters is that i had an epiphany and suddenly it all made sense.

Remember how, when you were a kid, your mom (or dad or teacher or ) would tell you that we’re all different and unique, special in our own way? Back then, they were more than likely referring to the color of a person’s skin or how the new girl at school wore glasses or talked with a lisp, but that little tidbit of wisdom applies to so many other things; from a preference for sweet foods over salty, to favoring being barefoot, to sexual orientation. Honestly, there doesn’t have to be a reason we like what we like. That’s not to say that there never is one, because sometimes there is (your mom always wore vanilla perfume, your first boyfriend loved women with long hair, etc.), but sometimes you are the way you are just because that’s who you are.

The same applies to this lifestyle. Sure, some subs maintain so much control in their public lives that they need to let it go sometimes. Some Doms grew up with dad being the head of the household and that’s just the way things were. Some masochists may have been rewarded when they were “tough” little boys and girls, not letting the pain of a skinned knee or bee sting affect them. Etc. Etc. There’s nothing wrong with past events having an influence on who we are, but there’s also nothing wrong with there being no reason for it whatsoever.

i no longer question my submission now, it's just who i am - and that's reason enough for me.

I’ve always thought of myself as a complete wuss when it comes to pain. My typical response to anything that hurts has always been of the “hide in my room and cry until it goes away” variety. Of course, “looking pitiful until someone takes mercy on me” has also been a most appropriate and acceptable reaction.

So it stands to reason that when I first started exploring the lifestyle, my fascination with all things painful was greatly tempered with uncertainty. The idea of being flogged sounded like fun but so does taking a shitload of drugs and going on a trip to Never Never Land. Not everything that sounds enjoyable actually is enjoyable (or a good idea). But despite my caution, and no matter how strong my fear, the fascination… the pull to be someone’s (for lack of a better term) “punching bag” was far stronger than any hesitancy on my part.

Imagine my shock and confusion (lo, and excitement too) when the flogger struck my back that first time and… it didn’t hurt. Well, to say it didn’t hurt isn’t exactly accurate. It did hurt, just not quite in the way I expected. Not in the “run around and scream obscenities until it stops” type of way (like it did when I dropped a heavy, metal pipe on my foot and broke a toe). No, it hurt in a more pleasurable way. My go-to response when asked to describe being flogged has always been that it’s like a massage: it feels so damn good, it’s extremely relaxing, and even the pain of “getting out” the “deeper knots” releases endorphins that make you feel all warm and pleasant, inside and out.

Okay, so maybe not everyone would describe an experience with a flogger in that manner, but that’s okay. You know why? Because it’s simply a matter of a difference in interpretation. It didn’t mean that I was a masochist, it just meant that I felt the sensations differently than someone else. Why I was so resistant to the idea of being labeled a masochist, I don’t know, but I was (and still am sometimes). Maybe it all goes back to the way I’ve always seen myself as a weak, helpless being. A wuss.

Eventually, as time (and the beatings) flew by – as I found myself responding more and more to all different sorts of pain – I had to reassess my point of view. Masochist I was (maybe), but pain slut I was not. I had no desire to have my flesh flayed open, I didn’t want to suffer any serious bodily injury, and even bruises and marks, though I wore them proudly, didn’t really turn me on. Surely those were the things a pain slut desired, wanted… needed. And perhaps, all this time that I’ve spent questioning has been a result of definition confusion. Masochist, though a somewhat intimidating term, sounds mild and mousy compared to the frightening connotations that comes to mind when hearing someone called a pain slut. I’m still not entirely sure where one term ends and the other begins, where they overlap, what they both mean.

I do know, and can now openly admit to, this: I love pain. I love the feel of a flogger pushing my body forward with the strength of its blow. I love the sting of a whip flicking across my skin (and the sound… oh, the sound of a whip cracking! it’s nearly enough to send me into subspace, without a single finger (or implement of torture) being laid upon me). The hard crack of a hand against my ass, the stars behind my eyes after a particular paddle comes into contact with my thighs, the deep sensation that accompanies nails digging into my arm. I love all of it, and I crave it, need it. Even the things I hate, I love (because of the hate? in spite of it?). Pain has become my drug of choice, and like with any addict, I go through symptoms of withdrawal when it’s too long between beatings.

What does that make me? I still do not desire any lasting damage, though if I don’t mark at all from a beating, I am sorely disappointed. I still do not desire open wounds, though scratches and minor cuts from a knife or whip are the greatest of accomplishments. I walk away from every beating (every beating) at least a little bit turned on. I want to push myself harder, further, to see just how much more I can take. And when it’s all done, when my body is exhausted and aching and sore, I’m already thinking about – looking forward to – my next session.

So am I a slut for pain? Yes, I guess in a way I am.