When Choosing Pain Doesn’t Mean Self Harm

Reflections of a masochistic pain-slut, and why pain can be sexy

When I was five years old, I would steal my mom’s pincushion and hide away in my room with it. There, under the blankets at night, I would push the sharp pokey ends of the pins into my fingers to see how far I could get them to go in before I chickened out.

At eleven, Palahniuk’s Fight Club was sending my little pre-teen brain into a whirling contemplation of the human condition. So we started a fight club of our own. It was a bunch of knobbly-kneed kids punching each other and giggling late at night in the parking lot of a Safeway.

Thirteen-year-old me, surrounded by images of angst and tears, resorted to cutting as a means of exploration. Somehow, at that strange and impressionable point of life, I had realized that those around me were more accepting of the idea of me being damaged and needed fixing rather than curious and needing education. I would carve small designs in thin lines and watch the blood beading and wonder, “Am I depressed?”

At sixteen, I found a riding crop at an estate sale of an equine enthusiast. Later that night, my usual frotteurism with my beau was coupled with a game of numbers. How hard could we hit each other, and what number was it on our pain scale? I had never been more turned on in my young life.

My entrance into adulthood was marked by a ritual, a hook suspension done off the branches of a tree in my then-boyfriend’s back yard. I recall clutching my Gloomy Bear as I watched the huge needles pierce my belly. Looking away was somehow a disservice to the process. As I was hauled off the ground, pain morphed into sensation with each passing breath until I floated in the air.

I had been watching the world through a thin film of dirty cellophane, and now the burning hooks were melting it away. Everything was in technicolor. Everything was beautiful.

How different of a person would I have been today, had I not been allowed to explore pain? I wouldn’t be me, not the me I know. But how I would have been different is not as easy to define, even though my self-definition is simple and broadly generalized.

Easily put, I’m a masochist.

Not so easily put, I’m not an everyday masochist. I don’t enjoy pain with my morning coffee. I don’t like it when overly crusty bread on sandwiches cuts the roof of my mouth, or when my hip twinges from my old cycling accident, or when I can’t get the comb through the dead ends of the mess that is my hair. If I did, life would probably be simpler, easier, happier. Maybe that’s the end goal. Maybe someday, little inconveniences and discomforts can become sources of joy.

But who am I kidding? They likely won’t. They don’t bother me as they used to, though.

I’m also not an emotional masochist. There are those in the world who actively seek to be morose, to feel emotional pangs of uncertainty, fear, degradation. And while I don’t mind some degradation-play every now and then, I don’t need it in my regular life. I don’t seek situations where I can take that kind of talk to heart.

This self-definition has taken me to some interesting places, introduced me to wonderful people, and helped me encounter my love for the strange and thrilling. The nerdy little girl who loved weird science books and Halloween has grown to be somebody who gets to frequent clubs in leather and chains, give talks on needles and spankings, and live every ounce of my hedonistic desire to the hilt.

But this is only where my love of pain has led me. What has it given me?

Let’s try a little experiment. You, the reader, and me, just the two of us. Let’s indulge in a little sensation.

Pick a spot on your body to pinch. It can be anywhere, although I find the arm is a generally agreeable place. I use my fingernails during this exercise, but you don’t have to. Just squeezing with the ends of your fingers is enough. But really squeeze. Pinch yourself just until you begin to reach the limit of tolerability. We’re not trying to truly hurt ourselves. We’re just trying to dance at the edge of “ouch”.

Stay there for a minute. Breathe. What do you notice about this small bit of pain? Is it sharp, dull, deep, superficial, steady, throbbing? Dive into it and examine it, take it apart. And then, once you’ve familiarized yourself, move outward.

What is the rest of your body doing during this pain? What does the breath in your lungs feel like? Close your eyes and feel your skin. Is it more or less sensitive? Get sexy and daring if you want to, pay attention to your erogenous zones. From the expanse of our scalp, down the curve of our ears to their lobes, the lines of our neck, further towards your nipples, and maybe your groin, there may be a change. You may feel more sensitive, more intense. You may feel more sensation there that wasn’t there when you started reading this article. There may be a buzz, a heightened awareness that builds, as your ability to turn pain into a mere sensation grows.

Don’t get me wrong, this is not easy. This may not have worked at all. The idea of our attention turning from a source of discomfort to somewhere else in our bodies is not just hard, it can be against our very instincts. It’s a practice that can take time, or a very strong sense of mind.

The physiology of pain has been studied ever since science was capable of doing so, usually to find a way to alleviate it. The BBC and other noteworthy publications have long since delved into the human phenomenon of seeking pain, and describe it in a clear and easy-to-follow way. Perhaps understanding the process as it reaches our brain can sometimes help unlock the ability to play with it. And once we can do that…

I would argue that, for the first years of pain exploration as a child and teen, I was familiarizing myself with its sources. I had literal years of going into pain rather than moving outward from it. I got to play with its nuance, learn which parts of it worked for me and which parts my body would reject. I danced in that intense space enough to know the steps that could get me through safely.

Only after I had that ability could I take my awareness from the source and into the rest of my body. But the world opened up to me as I did. I can’t do this every day. There are playdates where I have arrived and, perhaps due to a lack of rest, poor hydration, stress, my period, or any other reason I can think of, my ability to process pain disappears and my poor play partner is left bewildered when our session is cut short.

My recognition for injury has also gone up drastically. When you know how much pain your body can take before an injury, you also learn what reactions your body has to signal that something is truly wrong. Usually, these things are an adrenaline response — tunnel vision, ear ringing, dizziness, nausea, gasping, breaking into a sweat — and are immediately recognizable as different from the pain I enjoy. But my body doesn’t throw these signals at me with just any old pain anymore. It waits until there is something truly amiss. In this, I feel that I’ve done it a service rather than the other way around. Through all my poking and prodding, I’ve taught my body to know the difference between what is uncomfortable and what is intolerable.

Ok, ok, I know, these are all merely side effects of my paroxysmal pastime.

In truth, it isn’t hard to capture in words exactly what goes through my brain and body while I’m being whipped, slapped, flogged, caned or poked.

Relax.

That’s right. A little mantra at first, then a commitment, and eventually a purpose. I can’t describe what pain feels like to me because it simply is. Horrible, glorious, intoxicating — it is all these things and more. It overwhelms the senses and then allows them to come back tenfold, from your breath to your orgasm and everything in between. And sometimes you don’t need anything else to accompany it. Pain alone can be enough.

This doesn’t mean the image of me after a whip strike is one of languid enjoyment. I tense, I gasp, I scream the same as anybody else. Sometimes, if I’m not given a long enough break between strikes, I even wish for it to stop. But I keep coming back for more. On the days where it all clicks, I can even take that thought and execute it. Relax.

It always takes a second to fully feel the entirety of something painful as it hits. The ghost of the impact can linger on the skin long enough to delve into and see what’s there. And within that flaring, glowing, burning space, I get to see a piece of myself. And when I see her, she’s powerful, sexy, and strong. The me inside the pain is raw, stripped, and fierce, and so easy to love.

And when I’m done, I get to bring a bit of her with me.