DIY Masochism [Or: “Ow!! #@%$^!!!”]

The other day I was at my desk at work, grimacing over the hundreds upon hundreds of photographs of our member’s members when I decided I needed a fucking break.

I stood up and was about to push my chair back when, by the Holy Sweet trompibulating trunk of my Dear Lord Ganesha I smacked the FUCK out of my hamstring.

It hurt VERY. BADLY.

 

Many profanities were uttered.

 

My co-workers are accustomed to this sort of outburst, for various reasons. It can be something as simple as, say, watching a Member Cam Show featuring  the particularly imaginative use of a big ass can of Foster’s Lager.

Look Ma! No hands!

It often is a particularly gruesome photo of a fellow pervert’s genitalia in some particularly unflattering configuration.

We get ’em all folks. 

But alas, no. It wasn’t a clever rogue with a photo of his penis in a hot dog bun. 

 

It was me, hurting myself. Again.

 

When I was a kid I was very clumsy. It wasn’t discovered until I started school, that this was mostly a by-product of severe Myopia and slight Astigmatism. My running into walls and falling off of curbs was curbed thereafter, but I was always a bit gangly.

Later years were plagued by similar clumsiness, but more often than not it was due to ethanol intoxication.

Been a little while since I’ve had that be a problem, and I pray every day to remain in this cleared-headed state.

But as I ruefully rubbed the insulted ankle, and did deep breathing and such in order to focus on dissipating and “processing” the pain, I though about the correlation I’ve often noticed between kinky play and self-inflicted injury.

When in a BDSM relationship, I notice the incidence of self-inflicted injury precipitously drops in the afterglow of a good hard thrashing butt whomping  play-date.  Have you noticed this yourself, my dear fellow Masochists?  Or am I, again, the Lone Freak?

Sometimes weeks would go by then it would start again. I’d be in rehearsal, and within a 4 hour period I would poke myself with a pencil, stumble over a chair, run into a prop, drop a pig-skull on my foot*.

 

It got so that my non-kink-identified friends would be all “Jesus Mo. Go get your ass beaten. Really. This is ridiculous.”

 

And sure enough, if I did what I could to fulfil that gnawing, I’d be accident free for a stretch again.

 

Nowadays, I am not attached, so the play is…well.

 

Infrequent?

 

Yes.

 

And the bumps, she small scrapes, the nail caught on flesh that leaves welts….they do their best to remind this body that we are alive and in this body.

 

It doesn’t replace the crack hiss and sting of a whip thrown at the speed of sound, or a needle silent whisper through skin.

 

Not by a long shot.

 

But I guess that’s what we’ve got for now ;-)

 

 

 

*yes, a real pig skull.