Sadistic Frenzy
Or, how to make your head come before your dick does
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Whenever I've written about Sadism before it's been from a theoretical, intellectual perspective. Which is ironic, because there's nothing theoretical or intellectual about it. It's a way of short-circuiting the intellect, the ceaseless cogitation that produces theory, in fact.
Nonetheless, it's been (and remains) necessary. There's any amount of serious, semi- and professional literature available on the net in the sense of 'how to do stuff'. You wanna tie someone up? Here's how to do it and make it look pretty. You wanna whip someone? Here's how to use a whip.
But there's a complete dearth of anything that in any way purports to be an examination of Sadism as an existential fact. A part of what I'm doing here is supplying that lack.
There's also immense amounts of S&M porn available. And S&M fiction. And mainstream nonsense such as the movie '8mm' (which is an excellent movie but a crap depiction of S&M) which portrays the Sadist as a criminal madman and demented pervert.
There's nothing wrong with that. Sadism is criminal madness and demented perversion. 8mm is mainstream because Hollywood and nonsense because the criminal madness, the perverse dementia, it portrays is purely stereotypical. And stereotypes always miss the essence of a thing even when they accurately describe its appearance.
It occurred to me today that the abstract is best understood within a context of real experience. This article provides that context.
My inner Sadist is not someone I discovered overnight. There was no lurid and sudden illumination. Only a gathering and evolving self-awareness. This is an on-going process. But looking back I can see definite steps on the way that's led me to where I am now.
The very first step was my divorce from my first wife, with whom I'd lived an entirely vanilla sexual life. The second was a woman called Joy. The morning after the first night I had sex with her I woke to find the sheets, the coverlet, the wall beside the futon that was my bed, all spattered with blood. Hers. She said I'd spent the night biting her. I always bite. I don't always draw blood, but I always leave deep bruises.
I'd slap her breasts, without warning, without regard to what else I was doing; I'd twist her hair until she screamed, as I fucked her. At first such things heightened sex, were a part of sex. But they became a thing in themselves, something in the head, not the body, a separate but similar hunger.
And then there were the endless encounters on the net, in chat. It was in that theatre of dreams that I became more consciously and clearly acquainted with the lust to inflict pain. I reasoned thus: chat is a theatre of dreams, yes, intangible, anonymous, in some ways unreal. But all dreams have their motives, something real in the blood and marrow that drives them. What drives them is real, even if it never does more than create dreams.
My dreams were inctreasingly bloody and increasingly cruel, and I knew I wasn't going to be content to let them remain dreams. So, in every encounter on the net, I made it plain I was looking for real time. And I found it, more than once.
Each encounter made me aware of just how much I wanted, expected, demanded, from my partner. And of how some women actively acquiesce in those demands when they can see and feel and hear the absolute certainty of satisfaction with which the demand is made. Not certainty of satisfaction in the performance of the body subjected to those demands, but certainty that whether or not the body performs adequately it will obey, as best it can.
With one lover I had a favorite game. It involved an old sea-trunk, 3 feet high by four feet long by two and a half feet broad. I'd drilled holes into the corners and attached decorative iron garden-gate rings to them, so that I could secure her. I'd bind her with her wrists in the small of her back and her belly thrust up to me, her thighs splayed wide and tied to the trunk. And then I'd beat her with a riding crop, starting at her left breast, then her right, the the mound of her cunt.
Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes proceeding in a regular pattern, sometimes striking in the same spot time after time, sometimes randomly, sometimes with great force and sometimes not. She never knew. All she knew was that I was going to hurt her.
There was no sense in which I was concerned for any kind of pleasure on her part (though you may take it that find pleasure she did - we were together two and a half years, and this was as much a favorite of hers as it was of mine).
Invariably, before this took place, she would challenge me in some way. Always over something real, that she wanted and I did not. We never played. Her whippings were always for good reason. My purpose was two-, or even threefold. First, to discipline her. Second, to feed the curious, cold, tingling sensation that fills my head at such times, feed it and drive it to a peak that is some mental equivalent of orgasm. And afterwards to fuck the bitch silly.
Because in my case, at that time, the mental release required a physical release to somehow complete it. That's not the case now.
I once thought that physical orgasm, the hunger for it, was the ruling appetite of my life. Then, later, I thought that the screams, and blood, and the unspeakably satisfying crack of a crop on flesh, fed something in me than which there could be nothing deeper. I was wrong - but Sadism led me to it, and is in its way the closest allegory of it I'm likely to find.
I spoke elsewhere (Link) of the Sadists' calculus of risk and gratification, the thing that keeps him from expressing the fulness of his appetite on the flesh he's made his subject. Such a calculus exists, and separates the Sadist from the helpless, murdering, victim of his own urges.
Murder, sexual slaughter, figures largely in my fantasies - but not at all in my practice. Self-knowledge is one of the keys, self-discipline the other, that opens the door that separates me from someone like Jeffrey Dahmer. But I understand him, I really do, and Bundy, and the others.
I know what drove them. I see the possibility of it in myself. But precisely because I see it and acknowledge it, that extremity, that untenable satisfaction of appetite, I am safe from it. Every Sadist, who knows himself to be a Sadist, understands and operates this calculus. The ultimate satisfaction of appetite, carried out once, denies the possibility of ever carrying it out again - albeit at a slightly lesser level of satisfaction.
Myself, If I like a show, I wanna see the repeats.
So I am content with repeatable cruelties. Like cutting my wife's breasts and then beating them with the crop. Like biting to the point where she finally screams. And then biting the same place again.
For me, it's the frenzy that counts, not the moment in which it stops.
Nonetheless, it's been (and remains) necessary. There's any amount of serious, semi- and professional literature available on the net in the sense of 'how to do stuff'. You wanna tie someone up? Here's how to do it and make it look pretty. You wanna whip someone? Here's how to use a whip.
But there's a complete dearth of anything that in any way purports to be an examination of Sadism as an existential fact. A part of what I'm doing here is supplying that lack.
There's also immense amounts of S&M porn available. And S&M fiction. And mainstream nonsense such as the movie '8mm' (which is an excellent movie but a crap depiction of S&M) which portrays the Sadist as a criminal madman and demented pervert.
There's nothing wrong with that. Sadism is criminal madness and demented perversion. 8mm is mainstream because Hollywood and nonsense because the criminal madness, the perverse dementia, it portrays is purely stereotypical. And stereotypes always miss the essence of a thing even when they accurately describe its appearance.
It occurred to me today that the abstract is best understood within a context of real experience. This article provides that context.
My inner Sadist is not someone I discovered overnight. There was no lurid and sudden illumination. Only a gathering and evolving self-awareness. This is an on-going process. But looking back I can see definite steps on the way that's led me to where I am now.
The very first step was my divorce from my first wife, with whom I'd lived an entirely vanilla sexual life. The second was a woman called Joy. The morning after the first night I had sex with her I woke to find the sheets, the coverlet, the wall beside the futon that was my bed, all spattered with blood. Hers. She said I'd spent the night biting her. I always bite. I don't always draw blood, but I always leave deep bruises.
I'd slap her breasts, without warning, without regard to what else I was doing; I'd twist her hair until she screamed, as I fucked her. At first such things heightened sex, were a part of sex. But they became a thing in themselves, something in the head, not the body, a separate but similar hunger.
And then there were the endless encounters on the net, in chat. It was in that theatre of dreams that I became more consciously and clearly acquainted with the lust to inflict pain. I reasoned thus: chat is a theatre of dreams, yes, intangible, anonymous, in some ways unreal. But all dreams have their motives, something real in the blood and marrow that drives them. What drives them is real, even if it never does more than create dreams.
My dreams were inctreasingly bloody and increasingly cruel, and I knew I wasn't going to be content to let them remain dreams. So, in every encounter on the net, I made it plain I was looking for real time. And I found it, more than once.
Each encounter made me aware of just how much I wanted, expected, demanded, from my partner. And of how some women actively acquiesce in those demands when they can see and feel and hear the absolute certainty of satisfaction with which the demand is made. Not certainty of satisfaction in the performance of the body subjected to those demands, but certainty that whether or not the body performs adequately it will obey, as best it can.
With one lover I had a favorite game. It involved an old sea-trunk, 3 feet high by four feet long by two and a half feet broad. I'd drilled holes into the corners and attached decorative iron garden-gate rings to them, so that I could secure her. I'd bind her with her wrists in the small of her back and her belly thrust up to me, her thighs splayed wide and tied to the trunk. And then I'd beat her with a riding crop, starting at her left breast, then her right, the the mound of her cunt.
Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes proceeding in a regular pattern, sometimes striking in the same spot time after time, sometimes randomly, sometimes with great force and sometimes not. She never knew. All she knew was that I was going to hurt her.
There was no sense in which I was concerned for any kind of pleasure on her part (though you may take it that find pleasure she did - we were together two and a half years, and this was as much a favorite of hers as it was of mine).
Invariably, before this took place, she would challenge me in some way. Always over something real, that she wanted and I did not. We never played. Her whippings were always for good reason. My purpose was two-, or even threefold. First, to discipline her. Second, to feed the curious, cold, tingling sensation that fills my head at such times, feed it and drive it to a peak that is some mental equivalent of orgasm. And afterwards to fuck the bitch silly.
Because in my case, at that time, the mental release required a physical release to somehow complete it. That's not the case now.
I once thought that physical orgasm, the hunger for it, was the ruling appetite of my life. Then, later, I thought that the screams, and blood, and the unspeakably satisfying crack of a crop on flesh, fed something in me than which there could be nothing deeper. I was wrong - but Sadism led me to it, and is in its way the closest allegory of it I'm likely to find.
I spoke elsewhere (Link) of the Sadists' calculus of risk and gratification, the thing that keeps him from expressing the fulness of his appetite on the flesh he's made his subject. Such a calculus exists, and separates the Sadist from the helpless, murdering, victim of his own urges.
Murder, sexual slaughter, figures largely in my fantasies - but not at all in my practice. Self-knowledge is one of the keys, self-discipline the other, that opens the door that separates me from someone like Jeffrey Dahmer. But I understand him, I really do, and Bundy, and the others.
I know what drove them. I see the possibility of it in myself. But precisely because I see it and acknowledge it, that extremity, that untenable satisfaction of appetite, I am safe from it. Every Sadist, who knows himself to be a Sadist, understands and operates this calculus. The ultimate satisfaction of appetite, carried out once, denies the possibility of ever carrying it out again - albeit at a slightly lesser level of satisfaction.
Myself, If I like a show, I wanna see the repeats.
So I am content with repeatable cruelties. Like cutting my wife's breasts and then beating them with the crop. Like biting to the point where she finally screams. And then biting the same place again.
For me, it's the frenzy that counts, not the moment in which it stops.
