While considering canceling a rare appointment with a sadist due to self-loathing, the sadist in question texted that she had to reschedule. All’s well that ends well. She and I will choose another day, retake our tests, recommit to our quarantining, and then steal a few hours to escape. She misses my blood and will remain a sadist. I miss her cruelty and will remain a masochist.
But the latter feels less and less certain. I played only a handful of times in 2020, as opposed to the dozens of 2019. Some needles, some impact, Dahlia’s scalpeled initials that faded too quickly. That was my year, and limited as those scenes were—some were masked and none entailed the gentle physical touch that is my mandated aftercare, and which I take like a good boy takes its medicine—even I know that’s a lot to be grateful for.
One of the many reasons why I am a masochist is because I am a masochist, if that makes sense. It’s not just that it’s my primary identity and interest as a leatherdyke, and it’s not just that I have built beautiful, important relationships with some of my best friends on the practice, and it’s not just that I know, deep down, that it is good for me. I’m no extremist, and actually quite squeamish (although hooking, sans suspension, has gotten more interesting to me over the years. I could do it provided I could stay blindfolded and on the ground); challenging my relatively low pain tolerance is secondary. For me, that’s one of SM’s mental components, like doing a crossword puzzle or seeing if you really can run 10 miles without anyone making you. It’s also one of SM’s social components: I generally find competition to be alienating and distracting from real fun, but the pressure to perform, either in comparison with oneself or with other masochists, is excellent motivation in scene. Lends a frisson that I find intolerable in a board game but will accept in a dungeon.
Those things are fun, and sexy, and most important of all, interesting, but they are not at the core of why I do what I do. I am a masochist because I can’t help it. I have to do it. I am compelled. To not do it, in fact, requires the greater effort. The “new normal” of 2020 did not include easy access to an activity that makes me feel special and safe and supported. I’m not unique in this loss, or in the sense of existential disruption it has caused. I am me because I do x. What am I when x is gone? Makes a strong argument for defining oneself in other ways. Let me know if you figure out how to uncouple your essence with your actions!
Anyway. I know I said on Twitter that the next DAVID would be about genital preference, and it will. This is just a morning meditation—written while drinking my coffee and before I have to start doing my real job—on what I am, what constitutes what I am, and at what point I stop being what I am, or claim to be.
David tweets at @k8bushofficial.
i've been sitting with the idea of matching my actions with my values, rather than my feelings or reactions to my environment. so it's compelling to think about then separating my self from my actions. it's a cake meme in thought form.
beautifully compressed