Thoughts From the Bottom

 Perhaps it is time to pick back up here.

Ten years have passed. We have aged. Life has settled, and we have grown some. Of course, we have changed, evolved, learned some things, both as individuals and together. We are not as we once were, but we are still “we.”

Our conversation lately has turned to spiritual sexuality and how our own BDSM practice intersects with that world. Tom, being who he is, seems very intent on doing lots of research, seeking out the experts who have all sort of things to say on the subject. He finds all of that affirming, and it seems to really fire him up. So, good. I find that, for myself, my days of chasing spiritual “experts” are behind me. My tendency to spiritual backpacking leads me to look with jaundiced eyes on the teachings of gurus. I grew up Catholic, studied with a Lakota Sioux teacher, and spent many years with Quakers. These days, I find that what works best for me is to get my head to quiet down, and find my way to a quiet space inside myself. It is there that I find what I experience as the great mystery. That, for me, is one of the real magical part of our BDSM practice. It can, when we hit it just right, take me into that place. So…

I am a masochist, and claim the part of submissive bottom partner. Partner is important to this whole narrative. Tom and I do this thing together. I have come, over all these years, to see it as an intricate sort of dance. We don’t do exactly the same dance, but we do dance together.

He is doing a good bit of writing about his view of all of this. From my perspective, he is the dominant force. He is the one who inflicts pain. In session, I sometimes picture him as The Count from Sesame Street, because I can often hear him back there behind me counting under his breath.

For my part, I do not count strokes. I do, generally, practice an eight-count. There are two reasons for that. The first is that it reminds me to breathe, and breathing is really important. So, in one-two, out three-four, in five-six, out seven-eight. The other reason for the eight-count is that it prevents me from counting strokes. I really, really don’t want to know. I don’t want to know how many there have been, and I for sure don’t want to know how many there might still be, or how many I think there should still be. That way lies fear, panic, and probably, at some point, rage.

What I have discovered, walking this path, over all these years, is that I need to go into a session without expectations; without a whole lot of mental chatter (yes, I can hear those of you who know me well); with as little fear as is possible; with a sense of openness and willingness. And then…

It hurts! The beginning of nearly every single spanking hurts like the very devil. Nevermind what the spanking porn videos with all those picture perfect models with their makeup that never runs might suggest, I find that I fight and struggle, and frequently rage through the start of most spankings. It isn’t fun, or sexy, or hot. It doesn’t turn me on. It just fucking hurts, and I hate it, and I most often hate him! In a modern-era BDSM ethic that says that the bottom partner ought to maintain absolute control; that there ought to ALWAYS be an inviolate safeword in place that has the effect of stopping the action, I would never, ever get past the first few minutes of a spanking, because well, DUH!

Now, before anybody loses their shit, I am never unsafe in a session. I am absolutely required to tell him if I am in some sense in danger. So, if I am experiencing chest pains, or shortness of breath, or unexplained loss of vision, I would be expected to make that clear to him. He would stop the session, and tend to my needs. If necessary, I would receive appropriate medical care. The point of our BDSM play is that he chooses to hurt me. He does not ever want me harmed. With that said, I do not have the capacity to stop our play because it hurts. The hurting is the point of the whole thing. For us both. Stopping the action because it hurts is utterly off limits for me. Further, if I were to do that, I would miss out on the possibility that exists beyond that beginning place where it just hurts. It is in the territory beyond that place of just hurting where the magic and the mystery lies. 

Now, as always, my way is mine. It isn’t for everyone. I don’t presume to prescribe. I have, however, found that, if I can tough it out and hang on through that initial difficult place; if he does not stop when I am fussing and whining and raging, then I may, possibly break through to something else. I may, if it all works just right, reach the top of the first big hill on the world’s tallest roller coaster, and drop over the edge in a breath-taking rush. When it happens, I’ll swoop down along a deep violet tunnel, following some presence that I can sense, knowing that I am safely guided. The noise will quiet down and turn to colors; purples and blues. The pain will fade into the background and I will float along, following my guide. I can still respond to him if he speaks to me, but I no longer worry about the intensity of the sensations he is eliciting… that is his realm, not mine. Time slows down. Sometimes I see things, or learn things, or hear things. Sometimes I fly away. I always have the impression that the experience is something that he “allows.” Occasionally, I will hear myself roaring like an animal; my power unleashed. 

I know he sees it all. He refers to it as my “getting off.” I understand that it sets him free; liberates his sadistic urges, and allows him to go to a higher level of play than he might otherwise, because he knows that my tolerance is much higher in that state.

When he calls me back, I tend to come to rather slowly, as if from some sort of trance. I tend to feel a bit stupid for a time. I imagine most of that is the effect of the endorphin rush. 

So. Spiritual? Perhaps. I tend to not put too much stock in such descriptors, but make of it what you will.

Sue