I’ve always had a strange relationship with sadism. For the longest time in my life, I’ve ignored it entirely. When I did indulge for a moment, I’d guiltily put the fantasy back in the farther reaches of my mind. Even when my lady is in a rough and sadistic mood, I still hesitate. I can feel my love wrestling with the sadistic intent.
My background is that I come from a conservative Catholic family comprised primarily of women – I have several sisters, am closer with my mother than my father and I haven’t even gotten to my nieces and nephews! This upbringing has its part to play in my development. Maybe even a part to play in my resistance to sadism – both initially and still to this day at times.
My initial experiment with sadism was humiliation and degradation as a teenager. During sex, words like ‘Whore’ and ‘Bitch’ and ‘Slut’ came out of me without thinking. I don’t really know why, to be honest. Even now, I’m not entirely sure. It’s one of those darker, rougher, more vicious sides that emerge when I’m kneeling over her body, fucking her mouth while I assault her clit.
Spiritually, I always felt I fit into the gothic romanticism era, like something out of an Emily Brontë novel. When I read Jane Eyre in college, the interactions between Mr. Rochester and Jane spoke to me – ignited my mind in ways I could not explain here in this space without boring you or writing another five pages.
The relationship between men and women of that area, sexist and misogynistic though it was, compelled me for reasons I wasn’t entirely sure.
It took me a long time to realise that, lurking under my skin, was the soul of a Master – customised though it was – to fit within my other sides – my primal side, the side that wants to unwind in the vanilla world. I just couldn’t accept that there was this stricter side to me, this side that craved control and ownership and ran a tight ship in his household. That craved, above all, someone else that would be willing to dance that dance with me – the other piece of the puzzle.
Like anything else in my sexuality, the more I chose to ignore it and try to keep it under wraps, the more it struggled back, an entity operating on its own. I would become moody and stern, if I could sense, say, someone taking charge in any kind of environment – oh the resistance I would feel in my body. The growling I would have to bite down on hard.
Maybe you understand, maybe you don’t – I needed control. I wanted control. I needed complete and utter ownership, totality. But more than that, I needed someone to want that from me. Willing and happy and content and as fiery and soul searching as I was.
And yet the questions remains – why do you like this? Where does it come from?
Maybe it comes from a fascination with the darker impulses of a mind, maybe it was born from the years of being a sensible catholic boy in the light for too long that I wanted to know – that I bit the Apple and didn’t just want to taste more, I wanted to taste Eve.
It’s interesting because the other significant poles in my life – heavy metal and the horror genre – not only have their roots in darker subject matter but there’s a sensuality to them as well – a lively, cathartic feeling to engaging in thrash metal or in the nubile naked good girl being stalked by the killer before the tension is released through the climax.
All of this, strangely, turns me and transforms me into that sadistic Master.