The Quieter Times

It's interesting how life comes at you in ways you never quite imagined. Or perhaps you did imagine them but admitting the real mundane truth as it unravels is something that shames you to pieces. In a way, that's happened to me.

I know I have not been posting in a long time, and it is likely that you won't find me doing much more on the topic of masochism. Instead, I will leave the blog as it is. I am sure my words may be of use to someone either now or down the line. To me, they are just a reminder of a person I do not see anymore. I am not quite done with my experiences nor journey. But right now, there are more important areas of my life which need tending to.

So, to each one of you that has read my blog and commented: I thank you. To those who have yet to find these pages: enjoy.

This will always be the Reflections Of A Masochist.

In Understanding My Masochism

Recently, over the last day, I posted a question on FetLife in my Sadists and Masochists group:

This is something I said quite a while ago, but I yet believe it to be true:

'Masochism is not just about receiving pain. But, rather, instead, it is about understanding the nature of the whimpering, desperate female tearfully begging for it.'

(Please insert male or female as applies)

Do you agree, or disagree with this statement, and why?

What might you add to this statement?

I'm curious as to your responses.

I received quite a few responses. Most, negative, but I thought this would be an interesting post to add in here to my blog, and as a result, as well, my response after letting quite a few people get in their opinions. This is what I said:

I've read most of the responses here. Some were quite well written, others not so much. But in each it seemed an opinion was formed, and passed on, and that's exactly what I was looking to see.

It seems that as a result, the majority disagree. So, let me tell you why I agree with the statement I made a long time ago, and what was meant by it.

In almost every experience at the hands of a sadist, I can mark off the progression into the scene. At first, I will be a bit hesitant; not certain how it will unfold. The sadist will take control of the situation, using the implements he desires, and how he desires to use them. The first response I often have to pain, is a defiant, challenging attitude - I want to see how much he can inflict, and conversely, I want to see how much pain I can take. As the pain increases, it becomes an exchange between the two of us; he pushes me, I push him, he pushes me, I push myself. Back and forth and so on, and so forth. During this exchange, I don't hold back. I am not an easy female to either handle, or control. I will resist. I will fight back. I will push the sadist mentally and physically as hard as I push myself.

Power, is my ultimate goal as a masochist. Power over the situation, the pain, and as a result, myself. There comes a point in some of those exact situations after we have progressed to this little dance between the two of us, where the pain is so intense, so perfectly, deliciously intimate, that every shred of power and control I thought I had slips from my hands into his. I am no longer the one in control; he is. I then know, and admit that I never really was in control to begin with. Instead, it was very much an illusion of sorts; I only hold the power I have, to get to the point where I can effectively let go of it.

It is that precise point, of which I refer to in my original quote. When I have stopped resisting, struggling, and fighting back. When my pride, arrogance, and dignity are stripped from me and what is left, is a pitiful, tearful female begging and pleading for more pain because I am no longer trying to convince either of us that I have the control. I have been in that place within myself a few times. I have felt and known the exact moment when I gave over to the sadist, that precious and tightly held restraint which I was certain, was mine and would remain so. It is in those moments where I would say anything, do anything, be anything for more pain and he knows it. And remarkably, interestingly, it is at that point where the sadist stops.

It is that state of being that I want to eventually understand.


Feel free to comment as you will.

Tonja, and Cats.

Recently.. alright, this morning, I was looking back over a few of my writings on FetLife. One of the more recent ones, made me laugh as I reread what had been written.

So, here. I am going to share it with all of you. And yes, it is a true story of what happened to me one night:::

Alright, I admit, I was feeling all hot and bothered and drippy after watching some of the latest videos on here.

Anyhow, I got all nice and cozied up on my couch with a favourite toy. fuck, yes, I was grinding my dirty cunt up against it like it was the last orgasm I might ever get. It was pumping in and out of me, and literally, I was juicing. I thrusted myself up and down, riding the edge right before a damn powerful orgasm...

...when the cat jumped up onto the couch and vomited on my feet.

I've never felt so violated.

...Is Acceptance

There are some things which will never be. But there are many things which can and will be. I've come to accept that.

I spent my time focusing on what it would take to get me where I wanted to go, and little time considering where I was actually headed. I steered myself into believing that manipulation and control were tools which would allow me to find my self, but in fact, they ended up being the chains that kept me away from it. Each time I struggled to push forward, they pulled me two steps back.

I had created the most wonderful illusion of who and what I am as a masochist. I fed it, nurtured it, proudly showed it off to others as it grew, and eventually clothed myself in it. I wound this illusion so tightly, that I believed it real. And eventually, I fell. I fell hard. Because in order to realize the existence of this illusion of my own making, I needed to. The resounding *splat* was magnificent indeed.

Pain, though an incredible sensation and wonderfully exciting challenge which will endlessly intrigue, fascinate, and stimulate me, is not the means to discovering the core person within. It will not give me the answers, or provide the purpose. It does not define my worth, or sustain my balance. It is exactly only what it is - pain. And I will not be so ignorant or naive in the future to ascribe it any other meaning.

The rest of my self discovery needs to come from letting go of what I think I know, and being open to what I have yet to learn. And whether I believe it entirely at this point or not, it all comes from me.

I've come to accept that.

On The Other Side of a Safe Word

What does that mean? Let me first say that previous to this weekend, I could not begin to tell you because I'd never had to say one...

And, I didn't want to say it. I suppose though that's easy enough to have figured out. (I'm a masochist, you know.) After all, we masochists for the most part don't seem to have many limitations or boundaries on that ever-elusive pain threshold. For the majority of us that loosely translates into ignoring that such a thing even exists. Is that such a bad thing? Consequences as a result of purposefully allowing ourselves to get caught in that kind of thinking really don't enter our minds - at least, it didn't for me.

I'd really built myself up for imminent failure in a way. Interesting how that works. Over the years I've physically and mentally challenged myself in various ways when it comes to my masochism. I've done scenes with incredible amounts of pain that slowly progressed from one successive level of tolerance to the next. Handling each one was relatively easy because I could anticipate the transition and confidently juggle my own responses. Pain, as I experienced and knew it, could be manipulated, converted, and as a result controlled. And over time with much practice I was becoming quite adept in how I did just that. Unfortunately, my false sense of security (and some might say misplaced arrogance) blinded me into not being able to consider what might happen if the ability to do even one of those things was taken away from me.

I found out what happens, this past weekend.

“Red!”

Once the word was out of my mouth it was as if the atmosphere around me had suddenly collapsed and become unbearably suffocating. The physical pain had temporarily ceased, but the forced acknowledgement of my own actual limitation was an overwhelming tidal wave of emotional torment and suffering such as I have not experienced before. The shame of this new situation found my face streaked with tears, my tightly-held emotional defences crumbling before those around me, and my illusion of control irrevocably shattered. The immediate and unmistakable truth was now placed in front of me. It was not one I was in any way prepared to face.

How could I, in those moments as I lay on the floor hoarsely screaming and crying through my denial, anger and frustration, console myself with the realisation that numerous other masochists have surely reached the same point as I just did; that I am no more unique or different in my ability to suffer; that admitting I cannot take any more of that particular pain does not mean I have failed? I wallowed in my disbelief and self pity. I had begged for my own humiliation, and I was more naked than I had ever been even though I was mostly still clothed. I felt as if something had been taken from me, when I was not willing to let it go. And, it had been. Control was no longer mine.

I wanted it back and as I lifted myself to try and take it, reality reared its ugly head and I backed off like a coward. I lowered myself. I pleaded to be their piggy. I whined and cried for their spit and disgust. I gave up my selfish sense of pride and watched as it too, much like the carpet below me, flattened as I rolled across the floor towards the chairs with the encouragement of their boots.

I sat on the chair against the wall that night... stunned, with tears, spit, and snot running liberally down my face as i tried to contemplate what was now waiting for me on the other side of my uttered safe word. Surely, people were sneering. Of course, they must have been laughing at my ultimate defeat. The whispers were likely already carrying talk of how weak I really was. I didn’t think it was possible for me to fall any harder or lower than I had.

I reached down, picked up my shoes, and carried them and myself to my room.

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To understand where I am now, I had to explain where I've been. I'll write the second part of this journal when I return to Canada.

Over the Precipice

There is something that I'm after. A place, where I want to go. A point, that I have not reached. It won't be quiet or serene. There will be no comfort to be had, nor awe-inspiring beauty to behold. Reality becomes the distant illusion and terror the immediate infusion. Thresholds will be purposefully trampled over and any reservations violently dissolved. Suffering will mark my features and pain will be the only mask I wear when every other one is torn off and destroyed.

Humiliation will ensue and shame will follow in its shadow. Rage and defiance may rise from me, but power and control will throw them down with calculated ease. A female will no longer be and the animal inherent will reside. Recognition will fade over time and conscious thought will shatter into pieces too small to be picked up.

Existence becomes a simple concept no longer made difficult.

tonja

In a writing post of mine on FetLife, I gave my own description, as best as I could of my own personality:

I can be completely despicable in my own selfish nature, because there are times where I simply think I'm better than everyone else and the world revolves around me. I can be petty, snide, sarcastic and rude. I've been jealous and never admitted as much to the men who I've claimed otherwise to. And somehow, I can turn that around and make it their fault, and still feel justified in the end.

I like to hold back my negative emotions, and keep them safely tucked away, because I've convinced myself that to admit them is akin to weakness. I hate confrontations. I can sometimes leave problems to stew and morph into bigger issues because I just cannot be bothered to make the effort to change them. I rarely admit when I'm needing emotional comfort, or could use an ear. When things in life scare me, I laugh them off and even lie when asked what's really bothering me.

I have a deep capacity for affection, but fail to understand what being loved or giving that love really means. I tend to avoid emotional entanglements because I'll sabotage the relationship eventually, out of my own inability to understand what it takes to make one work.

I have an amazing understanding of my own sexuality, and how I see myself in that capacity. I am masochistic, and lovely in the simple hunger that has become as a result of exploring the sensations of pain. I am intelligent and witty, and have an excellent sense of humor which sometimes makes even me laugh and on the odd occasion, snort like a piggy. I love to dress up and go out, and enjoy the company of people.

I cry watching sad movies. I love the smell of rain and the morning air as it comes through my window. I prefer my pillows cold but must be buried under a warm comforter. (That oddly feels as soft as a suede jacket!) I never got chess, and suck at checkers. My hair can piss me off when it does not do what I want, and I have even thought how easy it would be to chop it off. I have no pinkie toenails.

I love the idea of forever after, even if it's a fairy tale. I'm determined that waiting to find the perfect match is better than a string of relationships that don't work. I'm alright with being alone, but hate going to bed alone at night.

I am a complex and even contradicting cunt at times. But, when it comes down to it, I'll almost always admit to myself who's really at fault.

And, I'm still the tonja.