Blindfolds, cuffs, saying ‘Master’ or ‘Mistress’, a little hanky-spanky – I knew all those things were fun and sexy. But there was nothing erotic about real pain! I could never understand the people who can keep asking for more and more. I didn’t know why anyone would want to be hit with a wooden paddle, canes that leave stripes, or electric shocks! What is wrong with these people?!
Then I got a tattoo. And suddenly I understood.
I knew it would hurt, so I went with a small design, and deliberately chose a spot that the tattoo artist said was usually one of the least painful spot. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to take it and that I’d leave with half a flower. My older brother’s girlfriend went first. Hers was a tribal symbol, all black. She squeezed her boyfriend’s hand, gritted her teeth a few times, made some ow noises. Promised me it wasn’t too bad.
Yeah right. My turn came, and it felt like that flower was being branded in place, one pixel at a time. I didn’t just squeeze my brother’s hand; I dug my nails into it. He kept talking softly to me, telling me to breathe. The bastard had only come along for moral support for me and his girlfriend, with no intention of getting his own tattoo, so his advice got him cursed at.
I did end up following it though. What else could I do? Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Ex – oh bloody hell oh god oh god oh god that hurts! – hale. Inhale. Exhale.
But gradually, things changed. It never stopped hurting, but at some point, I didn’t care anymore. I felt like I was drunk and floating a little above the scene. The feeling only increased after we left, and for the next hour or so afterwards.
I realized later that this high must be what masochists are thinking of when they drool over canes, crops, and other instruments of torture – this floating sense of wellness and detachment, caused by some sort of biochemical response to pain.
So, I got a pretty tattoo, and I learned something. Not too bad for a half hour of pain.
Later, I met the man who would become SilverHubby, and further lessons in pain followed. But my first lesson came at the hands – or rather the needle – of a professional.
|Not actually my tattoo, but isn’t it pretty?|