Category Archives: BDSM, Kink & Sex

A different kind of love story

Some friends introduced me to this little video a number of years ago and I’ve been showing it to my friends ever since, but for some reason I never thought to do a blog post about it. When I first started showing it to people it was just about shock value for me. I liked to see their jaws drop and the disgust on people’s faces, but after a little while I found myself more comfortable with the things they were saying and I started showing this video to people, kind of as a test of how accepting and liberal they are. It seems I’ve seen a lot of liberals, or people who call themselves liberals, who say they support people’s right to be whoever they want to be and support sexual freedom, when really what they mean is that it’s okay to be gay or if you’re lucky, transgendered or maybe a few other sexual oddities that they may have been exposed to, but when they see something like this, all their liberalism goes out the window and we find that they are really only supporting the rights of the people they have been taught to support and don’t follow a fundamental philosophy of sexual and personal freedom. So this video, I have found, is a great test to see if someone is truly accepting of people’s differences, or if they are just going along with what is politically correct nowadays.

So watch this video, throw out your preconceptions about what is acceptable and what is not.

 

When I first started watching this, I was disgusted too, and I suppose I still am disgusted, but I should say that I am far, far more disgusted by sounding, which is something that makes me so sick that I won’t even discuss it here. If you want to know what that is, you can google it and find out about how it’s all the rage right now with the gay and alternative sexuality communities, and I’m sure you can find a whole list of safety and health concerns that can be rather serious. However, you may look it up and just shrug and say, “I don’t see what Kalin finds so disgusting”, as most people I run into cannot understand why I find sounding to be so disgusting and appalling. This is why we need to have a philosophy of allowing other people freedom, assuming they are consensual and don’t harm others, no matter how disgusted we are by them.

But these two have a real uphill battle for acceptance even though they’re really doing nothing wrong. As I’ve re-watched this video numerous times over the years, I’ve come to see this as a romantic tale much more than a shocking one. KingKaiju54 on YouTube says “Still a better love story than twilight.” and I would go ahead and agree except I don’t want to imply that I have anything against Twilight fans because we all should have a right to enjoy what we enjoy.

But beyond this, the more I watch this, the more I am impressed by the courage these two show. I know tons of people who hide their sexuality from family members, and frequently even their doctors. I completely understand not being flamboyant about your sexuality around people who just aren’t into it, but to hide it and lie about it I think is… well, I can’t call it cowardly because I know it really is difficult if you have closed minded family members… but I guess I should say it’s not the direction we should be taking and in most cases, it’s worth the difficulty and awkwardness of being open and having those conversations.

But these two jump right past that and go on a documentary show, without their faces blurred or voices altered, and stand up for their right to be who they want to be, knowing that they will probably be the object of more hate than most members of the gay community will. So yeah, I will say that these two have a level of courage that we should all look up to. I would show this video to my kids and tell them, you know, it might not be the best idea to go out and fuck horses, because there certainly are serious dangers, but if your heart is telling you to do something and it doesn’t interfere with other people’s ability to live their lives, then you should have the courage to follow your heart and you should have the courage to talk about it, be open about it, and remember that if people hate you for it, that’s their problem.

So yeah, I’ll admit that I think the couple in this video are courageous heroes worthy of our admiration.

 

“I don’t think it matters what you love. It could be a person. It could be a thing. As long as you love it totally, completely, and without judgement.”

-Norm Peterson, Cheers, final episode

Three New True Stories About Sex and Women

So today I added three new stories that I’ve been hanging on to for a few years now. These are all true stories and I’ve been nervous to post them for reasons I’m not totally sure about but I’ve decided I need to just do it and move on because they’re real things that happened to me and if I don’t post them I will just forever feel like they’re stories that need to be told, though I’m not too sure what I’m trying to say with them.

I want to experiment with not editing so much. I’ve been really bad about posting here because I always feel like I need multiple hours and my life is so busy and awesome these days that I just never get that amount of time unless I shedule time and stick to it so I’m thinking about trying something where I just write and write and write and don’t look back. I want to try not editing so much and worrying about whether or not I’ve already said something and whatnot. This will mostly apply to my blog posts and I’ll take a lot more care in my stories, though these three are an exception and I will try just not really looking over them and just posting them as-is. I think my perpectives on these subjects have probably changed too much since I wrote them anyway.

Anyway… these three stories I’m not going to edit. They’re years old, talking about events even more years before they were written. So… I guess… they’re not really PC, you know… it’s hard for me to tell… they may offend some people but maybe… I don’t know… they’re just stories that actually happened to me… at least to the best of my memory.

Warning: sexual and potentially offensive content in all three of them.

Anyway, enough babbling. I’ll start with The Condom, which is a story about this time a girl tried to trick me into getting her pregnant because she thought that would convince her parents to buy her a car. What am I trying to say with this story… I don’t know… most people see crazy stuff like this and they just want to run away from it and say “well, that person is just crazy” but I like to explore that kind of thing… maybe avoid getting involved, but at least try to think about this kind of thing and what it means.

I think it might take some time for me to get used to this free write thing and not going back to edit anything… it’s weird to just babble on the keyboard like this but admittedly it’s going a whole lot faster than my normal blog posts. If I got used to this I might even be able to do this on the bus on my phone.

Anyway, the next story is called Rape Me, about a girlfriend I had who… well, you know how those “ignorant and women-hating conservatives” say that women invite rape, well these kinds of stories may be what they are referring to and I think that’s why I have held off so long in telling this story, other than the fact that I’d prefer it if people didn’t try to figure out who this person is in the story (I usually use fake names in my true stories). Anyway, since I wrote this I actually experienced a situation where someone tried to rape me and I had to fight him off… it went down just like it does in the after-school-special except we were two dudes and I was able to fight him off and/or convince him to quit and in the end it was not that big a deal, which has really made me rethink the way I look at rape. As horrible and evil as this sounds, they are human beings. I’m gonna stop now before I really start offending people.

The third story is called Drunk and Horny College Chicks, about a night I got pretty drunk and met a couple hot college girls, one of whom had just graduated from some bio-engineering degree. I’m not really sure what I’m getting at with this story. It’s kind of pointless I guess, though it does illustrate the kind of sexual and personal freedom that I advocate. Most people would probably look down on these women, but I thought they were awesome and this night still sticks with me as an example of people just having fun and enjoying life.

Okay, so I’m going to end this rambling blog post soon but I will say that I have more stories and writings sitting in my backlog, though I think this may be last of the true stories that I have sitting in reserve, though I do have a whole bunch of true stories that I still need to write… perhaps the most important ones are the ones that I haven’t written yet.

Okay, I’m going to call this blog post, my first attempt at just rambling without thinking, it’s done now.

A Spanking Made Me Kinky

I think one of the reasons anarchists have such a hard time communicating is the fact that the things that led us to become anarchists are so personal and outside of the norm that we can’t talk about them. The main events that led me to become an anarchist are, for the most part, things that are not easy to talk about. Maybe we don’t want to get someone in trouble, don’t want to admit to wrongdoing ourselves, don’t want to admit that we can identify with the criminals, maybe because we were too traumatized by the event, or in the case of this story, just because it’s embarrassing. It just seems like the really powerful experiences that cause us to become anarchists are things that aren’t socially acceptable to talk about in everyday conversations.

So this is a clip from an autobiography that I tried to write years ago and gave up on because it just wasn’t turning out very well and I happened to come across a few weeks ago and decided to salvage. Not my greatest writing, but hopefully for some people it can open a new perspective on a classic issue.

——————-

I went to a  babysitter a few times as a child who I’ll call Melissa. I didn’t really like her too much as she just seemed angry, and I wondered why she’d decided to be a mom and a babysitter if she was constantly mad at kids for being kids. But she wasn’t abusive by any means.

    She took us to McDonalds once and I didn’t understand what I was ordering. I was used to getting chicken nuggets and wound up getting a hamburger, which is normally something kids like, but I’ve never liked hamburger for some reason and I couldn’t finish my happy meal.

    Melissa didn’t like that and tried to force me to finish my meal, and finally said that I couldn’t have my happy meal toy, a little plastic boat, which for some reason, I wanted desperately. I tried to argue, but as a little kid you just don’t have a grasp over the language, even if you understand the concepts logically that you want to communicate, and it’s harder to deal with emotions at that age, because your feelings are so foreign and powerful, so you wind up whining or crying and being difficult. To me this is perfectly normal and not a big deal. It’s just a sign that kids need to get a better grasp of the language and have more experiences to put their emotions into perspective.

    But she didn’t feel that way, so she hit me. Not hard, of course. It was just a slap to the hand, and the pain was gone within seconds, but somehow it instantaneously and permanently changed my personality.

    As I saw it, the only time you hit a person is if they have absolutely no value as a human being. The only reason you would need to go that far is if a person is so insane, so stupid, so illogical, and so completely worthless, that you simply cannot communicate with them through any kind of words, pictures or stories.

    I told Melissa that I was going to tell my parents and she insisted that they would support her decision and that I had deserved it.

    The event kept coming back to mind, and I kept wondering if I was really as worthless as Melissa had been telling me. One day my mom told me that I’d be going back to Melissa’s house and she noticed that I was very upset, and finally coaxed me into talking about what happened.

    To my relief, my mom was just as upset by the incident as I was, and immediately changed her mind about sending me there. I thankfully never saw Melissa again, and my mom explained that Melissa had been the wrong one. She was the one who was too stupid to understand how to communicate, not me.

    And my mom saying that, I believe, saved me from a very dark and depressed path that I could have taken.

 

    But here’s where it gets interesting.

    I did not stop thinking about the spanking. In fact, quite the opposite, over the weeks and months, I thought about it more and more, and in my mind, turned it into a whole ritualistic event where she had pulled my pants down, taken me over the knee and spanked me repeatedly in front of everyone in McDonald’s, instead of the quick and discreet little slap on the wrist that had stopped hurting almost before I’d had a chance to cry about it.

    And slowly, the more I thought about it, it turned from a horrifying and degrading event, into a wondrous and magical empowerment that gave me powerful and baffling emotions, but left me yearning for more. Within a few months, I was fantasizing about spankings every night, and it slowly became an obsession.

    I started scheming about how I could find another babysitter that believed in spanking… but I didn’t want the sissy little hand slap. I wanted the full on, over the knee, humiliation in front of the other kids, the kind of punishment that makes you cry and beg, the kind you still feel the next day, the kind that leaves little red spots to remind you for days afterward.

I spent many hours trying to think of ways that I could first find a babysitter like this, and second, trick my parents into sending me to her without having them find out about it. Then I would be able to just go crazy and misbehave however I wanted and would be rewarded with the most wondrous thing I could imagine, real discipline.

    But of course, I never succeeded at that.

    And I was never again spanked, and I did not figure out until I was almost twelve years old that my spanking fetish was sexual in nature. I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I had been spanked at some point after that. I usually consider my experience with Melissa to be my first sexual experience, but it was not sexual at the time, it only became so afterward. If I had been spanked again, after developing my fetish, I don’t think I can predict how I would have developed.

    Either way, I had a full-on spanking fetish by the time I was in kindergarten.

 

    My spanking fetish melded into more complex fetishes over the years, and I began to fantasize about all sorts of domination, specifically anything police related, and anything child-discipline related. I fantasized about being thrown in prison, being handcuffed, being ordered to stand in the corner or even being forced to write sentences. Sometimes when I was by myself, I’d pretend I was being punished, and I’d see how long I could stand with my nose to the wall like the teachers would do to kids at school.

    I started feeling like I was insane. All the adults everywhere spoke of prisons, spankings and other discipline as being deterrents, and implied that everyone, everywhere, sees these things as being unpleasant. I felt like an outsider to the human race, like my whole mind just ran backwards, so I hid my feelings.

    But eventually I couldn’t take the secret any more, and one day when I was ten or so, I decided to just take the leap and tell one of my friends, a kid I’ll call Jim, about all my feelings. I expected him to be shocked, to tell me I was insane, that there was something wrong with me, but I needed to tell someone, and if he ran home and told his parents and had me thrown in a mental institute, I figured I could deal with that, because it would probably be for the best.

    But Jim was not appalled by my revelation. Instead, his eyes lit up and his mouth dropped open, and he cried, “Dude, I’m the exact same way! I love spankings… My mom has this stick that she hits me with… and I know exactly what to do to get it… I like it when she hits me five times… ten’s a bit too many, but five from the stick is just right, and I’ve figured out just what to say to make her just mad enough so she hits me just as hard as I like it… it’s the most awesome thing ever… I can’t think of anything I like more than that stick hitting my bare butt.”

    And he continued on, and I started to get creeped out, as my fantasies had never involved any family members, but as he went on, talking about his own wild bondage fetishes that went beyond anything I had envisioned, I realized that I was not so crazy and abnormal after all.

 

    But part of me thought that Jim and I had been some kind of cosmic coincidence, that we were two freaks of nature who just happened to be placed on our road, and I continued feeling like an outcast and freak because of my feelings, until I was twelve years old and found some porn magazines in my grandparents attic. Most of the magazines were standard 1970’s Playboy and Penthouse, but there was one magazine called Nugget that focused on abnormal fetishes. When I found this magazine I sat down and read it nearly cover to cover.

    I haven’t looked through other issues of Nugget but this one had some rather professional sex and fetish related articles. For example, there was an article by an historian about a cult in the early 1900’s, led by a woman who believed the penis was a demon and created a wide array of creative and unintentionally erotic bondage devices for her male followers to wear to prevent them from getting erections.

    There was also an article by a psychologist, discussing the basis for sexual fetishes. He explained that most sexual fetishes are based on emotional trauma. Rape victims typically have rape fetishes, people who fear imprisonment have bondage fetishes, and of course, people who were emotionally traumatized by spankings, have spanking fetishes. He also explained that these feelings were quite common and that the vast majority of people who have them are completely unaware that they are surrounded by numerous other people with similar experiences and feelings.

    I now consider that issue of Nugget to be one of the most empowering things to happen to me in my youth. Finally I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t a freak. I could still lead a normal life. And most importantly, I knew that there were actually women out there that shared my fantasies, that I’d actually be able to have healthy relationships without hiding and shutting out my feelings.

    And it has always bothered me that the law says that I never should have had that experience. So many parents and law enforcers believe that that magazine should have been taken away from me, that sense of empowerment, of finally belonging, of finally understanding who I am, should all be taken away from me, to be replaced with the fear and loneliness of confusing and seemingly demonic sexual thoughts.

 

    Ever since then I have embraced my fetishes and sought to fulfill them in healthy and reasonable settings, and I’ve discovered numerous others who had very similar experiences as my own. Some stories I’ve heard are nearly identical, and I know now that having a full-fledged spanking, bondage, or discipline fetish by the time you’re in kindergarten is not uncommon. It’s only uncommon to talk about it.

    But having said all that, I should say that if you asked me if I would choose to take that spanking event back, to have it un-done so that it never affected my sexuality and never gave me these wild fetishes, I’d probably say no. Spankings are a wonderful and beautiful thing and I wouldn’t want to give that up.

    But I often wonder about all these parents spanking their children, still totally convinced in their simplistic, black-and-white attitudes about punishments, convinced that it’s discipline while blinding themselves to the sexuality of it and ignoring the long-term psychological consequences.

How Dan Savage Offended Me

Dan Savage is a writer for The Stranger, a local liberal Seattle newspaper and he’s kind of a champion for gay rights. Last night I went to a little voting party put on by The Stranger at a local nightclub. There were politicians trying to win our votes and Dan Savage got up and spoke a few times to the whole crowd of maybe a couple hundred people (totally guessing on numbers). Now, I support Dan Savage. Many people I respect just love him. I’ve never actually read anything he’s written, but I could probably guess that if we went down the list of political opinions, we probably agree on the vast majority of them (except when it comes to who we vote for, since I believe that the lesser of two evils is still evil.) As a bisexual I do have an interest in gay rights, so I’ve kind of got to support the local figurehead.

But Dan Savage said something that made me angry last night, and I’m not sure why I can’t get it out of my head. Mitt Romney or Ann Coulter can say offensive and insane things all day and it doesn’t bother me, but when a well-known liberal says things like this it just irks me to no end.

This is basically the quote that I’m pulling from memory as best I can: “This is [can’t recall the name]. We got married in Canada. He’s my husband in Canada where gay marriage is legal, but here in Seattle he’s my boyfriend.”

I immediately expressed my disgust at this statement to my buddy and he said something like, “Yeah, but this is a political meeting. We’re here to talk about law.”

But no, even a day later I’m still bothered by what Dan said. I still think it’s disrespectful to both his husband and marriage in general. I can only assume they discussed it first and Dan knew he would not be hurting his husband’s feelings, but still, to say in front of hundreds of people that your marriage is not actually valid simply because the government won’t recognize it is offensive to me as an anarchist and as someone who sees marriage as sacred. To say so easily and flippantly that your marriage is not actually valid is counter-productive to the gay-marriage movement because it confirms the theory that gays don’t have respect for the institute of marriage and it helps grant the government power over people’s love-lives.

If a conservative republican couple gets married in a traditional Christian wedding, then a couple years later visit an Arab nation where only traditional Muslim marriages are recognized, they aren’t going to go around telling people they’re not actually married.

If this same couple gets a call from the state and are told that they never filled out their paperwork so the marriage license never went through, they wouldn’t suddenly decide they were never really married.

If Dan Savage gets on a spaceship and flies to the moon where they don’t even have marriage, guess what? He’s still married.

Marriage is about love, commitment and your choices in life. Laws are about politics, public manipulation and money. To allow a law to dictate how you perceive your own right to love another human being just feels fundamentally wrong to me. You can argue that laws are necessary for society to function, but to allow them to dictate how you think and feel about your loved ones is not acceptable to me.

In other words, marriage always takes precedence over law. I don’t care who recognizes it. It doesn’t matter if not one nation on the planet recognizes gay marriage. If you got married, if you made that commitment, you are married. End of story. Nobody has the right to tell you otherwise.

My First Experience Being Tortured Part 2

Blood lancets

Continued from yesterday’s post. We pick up with me being tortured and beaten on an autopsy table down at the local sex club.

So there was probably some more beating with her fists and whatnot. She also busted out her homemade stun gun for a little while. It all kind of blends together for me. However, the end of the scene was the best part when she put away her other toys and said to me, “Okay, now I’m gonna make your face bloody.”

I was pretty out of it at this point. I asked if she was gonna put needles through my face and she said no, but I think I interpreted that as yes, and she told me she was only using a lancet, but for some reason I thought she was referring to the gauge of the needle. A lancet is actually one of those little things that diabetics use to prick their fingers.

So then a moment later she was standing over me with a wicked grin, her two little fingers moving rapidly, stabbing over and over and over again. At first it was no big deal and I felt all proud of myself for being able to take it, but she just kept on stabbing, probably two or three times a second, running around all over my face, taking a little extra time on my ear, and each one seemed slightly more painful than the last. This was a little harder for me as I really had to hold still through the pain to ensure she didn’t slip one in my eye.

Then she paused for a moment because the lancet was getting dull and I asked, “Am I really sweating, or is that actually blood that’s making my face feel so wet right now?”

A little stabby around my face.

“About fifty-fifty,” she said.

“Holy shit… how many times did you just stab me?”

“Weren’t you keeping count?”

“Oh, yeah, like I can really count right now,” I said.

Now, I should note that we didn’t have any DS protocols going on or anything. There wasn’t really a safeword but if I needed her to stop I could just say so. She set the scene up so we were normal people, one just happened to be torturing the other, as opposed to the domination/submission dynamic that most people recognize from BDSM, so it wasn’t disrespectful for me to joke around like that. And speaking of respect, I feel bad calling this person “she”, because she prefers “they”, as she doesn’t entirely identify as female, but I felt that would be confusing to my more vanilla readers, so I’m sorry about that. The english language seriously needs some singular gender-neutral pronouns. (This is gonna become a serious problem when robots start acting like people.)

She liked how the blood pooled in my ear.

Anyway… she went back to stabbing me in the face with a new lancet and I started counting, but made it only to about six or seven before giving up. She of course, continued on until I was screaming and the new lancet was too dull to reasonably continue.

And that was it. She let me sit up, but didn’t want me to get down right away, not trusting me to stand safely. Then I noticed a spot on my nose and focused, crossing my eyes, and there was a big, blurry drop of blood right on the tip of my nose. For some reason up until this point I thought she’d been joking about making my face bloody. I’m not sure why. I’ve always been squeamish about my own blood, so perhaps it was some weird psychological response, spurred on by the endorphins, to hide from the reality of what I was doing.

She let me sit for a few minutes to make sure I wasn’t going to puke or faint or anything, then helped me down from the table so I could look at my face in the mirror… and found the image rather shocking. Blood-play had always kind of been on my no-list, but here I was loving the image of my bloody face.

So she had me get back up on the autopsy table and ran off to get the special permission necessary to snap photos. Thankfully we were in an adjacent room rather than in the main space so we could close the door (some people are crazy-paranoid that someone will find out they go to a sex club… like crazy over-the-top paranoid so the club must be very strict about cameras and cell phones.)

She cleaned me up and then sat with me for an hour or two on one of the couches in the main space before I got up and limped home.

That night I noticed I wasn’t in nearly as much pain as I expected, though it was definitely notable. However, when I tried to climb up into my bed, my left leg just kinda stopped working for a bit and I really had to struggle.

The next day I rode the bus to work. I normally walk, but my leg was not in a condition for an hour walk today. As I was waiting for the bus I was browsing Twitter and someone had tweeted about donating blood. So I felt squeamish and guilty as I always do when thinking of donating blood, as it’s something I’ve always felt bad for not doing… just the thought of someone sticking a needle in me then making me sit there as they suck my blood just makes me sick. They take more blood from you than the most hard-core blood players in BDSM then they offer little to no aftercare, certainly not sitting with you for an hour to make sure you’re okay. They give you a cookie then kick you to the curb. I’m not even sure if they make sure you’re not driving. (What little research we have about BDSM suggests that the most dangerous aspect of what we do is the drive home afterward because cars are dangerous to begin with, plus when you’re in an altered psychological state, driving probably isn’t the best thing.)

But the thought wasn’t quite so sickening, and for the first time in my life I felt like I could actually work up the nerve to donate blood. I still want to do a few more needle scenes first, as donating blood is way more hard-core than anything I did that night, but I think I can actually use these kind of experiences to make it easier for me. So within a mere 12 hours of playing I already started to see positive psychological effects.

It always seems like I find myself more appreciative of the things I have in my life after these kinds of sessions. I feel sometimes like there’s a drawback to proper life-management. Life in America is so easy, but for some reason everyone is tricked into thinking it’s hard, because we forget about how people in the past or people in other parts of the world might be suffering, and instead our own stupid little problems seem so meaningful. But those of us who see through that and have an easy time gaining success in life… we’re missing something, like a sense of hardship. It’s not healthy to live a pampered, stress-free, luxurious life 24/7, so we need to supplement our lives with pain and hardship because we don’t get it naturally. Talk about first-world problems, huh?

My First Experience Being Tortured part 1

So a couple weeks ago I mentioned that I had volunteered as the demonstration model (“stunt bottom” as they call it) for a punching and slapping class. That went well. The instructor started off by asking what she could do to me with her hands, so someone shouted “stick your finger up his nose!” and of course, everyone agreed, so she shrugged, grabbed my head and jammed her finger up my nose.

After washing her hands, she came back to demonstrate all the punching, slapping, poking, grabbing and pressure points. I have a tendency to scream, yelp, growl, grimace and shake. I’ve learned that when I’m in pain, everyone knows I’m in pain. This is totally opposite to my other emotions, which for some reason my voice and body don’t want to communicate. It’s like when I’m in extreme pain, I can finally be myself and my body stops worrying about all the garbage in the world and what people think of me and just focuses on the moment and does what comes natural.

So anyway, everyone liked watching my reactions, so the instructor agreed to do a real scene with me the following Monday, Columbus Day. I told her I was probably up for whatever she had in mind, so she replied by saying “Okay, there’s gonna be some needles and some other stuff.”

So I showed up on Monday and she had me strip down and get up on the autopsy table they have down at the sex club. (Apparently it’s a genuine autopsy table donated from a local morgue.) Then she started pulling implements out of her bag: a strip of truck tire, two rubber mallets (can’t remember if she was worried she’d break one on my ass or wanted to beat me two-handed), a regular stun-gun, another stun-gun she’d built herself (cuz the real one wasn’t strong enough), a police baton, and a box of needles and the safety gloves and sanitation stuff that go with them. Naturally she took her time to build tension.

She started off by sticking four needles in my arm. Oddly, this didn’t hurt too much as they were the smallest gauge needle you can find. But then she took two larger needles and threaded them through the other four. That was notably more painful, particularly when she started poking at it.

Then she told me she wanted to stick a needle under my fingernail and let me choose the finger so I picked my left forefinger without thinking about it. So she carefully stuck this needle in there and I closed my eyes and gripped the other side of the autopsy table. I glanced down at it once or twice, then went back to cringing and hiding from it. She flicked the needle up and down, just playing with it, but when she flicked it side-to-side, that hurt a whole lot more, so naturally she preferred that. (Everyone reacts differently to different types of pain so that’s some of the fun for these sadistic types is experimenting on people and figuring out what gets to them and what doesn’t.)

When she was done playing with it, she said, “Take a look at it.”

“Yeah, I saw it,” I said, preferring to hide.

“No. Look at it,” she said.

So I looked closer and saw through the fingernail, the needle sitting just underneath, shoved almost to the cuticle.

I started getting a little silly at this point and don’t really remember the exact progression of events. I remember her hitting me with the mallet(s), the strip of tire, and she may have had a wooden paddle or something. It’s a little fuzzy at this point. I think she also beat the bottom of my foot at one point, with a stick or something. I kept squirming and trying to get away as she didn’t have me restrained, but every time I got moved, my legs repeatedly climbing the wall, she’d always find another spot to beat. I remember my screams and grunts getting louder and louder, but she just wouldn’t stop beating on me, so I think twice I finally had to make her stop, and several other times she stopped on her own, and each time it would be pretty awful when she was hitting me, and I would wonder why the fuck I’d signed up for this, but the moment it stopped, the whole situation became hilarious and I’d find myself giggling and praying that she wasn’t gonna let me have too much of a break.

At some point she reminded me that I still had a needle sticking out from under my fingernail and that I needed to be careful not to jam it down deep with my flailing. I told her I would be sure not to do any typing until she removed it. A while later she took it out, worried that I just wasn’t paying close enough attention. I don’t recall at what point she removed the six needles from my arm.

She brought out the stun-gun and of course taunted me with it for a couple minutes. It’s a pretty intimidating little device, but when she finally hit me with it, it didn’t seem like such a big deal. When she continued zapping me, over and over again, it got a bit worse. My main thought on this is how can these things be sold under the guise of self-defense? I can’t imagine one of these things actually stopping an attacker.

Then she wanted me to stick my tongue in it. She could have just grabbed my tongue and zapped it herself and we could have been done with it but no, she wanted me to do it myself, so I debated in my head, well, that’s electricity really near my brain… but she probably knows what she’s doing… probably… so I tried to force myself to do it but in the end I just couldn’t. Maybe next time… after I Google the effects of stun guns to the face.

To be continued tomorrow…

the good and bloody parts are coming in the next post 🙂… and pictures.

Why? by Bob Flanagan

I decided to abandon my microblog on KalinBooks and am now just showing all my little web links on the main page rather than separating them.

So this is my first video posting that otherwise would have been microblog material. Note: this is not safe for work.

I am thinking about adding a sex and BDSM category to this website. In the past I’ve avoided talking about these things because I didn’t want the strangeness of my sex life to get in the way of my expression of anarchism or atheism.

The problem is that for me, BDSM and anarchism are directly related. People are self-abusive by nature, but nobody seems to realize it, even when someone’s life spirals out of control people always try to chalk it up to bad luck or external circumstances, other than the idea that they are sabotoging themselves because they are not getting enough intensity in their regular lives. For some reason, when a criminal keeps getting busted, everyone just assumes he’s an idiot, rather than considering the possibility that he needs the excitement and adrenaline that comes from being arrested, and is deliberately, if subconsciously, seeking it out.

So I identify with this poem. I find it strangely empowering. I am one of these people who can’t live a normal, passive, comfortable existence. I need something more…

So this weekend I’m spending 16 hours and $800 learning how to tie people up and hang them from the ceiling. Thanks Max’s Bondage Intensive!

On Tuesday I’m attending a punching class and I volunteered to be the demonstration model. Apparently I’m going to be getting naked and the teacher is going to draw all over me to show locations that are “safe” to punch. Then she is going to punch those areas.

These are the things I’m getting into lately… why? For a lot of the reasons listed in this video.

314 Clothespins

Last week I let a guy put a total of 314 clothespins on me, then rip them off. It took maybe an hour to apply them, then maybe ten of the most painful minutes to rip them off.

This may have been the most painful experience of my life, depending on your definition of pain. If you define pain as unpleasant, inherently unhappy, then this definitely would not qualify, as I never found myself unhappy throughout the experience. If you define pain as merely the physical sensation on your flesh, then this was probably close to if not the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced.

This happened down at the local sex-positive club with maybe twenty to thirty people watching. To have that many people watching me, butt naked, go through something that intense was surreal, and possibly one of my favorite aspects.

When they first started going on they hurt a lot more than I expected. I’d tested them earlier and it was no big deal, but when they are placed right next to each other on sensitive areas, it’s a little more intense. At first I didn’t think I’d make it very far, but I pushed through it and felt the endorphins that didn’t numb the pain, but made it manageable by helping me see the humor and bringing me this odd sense of comfort. It became almost a meditative sensation.

The pain would subside to tolerable levels after each one had been on a few minutes. After a while I just lay there in a daze until he got down to my thighs. For some reason those hurt notably worse than the others and I found myself jumping more and waking up from my trance.

This is me, covered in 314 clothespins.

My arms were going steadily more tingly, and was becoming very unpleasant. I wasn’t tied down or anything so I could move my arms, but not enough to actually give me much relief. He finally decided he was done, not wanting to do any damage to my arms, and because I was running short on loose skin. Then he disappeared, which I hoped would happen, as my original plan had been to get up and hide from him at this point, running around the sex club yelling at him to try to catch me, with all these clothespins hanging off me. I told this to the guy watching over me and if I remember correctly (my memory is a little fuzzy) he offered to help me off the table and even hide me. That was not even a possibility for me though as I was so high and in so much pain I couldn’t even think about moving.

Then people started gathering around, as my top must have been out rounding them up to watch the show. He came back and started ripping the strips off. I think he was usually grabbing the strings on either end of each strip and just yanking them off in one pull. Oh, Lord, did I scream, alternating between open screaming and biting into my pillow. He gave me rests between each one, where I could look out at the faces of the crowd, (noting the beautiful naked lady right up front) and do my best to crack decent jokes about my situation. It was pretty surreal to have twenty strangers watching me, butt naked, in such a vulnerable and emotionally intense situation, but I was more than happy they were there.

He waited to do my legs last, laughing at how openly terrified I was, then finally ripping both the strips, from my thighs to my ankles, in one quick pull, which was most likely the singular most physically painful moment of my life.

Then the pain rapidly subsided over the next few minutes, to replaced with a dull ache, running in lines up my body. In the end, the whole event took about an hour and a half. My mild altered reality and the sense of deep comfort continued for an hour or so afterward.

So…

When I tell stories like this I usually get one of two reactions. The first and most common is something that amounts to “holy crap, that’s awesome.” The other, of course, is “holy crap, you’re insane. Why would you do that to yourself?”

So to answer, I would say that yes, it is pretty awesome… if you choose to see it that way. Is it insane? Well, if you take the classic definition of “doing the same thing but expecting different results”, insane doesn’t apply, as I was well aware that I was going to be in a lot of pain and I wouldn’t expect anything different the next time. Insane in terms of risk? I doubt there’s any real risk of nerve damage or anything.

So why do it?

The spectators were a happy bonus. It was nice to know I put on such a show that they all stood there in awe, but I didn’t know if anyone would be watching when I agreed to this so that had nothing to do with it.

The real reason was self-exploration. Yes it was at a sex club, I was butt naked, and it was likely a different story for the guy applying them but for me there was nothing sexual about this. I used to think these kinds of things had to be a turn-on in order to appreciate them, but I find now that’s not true. I posted another image of this to Facebook and one of my Christian friends posted this: “What can you know of yourself if you don’t know how you respond to pain?” which I think sums up my reasoning.

The marks left shortly after the clothespins were removed
The Aftermath. This is maybe ten minutes after. They were quite pronounced a few hours later, but the marks were nearly gone by the morning.

A huge part is about understanding pain, learning to control it, and to deal with it. I’ve never been in any truly painful situations in my life. How do I know how I’ll react if I sustain a serious injury? Would a painful injury effect me emotionally? How would I deal with that? These are important questions to ask yourself and I decided to just go one step further and experiment a little.

The same can be said about other aspects. Being naked and vulnerable in front of people I don’t really know, it’s shock therapy in a sense, forcing me to become more comfortable with being in difficult situations. It’s important to have the courage to place yourself in painful or humiliating situations in the real world, when it becomes apparent that it’s in your best interest, and this is excellent practice.

Another reason is to gain a little empathy for others who may be in legitimate pain. For someone like me who has never dealt with much pain in my life, this can be help me understand.

I also feel like there’s a chemical imbalance in our brains these days as a result of our sanitized and safety-obsessed society. We need a little danger to be emotionally healthy. Our brains were not designed to live in comfort and safety for our entire lives. Our minds and souls were designed to live through gritty, brutal and animalistic experiences. Fortunately we can reduce those real-world experiences, but we need to supplement those in a safe and consensual environment, otherwise, our core instincts may get the better of us and present themselves in much more destructive ways.

Beyond that, it’s just a fun experience and a cool story to tell.