I have this lovely little buddy icon of this pretty boy on the floor, leaning back wearing a sweater jacket that reads, “Protect me from the things I want.” I love that icon because the boy looks so sultry and so vulnerable and so seductive and so helpless all at the same time. I want to be that boy. (I also want that boy, but that’s another entry entirely.)

Why is it that I want the things I don’t want to actually happen to me. And do I really want them to happen to me for real or do I just like the threat of them happening?

Mean things. (Backhand me.) Deadly things. (Suffocate me.) Bloody things. (Stab me.) Things I just don’t like. (Bite me.) I fantasize about having all of these things done to me. In some cases there’s a part of me that really wants it to happen because I think I’d enjoy it. I’ve had too many fond experiences with pain to feel bad about liking that so much.

And then there are the things I’m not really eager to have happen, but I’m so nervous or frightened about them happening that a part of me wants them to happen just to get them over with. And hell, being nervous and frightened is kind of fun too. And there are the things I just don’t get off to, but I know my top likes so what the hell. I like getting my top off—doesn’t quite matter how they like as much as I like doing it.

But then there are the things that, no, I really don’t want them to happen and if you do them to me I’ll fight and scream and cry and beg you to stop. And those are the things I want to have happen because I love the fighting, the screaming, the crying, the begging, but most of all the very fact that I’m not enjoying myself. I won’t like it when you do it, but I’ll love that you did it. It probably won’t turn me on while it’s happening (though it might), but I’ll masturbate to the memories of it later. And oh, it’ll be good.

I do want to be tortured. I don’t want to be tortured, but I want it. I have no idea how to explain that in simpler terms because everything else about this fact in my head is just circular logic. But y’know, a lot of things about submissiveness and masochism is pretty paradoxical.

Take orgasm denial, for instance. A classic example to be sure, but an appropriate example nonetheless. The wanting to orgasm is what gets me all hot and bothered. Once I’ve come, well sure I’m enjoying it, but all the goodness of wanting that orgasm is sated and the replacement satisfaction just isn’t the same. It’s the same with the death fantasy. Dying is pretty awful but, for me, it’s only awful because once I’m dead I can’t be bothered to care about the dying anymore. It’s like, “Oh look. Here’s death. Well, the dying was fun while it lasted. So…what’s the weather like in hell these days?” See? Not hot.

I want what I don’t want because I don’t want it, but I also want my top to want it. It’s similarly not hot if I’m being pierced by someone who doesn’t enjoy piercing me. The reason I do it with Eileen, despite my preference not to actually be poked with sharp things more than necessary, is because she has a great time with it. Back to the getting my top off bit again. Yes, I know I’m a total whore.

Is this service? If so, then could I conceptually extend the service theory to the point of torture, or death? And now that I’m thinking about it, doesn’t that sound a lot like some very well-known cultural and religious imagery? How many times have I been reffered to as Jesus on the cross when I’ve been whipped in a public setting? (I bet my hair doesn’t help avoid the analogy, but still.) Martyrdom is hot for tops, I guess. It’s not the martyrdom that turns me on though, it’s the suffering. Martyrs who don’t want to be martyrs.

Make me suffer. Please.