OR Ruminating on How I Feel While I’m Getting Hit by Hot Men
Been a while, hasn’t it? Yeah, I know, I don’t write nearly as often as I probably should, but I digress.
I just spent the past week engaging in probably one of the best overall weeks of my life, a mental reset I desperately needed (if my online presence over the past few months is any indication). As the event drop slowly sets in, I wanted to take some time to digest it all in one of my favorite ways: word vomiting onto the internet. But, hear me out, I have no intention of this being your standard “TNS feels bad about himself” fare, although admittedly there might be a dash of it by nature of my tendency to get a bit intensely personal. Needless to say, this experience has been eye-opening for me, and I thought it fit to share that here. But first, some context.
Black is one of the two hanky colors I flag the most often. For those that are unfamiliar, your typical hanky code guide will designate black as signaling “Heavy S/M,” short for sadism and masochism. Aforementioned guides don’t really dive into exactly what that entails, as unlike other colors, like, say, white or light blue (consider that a homework assignment for the curious,) SM is a pretty broad spectrum in my opinion. In short, SM is about pain: inflicting it and taking it in various ways. I personally categorize everything from paddles and clothespins to floggers and single-tails under this banner, and I can say I’ve experienced a fair bit since coming out. Admittedly, it’s not something I sought out at first; rather, it slowly crept onto me. What started as hookups having floggers at their place and casually asking if I wanted to try it has turned into moments where I’ve trusted others with my body and mind in profound ways, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
I don’t “get off” on pain, at least in what I presume most think of as traditional “getting off.” In fact, I don’t know very many, if any, that do. But it’s a... different kind of rejuvenation. Think more along the lines of that refreshed feeling you get after a workout, or a “runner’s high,” but significantly more intense. The endorphins your body naturally produces when it’s stressed or in pain build and build and build until they completely overwhelm you. But again, we’ll get to that.
Yet the title of this article is “On Headspace,” so I guess I should finally elaborate on what that means. When I surrender myself to someone else’s hand, my brain sinks and settles into this… pocket of sorts. The rest of the world melts away, and I hone in on sensation. And this past week, I finally found a way to describe this space of mine. Everyone is different, we all handle pain in our own way, and obviously, a day-to-day injury is not the same as this. Hell, even in the Leather world, there’s a wide variance between your average dungeon space and events like these that attract Leathermen from all over the world, but anyway. Regardless, in these vulnerable moments, particularly at an event like the one I just attended, I find my imposter syndrome “hulking out,” in a way.
There’s that damn phrase again. “Imposter syndrome.” That’s what drives me. Let’s vamp on that for a bit, shall we?
Like I said, I don’t get off on pain. But in instances like this past week, where I’m surrounded by some of the most talented Leathermen in the world, it’s hard not to feel like you have something to prove. This opportunity was exclusive by design; someone has to see something in you that deems you worthy of being welcomed into this space. However, I’ve always felt that while talk isn’t necessarily cheap, it certainly doesn’t have as much value as action. I’m young and green, and when time and tenure are the ultimate forms of proof, there comes a moment where you feel the need to saddle up and show this world why you’re here. To prove your invitation into this space wasn’t a mistake. And so I present my body like a canvas, and let artists paint upon its surface.
Alright, tangent over. Let’s tackle the other half of that description.
When I say I “hulk out,” I mean it. I growl, my eyes get intense, a fire builds in me that tells me to keep going, to keep pushing myself, fueled by knowing the man at the other end of whatever implement is involved is pleased at my performance, my willpower, my hustle. And getting closer to my breaking point only intensifies these feelings; I get louder, growls turn to screams, my body shakes, my hands and feet go numb. And then, I shatter.
I’m an emotional guy by nature. Always have been. I gave up on the “men don’t cry” nonsense long before I came into this world of hypermasculine manly-men. But there are few words to adequately describe the deluge. I’ve likened it to that of a religious experience, the kind that fundamentally changes you as a person. Knowing what I’ve been able to do, but so undeniably overwhelmed in the moment. I crumple in their arms, soak their shoulder in my tears as I completely let go. It’s cathartic, in a way, knowing that this world welcomes this, that breaking is… beautiful.
I’ve never read The Secret History, but there are a few passages that have really put a lot of these feelings in context for me. That there’s an inherent terror in the beautiful that causes us to “quiver before it.” It’s “rarely soft or consolatory... [and] is always quite alarming.” And it’s true, isn’t it? There’s something terrifying about the vulnerability required to put yourself at mercy in this way. But also... powerful.
On the very last night, I got up to the cross in need. A need to punctuate the week leading up to this moment, a sort of definite proof, if not for the rest of the world (even if I may not always be convinced), for me. And the man who would guide me down this path was no stranger. He was the man who brought me here. My shepherd, of sorts; the whole reason I found this part of myself. And so, as he had done with me time and time before, he got to work. It was slow at first, my mind nestling into that familiar headspace, and his movements guiding mine with a deliberate control of tempo. And at some point, likely about three-quarters of the way through, I remember looking down at myself, the fact that I was still standing, after putting my body through hell over and over again, constantly chasing these endorphin highs and the catharsis that followed, I felt... power. This was different than your standard moments of surging self-confidence, and yet even now, for all my verboseness and constant googling for synonyms, there are no words that can truly recount this feeling. And as this dawned on me, he ramped up the intensity. Every strike elicited pained cries; my body writhed, my breathing grew erratic. He stopped holding back; in return, so did I. Whatever bravado I could muster up until this point fractured, and I finally let go. He slowly pulled me into his arms, and I felt the world begin to shift for just a moment as I conditioned the shoulder of his vest with my tears in a torrential downpour. And he held me there, for as long as I needed, for as long as both of us needed, really, his grip around my body keeping me afloat.
The word “brotherhood” is often used in this world, one that binds our lived experiences together (pun very much intended) as gay men who dabble in the taboo. I’m not afraid to say I’m often skeptical of powerful words like these. But every time I slowly drift back down to earth as the endorphins subside, I can feel my fingers grazing that brotherhood I hear so much about, and sometimes I can even roll it in the palm of my hand. It’s rough, imperfect, and yet nonetheless beautiful.
It’s beautiful.
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