Sadism is such an interesting art.  I believe there are those who play the role of sadist.  I suspect there may be a number of different reasons for them doing so.  But ultimately, their decision to ”be” a sadist is driven by external factors. 

The difference in a true sadist, I believe, is that they are driven primarily from internal factors.  They  do it for themselves, first and foremost.  They do it because it interests them.  They do it because of a need that lives in the very fibre of their being.  Andrea describes it as the “beast within” in her post on sadism.

I am not trying to be judgemental here. It just seems that when you see a true sadist working, their soul seems to be feeding from the pain and torment of their sub. You can see it in their eyes. It is not simply about inflicting physical pain that excites them. It is more about the emotional torture they are causing. They are more interested in their partners eyes, than the marks they may be leaving on the broken body of their victim. To keep it legal here, a consenting victim, of course.

For a masochist like me, I imagine to really experience a sadist, you must allow yourself to be a victim. You cannot approach a sadist with a list of do’s and don’ts. Please understand, I think limits and safety are paramount in BDSM scenes. But you will never experience the sadist, if you impose such boundaries. A sub must place their trust in the sadist. And oh, it is a beautiful thing to see a sadist feeding on the tormented soul of a willing partner.

I cannot imagine what it must be like for the masochist to place their well-being at the hands of another. I am not sure I am ready at this time in my life, but one day hope to experience what it is like to be at the mercy of a sadist. To be broken. To feel the sadist feeding on my soul.

I recall when I was quite young, maybe six years old.  I lived in a small city in Eastern Canada.  One afternoon, several of the older kids started rounding up the neighbourhood kids and ‘locking’ them under the veranda of the house in which one of the boys lived.  Now let me describe our prison in more detail.  It was a large Victorian style home, and the clearance under the veranda was at least six feet.  Both ends had been closed off with wooden lattice, and on one end a doorway allowed access.  Of course, it was locked with a padlock.

So here were many of the neighbourhood kids, imprisoned under the veranda of the houses on our street.  I was overcome, I guess with fear.  I can’t say that I remember the emotion that well, but I do remember crying my eyes out.  And I recall one of the gatherers appearing quite pleased that he had made me cry.  I hated him at that time, but today, I wonder if he grew up to be a sadist.

Years would pass, and I became more comfortable with my feelings, but still kept them to myself.  As a young adult, I was able to read and learn more about BDSM.  This was definitely where I belonged.  But I never shared my feelings with my wife until last year.  That has opened up my world, but that is another story.  In fact, another blog for those interested: blackroseforever.wordpress.com.

Prior to sharing with my wife, I had a few encounters with BDSM.  They made me feel alive.  I knew this was a part of my life that was missing in everyday living.  Of course, that has changed.  This past year, I have been able to read and share openly with my wife.  I have a renewed interest in tracing my masochism: why am I this way?  I am not trying to chaange who I am.  I am just naturally curious.

I have the same curiosity about sadists.  How did they become this way?  What makes them derive pleasure from the pain of others?  I find my appetite for reading about sadists insatiable.  Every piece I can find, I read with passion.

Long live the Riddler!