I’m going on retreat for the weekend and will be sitting in a lovely white- painted room full of Buddhas, trying to meditate and be serene and not spend hours on end thinking about fucking. And here’s how good I am at this- I once spent probably 32 minutes of a 40 minute sit thinking about fisting in enormously graphic detail, only to finish in hysterics when it came to me that what I’d just done was not so much Mindfulness of Breathing as Mindfulness of Fisting.
I’m a pretty shit Buddhist, really. I distract myself from the discomforts of reality constantly: I use Netflix, Tumblr, flirting with men, fretting about my hair, sugar- free biscuits, loud music… I am very rarely entirely in the moment, entirely engaged with sounds and physical feelings and surroundings. When I’m writing, sometimes. But otherwise it pretty much never happens.
Except when I’m waiting for the cane to fall, except when I feel rope tightening on my skin, except when I kneel and smile and open my mouth. Except for then, when there’s nothing else happening and I can smell every molecule, feel the oxygen entering my lungs and the air on my skin. Then I’m completely there. And I’m not alone in this. It’s kinda why most of us do this to one degree or another.
The problem for a kinky Buddhist, however, is that this stuff is based entirely in craving. Cravings for sense pleasures, primarily. I don’t have any problem parsing the idea that ethically a Buddhist should not harm another creature or cause another creature to be harmed- I am not harmed by impact play, I am hurt, and there is a difference semantically and practically.
I can also tell myself that in a way playing with humiliation is useful to my practise, as it shows me that so much of the shame and sadness I have in the past moderated my behaviour to avoid is a creation of my own mind. That yes, the human experience is primarily characterised by discomfort and suffering, but that a lot of the time that suffering isn’t what we think it is: it’s completely imaginary or it’s actually pleasurable as well as painful…
It’s all craving though. Craving a cock in my mouth, a hand between my legs, craving praise or welts or lying face down on a bed absorbing the joys of a silenced brain and a shouting cunt… it’s all just craving, desiring to feel differently from how I’m currently feeling. On one level I’m happy when I’m being fucked and used and hurt and I’m less so when I’m not. And I don’t really know what to do about that.