100% Genuine Artificial Vanilla Extract

This past weekend I had an interesting insight into how I process pain.  I was having knives run over me by two lovely women. They were playing an interesting game of "find the buttons on Victor’s body" (most of mine seem fairly obvious and close to bones - there a couple that are dramatically more effective than others, though) when one then raked my torso with her nails. Raked might not be the best word, it may have been a bit more of a digging into the flesh and pulling.

It hurt.  A lot. It hurt in a way that made me scream ow, and flinch in the ropes. It made me unhappy.

I like sensation. A lot. It makes me happy, and makes me exclaim noises that seem to amuse those who enjoy making me make noises. This applies on both sides of my switchiness, as I also like making others exclaim those noises as well.

I am not a masochist.

I know masochists, I have played with masochists, and let me tell you, I am no masochist. (Nor am I an algophiliac.)

She apologized, and going back to knives I started to feel overstimulated. At least I thought that at the time, and asked for no more than 10 minutes; but in retrospect it was not so much overstimulation as the way I was processing the knives changed. My tormentors agreed to 10 minutes, intending to take full measure of that time, and then about 30 seconds later, I got bit, hard, in the leg. This was also Unpleasant Hurt.

I reacted badly. 

I kneed the biter in the head.

I was tied, so got no solid contact. But that was it and I wanted out. I normally like being bitten. Or rather, I like having been bitten, especially big meaty bites like that. (I tend to like the after effects of having been bitten more than the being bitten itself - this is similar to how I like being pierced.) But while usually bites are a good thing, and indeed I have a run of pretty bite marks down my back from that evening - this was simply intolerable.

I can only chalk it up to something about the way I process pain. It seems pain is like a menu of flavours, and some go together in my head and some don’t. Knife on top of piercings? - A fine match of strong red with a full-flavoured main course. Biting on top of knifing? - Chocolate milk poured in my soup.  

As I said, I am neither an algophiliac nor a masochist. I don’t process pain as pleasure and hurting me doesn’t want to make me fuck you. (It doesn’t mean I won’t want to fuck you afterwards, but it isn’t a button that makes me "hot".) That wasn’t new for me.

What was new was learning I combine different pains differently. Interestingly, I have heard (and have played with bottoms for whom this is true) that switching a sensation helps some people process better, shifting from one type of pain to another prevents them from being overstimulated.  This was specifically mentione for sting and thud.  Since it has been a long time since I was hit, I really don’t know how that would work on me. Perhaps sting/thud go together well in my case. But knife/bite didn’t. Really didn’t. It is something I am going to have to remember to keep in mind next time I am topping someone.

Of course, I shouldn’t assume everyone is wired the way I am, as I know some who a bite after that would be bliss. Indeed, assuming people are wired the way you are is almost invariably a recipe for disaster. And maybe another day in another way that combo would work. But it certainly seems that this weekend I am not someone who likes different styles of pain layered on top of other pain.

 It was years before I ever accepted the label of kinky. Partially, this may have been due to my dislike of labels in general. Like others, I am not overly fond of being pigeon-holed into a box. Labels are useful heuristics, and a good quick first sketch of things you might want to know about someone, but they far too easily become striaghtjackets. There is no label that doesn’t carry with it excess baggage. No one is captured completely by a label, and most of us bristle when people assume all kinds of incorrect details from a label we have presented. But that’s normal enough.

 Years ago, not long after losing my virginity, I went to a panel on polyamoury at (where else) a science fiction convention. It was a thrown-together thing; the panel had been a last minute suggestion and they had then lost the room, so a number of speakers took it upon themselves to commandeer a side lobby, round up some chairs, and host a panel of just themselves. Intrigued, I offered to go as the token white, male, heterosexual, vanilla monogamist.

 An old friend of mine objected immediately. Having met the woman who took my virginity, he insisted I no longer qualified as vanilla. I argued back that we had done very little that qualified as kinky.

 "No." He said. "I know you like to think the universe revolves around you, but it doesn’t. Everything that you do that you like does not then become vanilla and mainstream by default. That’s not how it works."

 The argument continued until his fiance offered up the diplomatic solution of calling me 100% artificial vanilla extract, "he tastes just like the real thing".

 The "vanilla argument" is now a staple my friend and I trot out occasionally for laughs.

 The real reason I didn’t accept kinky for a long time had to do more with its use as a political or community identified by the kinksters I knew. For them, kink was an identity, a lifestyle, a core part of their sexuality. For me, it was another set of toys in the toybox of what might be fun playtime with a lover. Due largely to my first girlfriend, I saw very little line between "pistachio" and "vanilla". It was (and still is to me) all ice cream. My first lover drilled into me that PIV intercourse was by no means the definition of sex. There was no line between one and the other, and so I tended not to draw one.

 While I can be argued into agreeing there is some kind of continuum that runs from "vanilla" to "kinky", I really don’t know where to arbitrarily draw the vanilla line. I think what constitutes vanilla has changed and slid and altered over time. At a gathering in San Francisco in early 2006, I recall a number of people discussing how Tristan Taormino had opined that "breath play was the new buttsex" - anal had gone vanilla enough that no one considered it kink anymore.

 It all seems rather silly to me. I am the last person in the world to say I have a good definition of sex, or kink, or any of it, but I truly think the line between kink and vanilla is nowhere near as bright and shiny as some people like to think it is. Considering traditional heterosexual marriage is about as good an example of a D/s relationship as you can find, only without properly negotiated consent - what is the line? (Go look at some of the "submissive wives" movement. Here are a few links.)
 
 So while I will happily accept the label kinky, I prefer to say that I do kinky things. I doubt I would be seriously unhappy with someone who prefers vanilla sex. When I bother to define myself I define myself as a switch, but really it just comes down to "I do things with my lovers that we both like", and that can take many forms - it depends on the relationship. The dynamic running between me and whoever my playmate(s) is tends to define what goes on.

 In the end, I just enjoy sharing ice cream with people I like.