Leigh Cowart - Hurts So Good: The Science and Culture of Pain on Purpose

W E HAVE COMPANY COMING OVER. W ED BETTER GET OUT TO THE SHED now.

Earlier today, I had been crying in the parking lot of a fabric store, my slide into the familiar despondency of seasonal depression proceeding apace, but at this moment I am pert and excited. I follow him barefoot on a worn path through the long, wet grass in his yard. Hes been running space heaters in the outbuilding of his house in preparation for our time there: a touching gesture, but a tease nonetheless. He knows how much I hate the cold, and seeing as were standing here because Ive asked him to do terrible things to me, the ominous fact that I am getting the niceties of warmth has not gone unnoticed.

I have no idea what Im in for, other than it will hurt. I twist my feet together. Hes jovial; Im chirpy. Weve had a sweet date involving poorly prepared German takeout with his mother, followed by boozy coffee drinks at a red-lit hole-in-the-wall cocktail bar down by the river. My skin is already feeling a little warm and soupy from the bowl I smoked in the kitchen. He unzips my dress. I step out of the black, low-cut scrap of fabric, and he gently removes my glasses and bra. My panties stay on because they are precisely the size of a postage stamp. Its the little things, you see.

Im blindfolded and lying on an antique gynecological exam table, my feet corralled in the menacing chill of wrought-iron stirrups. Im tied down to the table at the neck and under my breasts. Straining against these ropes makes me feel panicky and air hungry, so I work on my breathing exercises while he slips industrial rubber bands onto my arms and legs. My breath is already shallow, fast; I feel light-headed with anticipation. Right now, the adrenaline is from the dread, and theres a lot of it. He cultivates this feeling, a gifted curator of my experience.

He begins to snap the rubber bands. Right upper thigh near the hip. Left inner thigh near the panties. Outside of the legs, the sides of my arms. The seams of me. I start out okay, on top of the cresting waves of sensation, but soon I succumb to the reality of the pain. Early whimpering ends in a shriek, and he binds my hands with zip ties. Im moving too much.

Now he really gets going. The rubber bands bite hard; Im seeing orange and white in the backs of my eyelids. Theres one spot on my arm that gets it bad, and every time he snaps it again, I make a pitiful sound, as if hearing my voice crack when I oscillate between endurable erotic pain and actual physical agony isnt exactly what I asked for. That arm will have some purple tomorrow.

The moment fills my brain in a singular way: like if you could inflate a balloon inside my skull and make it fill the whole area, and the only thing in that balloon was just that one thing. When was the last time you were thinking and feeling one exact thing? Just one fucking thing.

Just.

One.