As a masochist myself, most BDSM (and kinkster stuff in general) comes across as unappealingly mean-spirited. It lacks an understanding of what actually makes pain erotic. I found myself aroused by the concepts presented, but disappointed at the whole. I finally found what I was looking for in gay fetish art communities (where else, honestly). I look through art that depicts pup play, latex gas mask drones, knots and whips. But throughout all of it, there is deep love and humanity. They draw the same pups, drowning in sweaty gym socks and cocks locked in cages, undonning their masks to enjoy some water and chips after a session, cleaning their gear in the kitchen sink after dinner. Not just acknowledging, but embracing how campy and weird and funny what they do is, and how much they love it. To me at least, these weirdos art about getting hypnoed by someones feet closer to intimacy than the entirety of pornography. I saw how a women orgasmed under my tongue, how her eyes rolled back and her cunt pressed as hard as she could manage, so pitiable in it's humanity, into the space in my jaw, the thick saliva of my drooling mouth. Looking back, it reminds me of a crochet project I had been working on at the same time. I had gotten about half way through a blanket, and realized with horror that I had been missing stitches for the last three hours. So, with great sadness, I carefully unraveled it, knot by knot, around my hand. The resulting yarn ball was not at all like it was when I bought it. But I was pleasantly surprised that the yarn, having been tied around a stick at least a few thousand times, had remained unharmed. I remember how she leaned back into my arms, both of us damp with sweat. I have never once orgasmed, but I think it would feel like that. For a moment in time, completely losing what you once were. Feeling every intricacy of yourself a hundred times over, every one of your millions of nerves releasing all at once. Existence becoming so concentrated yet so infinite in depth, the entirety of a fractal condensed to the minute point of your body. And then, inevitability, entropy. Gently (I hope) spiraling back down into reality. I hope that when (maybe if) I should have that experience, there will be someone there. A hand that will wind me around itself.