Posted on September 17, 2005 at 23:27:47.
Anti-thought: No. 3 Sadomasomania
By M Satai
No.3 Sadomasomania
M. Satai
“In the violence of the overcoming [of reason], in the disorder of my laughter and my sobbing, in the excess of rapture that shatters me, I seize on the similarity…between an ultimate pain and an ultimate joy.” –Georges Bataille
Tear me to pieces. The body not in pain is the non-existent body, the forgotten body: I am not flesh. I escape myself in forgetfullness of pain. Days pass, weeks, months, so much time passes…I age almost imperceptibly. Who am I if I don’t hurt? I seek out pain like I seek out an entrance, or is it an exit? This door swings both ways. It would be easier to say what I seek to enter or to exit: life, by which I mean, pain. I seek to experience pain to the edge of losing consciousness—but always to the edge no further. This much is “pleasure”: the experience of damage and loss raised to a pitch of unbearable intensity…and then the ecstatically excruciating enduring of it. I seek to beat or to be beaten. If I cut you, I cut open myself: I establish and entrance or an exit. The bleeding body is the doorway opened for some-It to come inside or some-It to leave. I am sadist and masochist, predator and prey. Only I can imagine a victim to satisfy my inside-killer. Every murder is a suicide and every suicide a murder: S/M. To cut oneself is to make oneself greater: blood running over quivering flesh is the signature of It. Can it be seriously doubted that it is absolutely sexy to see a lion rip apart it’s prey, a gang rape, or a serial killer at work? Sexy—but in a way in which no erection or vaginal lubrication is possible. Impossible, perhaps, precisely because there is no time.
Orgasmicide. After the perfect blowjob, I lie in bed, candles flickering, and I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t formulate a single thought. Amnesia. White-out. Orgasm is a dream of escaping through the sewer-system under the concentration camp, riding the filth flow to the never-sea. Sexual fantasy is the elaborate blue-print of this impossible Great Escape: a fool’s dream of unrealistic scenarios peopled with starlets, fakegirls, boytarts, machinegirls, sexpets, etc etc and one’s own shapeshifting non-ego animating everything: here I cannot die no matter how many deaths I endure. I kill myself as many times as possible: no single death is enough. But after each death, I must struggle to embody myself once again—and I have no desire to do so. Disembodiement. Heaven=a state beyond the moment of death. Oblivion. The non-self between bodies is a freedom outside of flesh-prison: outside the little-ease. In my embodied state: I am half-standing, half lying, unable to do either, inside the cramped body where I’ve been condemned to rot. I am a prisoner trapped in a self-destructing prison without warden or guards. The eyes aren’t the windows of the soul but the windows of a prison where some-It possession is looking out, some-It possession desperate to escape. Orgasm is a practice suicide, a multiple practice suicide, because I cannot get it right or kill my-self. Orgasm is a fake, all orgasms are faked: they are the “little-death” that is the stage-rehearsal for the death-that-cannot cum. Pain will rob us of our pleasure at the moment of our escape: that alone is the real fear of death.
The double-dildoed death machine. One must be inspired to see the truth in this: one must be turned-on. Grab for your favorite piece of pornography. Close your eyes, loosen your clothing, let the old blue videotapes flicker. This is the waiting-room of Dr. Deathsex. This is the lounge in the well-appointed Deathspa. You may touch your private-parts. There is no shame here, no right v. wrong, no judgement. You are alone here as you are in your own bone-vault, the privacy of your own skull: the mastubatory confessional. Anything goes. The technicians here forgive you unconditionally. Here—you may be human, whatever that is. Instead of health insurance or retirement funds, you save for a short-term terminal stay in this place. You save for this crowning moment, this release. This is the most hospitable of hospices. Where graveyards used to be planted with the corpses of the sick, the old, the unlucky murdered, the accident-prone, now sleek, well-appointed factories of death-sex disguised as luxury resorts are open 24/7 to receive those ready for orgasmicide. There are custom-designed sexdeaths available to everyone: no one minds reading these glossy pamphlets or filling out these application forms in triplickate. You are writing down an order for your ultimate fantasy. Everyone is encouraged to be creative, to be outrageous, to be intense, to think and say the things they’ve never thought or said before: the things that push you over the edge. Say goodbye to family, friends, career at the entrance-exit. There is no return from this point. Upon final admission, one is issued the appropriate costume, sent to the appropriate room, attended to by the appropriate sexdeath aides all as determined by one’s terminal symptoms, aka escape plan, aka sex-fantasy: here this is what one dies of—a rape fantasy, a hanging fantasy, a celebrity fantasy, an airplane fantasy, a Christ-fantasy, etc etc. Whatever it is that blows one’s mind and shatters one’s body on the racks of self-immolation. Whatever takes one voluntarily to the blue omega point. Catastrofuck. This is not Utopia. This is O-topia. This isn’t Heaven—it’s the escape from Hell. Heaven=the failed escape from Hell we’d suffer eternally if only we could. Outside the death-sex factory barefoot girls in tunics rake the grey dust of ten thousand criminal sex fantasies into the starved soil of this years’ amaryllis gardens. Who in their right mind can say that this isn’t better than dying of esophegeal cancer?