I think I've still got a bit of a sado-masochistic streak in me, because if I'm not going to be restricted by corsets and covered in lace, then I still wind up wearing an ape-mask over my face. I do wonder how I get myself in these situations!
There is also something exciting about the risk. Somewhere in me is a sadist that likes pain, I guess.
We are our own wicked gods with little 'g's' and big dicks, sadistic and constantly inflicting a slow demise.
Torment, for some men, is a need, an appetite, and an accomplishment.
People are seeing me as the guy who wants to get hurt, who wants to break a bone, get bruises. And that's how it was growing up with six brothers. I got beat up, and I beat up people.
I wanted to have no ribs. I wore what was called a waist-nipper in those days. My mother made it. It's a piece of rubber band I wore around to hold my rib cage in. I don't know why I always loved that. I guess I was a glutton for punishment. I think I was born one of those people who loved swords and fought in armor.
There is a stage in any misery when the victim begins to find a deep satisfaction in it.
It is interesting to note that in every phase of life feminine masochism finds some form of expression.
Marie Calloway has a very specific literary personality that the reader is intrigued by: she's masochistic, loves to experiment, is quickly bored and intermittently self-hating, very hip, rebellious. Figuring her out is a gripping adventure.
There is probably an innate masochism in a lot of women that ends up disappointed if men don't ill-treat them.
I do seem to try to make things harder and harder for myself. In some perverse way, obstacles interest me and I'm drawn to projects that end up being incredibly laborious.
