Links to pleasure & pain?

[Annoynymous]

Sometimes masturbation feels quite painful. 

When i watch or read erotic content, i feel an urgency to do someting (maybe ejaculate?). But recently i am trying to build a habit of non ejaculation while watching erotic sexual contents and reading bunch of them.

What i have noticed that after sometime, i start to feel uneasy, uncomfortableness and extremely aroused. Then i want those feelings to stop.

Is pleasure synonymous to pain? It feels like so...  

Edited November 5, 2019 by Annoynymous

[Aquarius]

It's weird but sometimes sexuality comes from a place of guilt, shame and pain. Something you find disgusting and shameful can easily become an object of extreme sexual pleasure. I don't know why. I think it's just human psychology...

Forbidden fruit.. going into places that disturb you..... Exciting!

There are many books, novels that talk about this. We had such one in high school, to read...

"Adventures of Esti Kornel." Read it! In one chapter he gets a kiss on the train, when in teens.. from a psychically handicapped girl. And she like tortures him with her tongue and some juicy bits there.. ?And that becomes his first sexual experience. And it describes well through psychoanalysis how these things happen and manifest. 

Have fun reading it!  

[Annoynymous]

@Aquarius do you guys gets to read sexually explicit contents in your high school? 

That's interesting!

Thank you for the advice

[Aquarius]

2 minutes ago, Annoynymous said:

@Aquarius do you guys gets to read sexually explicit contents in your high school? 

That's interesting!

Thank you for the advice

Um... well?? 

Not sexually explicit, it was just a kiss taken too far and psychoanalyzed..........

Europe stuff...  

[Annoynymous]

@Aquarius okay i understood.

Didn't mean to judge you or your system... 

Actually i am from asia and things here quite conservative.

I just asked out of curiosity

[Aquarius]

3 minutes ago, Annoynymous said:

@Aquarius okay i understood.

Didn't mean to judge you or your system... 

Actually i am from asia and things here quite conservative.

I just asked out of curiosity

It was actually a joke  Meaning us Europeans are weirdos. hahaha

If you were in Europe you knew what i meant by "Europe stuff".. we are weird sometimes

with our history and all  

 

Here are some quotes from the novel to help you understand the philosophy of sexuality.. 

(they are in a train, the 18 year old guy, and other passangers: the mother and the girl... whatch what happens..)

 

Quote

She evinced a languid gentleness and trustfulness, like a dove. She wasn’t fat, not at all, but she was shapely, like a dove. The only jewelry on her hand was a gold wedding ring. That hand—the white hand of a mother—rested for the most part in her lap, in the pleasant, mystical softness of a mother’s lap.

 

Quote

 

Until then he had, so to speak, paid no attention to the girl, as her mother had fully absorbed his interest. On entering the compartment, he had seen that she was a teenager, at the most fifteen. He had also seen that she wasn’t pretty. That was probably the reason why he had instinctively avoided looking at her.

Now he squinted at her round the edge of Edmondo de Amicis.

She was a slip of a girl, insignificant, quite insipid. Skinny legs, a thin, piping voice. She was wearing a white, spotted cambric dress, an expensive Swiss brooch, and new, showy, patent leather shoes. In her lusterless, pale blonde hair gleamed a 

huge bow of strawberry-colored satin ribbon, which made her pale face seem even paler. She wore a ribbon of the same material at her neck, very broad, to conceal her scrawniness.

She was dressed as if she were being taken not on this summer journey but to a ball, a glittering winter ball, a quite improbable children’s ball, quite unsuitable for her.

Her small head, flat chest, lean shoulders, the two “saltcellars” that showed above the scooped neckline of her dress, her hands, her ears, her everything at first aroused pity, but then straightaway displeasure. This creature wasn’t only graceless; she was repulsive, definitely loathsome.

Poor thing, thought Esti. He couldn’t even bear to look at her for long. He looked out the window."

 

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He didn’t beat about the bush for long. He waited for the girl to point at him again, and when her finger was next waving in front of her nose he dropped his book into his lap and turned toward her, requiring an explanation.

The girl, like one caught in the act, was taken aback. Her slender finger seemed frozen into ice. It hung in the air like that. Slowly she lowered it.

Yet even then her mother spoke not a word. She took the girl’s hand—the erring little hand, the one that had been pointing—put it between her two hands, enclosed it, and began with gentle, infinite gentleness and patience to pat it, as if she were playing “bunnies” with it. “This man went rabbiting … this man caught it …”

 

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Something like an armistice ensued. The whispering died away, or became so quiet as to be almost inaudible. Midnight approached. The woman opened her handbag. She took out a knife, a golden knife with a sharp, pointed, slender blade. Next she took out something wrapped in cotton wool. From the cotton-wool wrapping there emerged a lovely, butter-yellow Calville apple.* Dexterously and carefully she 

peeled it, cut it into segments, picked them up on the point of the knife, and raised them one by one to the girl’s mouth.

She ate. Not nicely. She chomped.

As she caught the segments between her slightly swollen lips a white, sticky froth began to form as on the beaks of swallow chicks, like a scum or foam setting under internal warmth. She opened her beak clownishly for every morsel. In so doing she exposed her anemic gums and her few rotten little teeth, which shone black inside her mouth. “D’you want some more, dear?” her mother asked from time to time. The girl nodded.

In this way she ate almost the entire apple. Only the last segment remained.

Suddenly she leapt to her feet and rushed into the corridor. Her mother tore after her in alarm.

Now what was happening? What was wrong with the apple and the mother? What was the matter with this girl? Esti too jumped up. He looked around the empty compartment.

He was left alone. At last he was alone. He breathed deeply, like one released from a spell. It was only then that he dared really to admit that he had been afraid. He understood his traveling companions less and less. Who were they? What were they? Whoever was that ignorant girl who whispered and pointed all the time, then rushed out, with her mother after her like a gendarme? What scene was taking place out there, and what scene had ended in the compartment just now—when at last the apple was being peacefully eaten in the silence which had suddenly fallen—the dénouement of which couldn’t be so much as guessed?

 

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Whoever was this mother who endured simply anything from her daughter, indulged her in everything,

Quote

 

His conduct couldn’t be explained by just that. Nor by the fact that he was a “well-brought-up boy.” Nor because timidity or a lively imagination made him indecisive—often when he avoided danger those were the qualities that urged him into it. Nor that he was, as it were, an excessively kindly soul, in the everyday sense of the word. There was a lot of cruelty in him, many bloodthirsty, evil instincts. He alone knew what he had done, as a small boy, to hapless flies and frogs in the secret torture chamber that he had set up in the laundry room. There he and his younger brother had dissected frogs and their grandmother’s cats with a kitchen knife, cracked their skulls, extracted their eyes, conducted real vivisection on a purely “scientific, experimental basis,” and their grandmother—that loud-voiced, addlepated, shortsighted woman—had been very cross that whatever she did, her cats kept disappearing, ten or twenty a year. If need be he could certainly have committed murder, like anyone else. But he was more afraid of hurting someone than of killing them.

He was always horrified that he might be harsh, merciless, and tactless toward anyone—a human being like himself, that is: frail, craving happiness, and finally in any case doomed to perish wretchedly—horrified of humiliating them in their own eyes, of upsetting them with even one innuendo, a single thought, and often—at least, so he imagined—he would rather have died than entertain the belief that he was someone superior in this world ..

 

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Thereupon the mother grasped the girl’s neck, pulled her hard to her, with great force lifted her into the air, and sat her at her side.

She stroked her hair. She dabbed her forehead with a cologne-scented handkerchief. She smiled at her too, once, just once, with a smile, a wooden, impersonal smile which must have been the remains, the wreckage of that smile with which long ago she must have smiled down at that girl when she was still in swaddling clothes, gurgling in the cradle, shaking her rattle. It was a wan smile, almost an unseeing 

smile. But like a mirror that has lost its silvering, it still reflected what that girl must have meant to her back then.

She was holding a silver spoon in her hand. She filled it with an almost colorless liquid which Esti—who was the son of a pharmacist—recognized from its heavy, volatile scent as paraldehyde. She meant to administer this to her daughter, and that was why she had smiled. “Now, dear, you have a nice, quiet sleep,” she said, and put the spoon to the girl’s lips. The girl gulped the medication. “Go to sleep, dear, have a nice sleep.”

She was waiting for something, meaning to do something. At the moment she was lying there, head back and breathing deeply, evenly. Pretending to be asleep, as before. Esti watched her through half-closed eyes. Her eyes weren’t completely shut. She was likewise watching him through half-closed eyes. Esti opened his eyes. The girl did the same.

She giggled at him. She giggled in so strange a way that Esti all but shivered. She was sitting cross-legged. Her lace-edged underskirt dangled, showing her knees and thighs, a bare part of her spindly thighs. Again she giggled. Giggled with a foolish, unmistakable flirtatiousness.

Oh, this was frightful. This girl had fallen for him. This ghastly, hideous chit of a girl had fallen for him. Those legs, those eyes, that mouth too had fallen for him, that dreadful mouth. She wanted to dance with him, with him, at that obscene chil

dren’s ball, with her hair ribbon, the strawberry-colored bow, that little dress, that little specter at the ball. Oh, this was frightful.

What could be done about it? He didn’t want to make a scene. That was what he dreaded most of all. He could have woken the woman sleeping opposite. But he felt sorry for her.

Perspiration broke out on his forehead.

His tactics were partly intended to restrain the girl, partly to trick her into action and discover her intentions. Therefore he showed at regular intervals that he wasn’t asleep by coughing or scratching his ear, but he also simulated sleep for equally regular periods because he wanted to find out what the girl’s intentions actually were. These two ploys he alternated, always being very careful that the one went on no longer than the other.

The contest went on for a long time. Meanwhile the train raced on toward its destination. Sometimes it seemed that it was held up at a station but then rattled on, sometimes it seemed to rumble on and on but then would loiter in a station, and the strangely watchful voices of linesmen would be heard and machinery would crunch over the track bed toward the coal store. Were they going backwards or forwards? Had half an hour gone by? Or only half a minute? The strands of time and space were becoming tangled in his head.

This pretense was extremely tiring. Esti would have liked to escape from the trap, reach Fiume, be at home in Sárszeg, in the bedroom where his siblings were sleeping to the ticking of the wall-clock, in his old bed. But he dared not sleep, nor did he mean to. He clenched his teeth and struggled on. If he became a little more sleepy she would resort to all sorts of tricks. He frightened himself most of all with 

the idea that while he was asleep, that creature would crawl toward him and kiss him with her cold mouth—nothing could be more revolting and terrible.

 

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And so at about three o’clock, Esti, constantly dwelling on these nightmarish thoughts and on his guard as to what to do—whether he should show that he was awake or pretend to be asleep—tried to open his eyes, tried to wake up, but couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe. There was something on his mouth. Some cold foulness, some heavy, soggy bath mat, lying on his mouth, sucking at him, expanding into him, growing fat on him, becoming rigid, like a leech, wouldn’t let go of him. Wouldn’t let him breathe.

He moaned in pain, writhed this way and that, waved his arms about for a long time. Then there burst from his throat a cry. “No,” he croaked, “oh.”

The woman leapt to her feet. Didn’t know where she was. Didn’t know what had happened. Couldn’t see a thing. It was completely dark in the compartment. Someone had put out the gas lamp. Thick smoke was billowing in through the window. Again, a cry for help. She thought that there’d been an accident.

When she had quickly lit the lamp, there stood her daughter facing Esti. She was holding her index finger mischievously to her lips, begging him to hush, he must keep quiet about it. Esti was standing facing the girl, in a fury, trembling from head to foot, deathly pale. He was wiping his mouth and spitting into his handkerchief.

“Oh,” said the woman dully, “I’m so sorry. But surely you can see …” That was all that she said. And she said it as if apologizing for her dog, which had licked a traveling companion’s hand. She was infinitely humiliated.

The kiss is a great enigma. He had not been aware of it before. He had only known affection. Only adventure. He was still pure at heart, like most boys of eighteen. That had been his first kiss. He had received his first real kiss from that girl.

Edit was crouching at her mother’s side. Now she shrugged her shoulders. Every ten seconds—every ten seconds precisely—she raised her left shoulder almost imperceptibly. She wasn’t being defiant. She didn’t speak either to her mother or to Esti. She was making signs. To whom or to what she was making those signs no one knew, not even she herself. Only perhaps He knew, who created the world to His glory and set man therein.

The woman, who must have been overcome with remorse at forgetting herself, was clinging to both her daughter’s hands. By that she was showing that she was with her, now and always.

 

He thought over what had happened. What had happened was tragic and interesting. It even flattered his pride a tiny bit that he had gone from the school bench—by some unforeseen process—straight into the darkest center of life. He’d learned more from this than he had from any book.

 

 

 

 

 

[Annoynymous]

@Aquarius oww so sweet of you to share this 

Well i have read this. Not sure if i was experiencing the similar pain or not. 

My pain was like the urge to orgasm (maybe) through ejaculation.

Edited November 5, 2019 by Annoynymous

[Aquarius]

2 hours ago, Annoynymous said:

@Aquarius oww so sweet of you to share this 

Well i have read this. Not sure if i was experiencing the similar pain or not. 

My pain was like the urge to orgasm (maybe) through ejaculation.

Just thought you might've found it interesting.

And hmm.. maybe you're slightly masochistic??  

[Annoynymous]

@Aquarius hahahahhaha

Well to be honest i haven't thought of myself like that.

But i think now is the perfect time to contemplate on it