Beat me up, beat me down

The Safe Word

I like taking a punch. Getting punched is like getting a massage, if Bruce Lee had gone back for his license. Like a marathon with brickbats. Like playing the chump in a Rocky movie. It’s exhausting, a bit of a roller coaster, and I feel it for days. Now, I haven’t taken a real punch since grade school – my glass jaw and rabbit feet made sure of that. Still, a good solid beat-down from a trusted friend, that’s something for which I seem to have grown a beard.

fist.jpg
photo / Francisca Ulloa 

A proper beat-down feels like a killer workout. It should start slow, with slapping and warming up with flat jabs on the meaty parts, like pecs, thighs, or ass. The human anatomy is actually well suited for taking some sharp hits if they go to the right places, warmed up and ready, with the blood flowing, metabolic processes speeding up, and muscles getting elastic and relaxed. Nerve conduction speeds up when the body is aroused and your body responds more efficiently – you feel the blows more, and they hurt less.

A good puncher knows all this. She’s enjoying wearing you out, but she doesn’t want to go 10 rounds and end up with a friend, a former friend, who’s a bag of broken bones. So, these punches are not hooks and crosses and body blows, but they’re solid strikes with a relaxed fist, landing flat across the knuckles with a satisfying pop.

After the victim is warmed up, the puncher can move on to more sensitive terrain – the upper back, arms and shoulders and legs – where the bones and nerves are a little closer to the surface.

Now, don’t hit any place that’ll get a person DQed from the Olympics, like the lower back or kidneys, the spine or other joints, and, naturally, the groin. That’s a different fetish altogether, kids.

You can, of course, combine the fetishes for more fun. I like getting tied up, or least having my hands tied if I’m being punched. My arms tend to fly around otherwise. I’ve been restrained and partially suspended from a ceiling while being used as an instructive punching bag for some curious spectators. I’ve also stood still and took the punches, and leaned in and fought back, and on one memorable occasion been the filling for punching sandwich between two feisty women.

There is something about the prospect of pounding on a mostly nude, entirely defenseless male that does seem to appeal to women. Okay, no surprise there.

But plenty of women like this kind of impact play, too. Among those I know, spanking, flogging, or caning are more popular than the fists of fury, but whether it’s a boy or girl, a boi or transman under the lash, consent is the first and last rule. If there was an impact scene at a party that violated house rules about safe words or consent, the other participants would probably stage their own non-consensual beat-down on the perpetrator. That’s the impression I get, anyway.

After my beating, I’m a puddle of mush on the floor. Put a silver blanket on me, and I’d look like an amateur crawling over the finish line in Boston. This is a good time for my abuser to get down there and give me some water, remind me how much they love me, and how playing Rocky to my Mr. T makes them feel like the eye of the tiger. As for me, I’ve never slept better.

About the author The Safe Word columnist RC McCloud welcomes your feedback, tips, love letters, and comments. Send mail to rc.mccloud at thatotherpaper dot com.

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