stroking obsession in emotional martyrs

A lesson from both in martial arts and magic that I find applicable to this article: if you land a hit that has a more volatile impact than intended, it’s a novice assumption to believe you are now powerful enough to progress to something more complex. You need to strike with control instead of unpredictable force in order to be reliable.

In rising tension, I take delight in holding your sensitive places. Lightly cupping at first, then a firm clasp, reassuring until the first twist. You expect that might be a mistake until the repeat, with a stronger pinch this time, and a bit of laughter. The night progresses with much of the same: there’s always first a caress, before a pinch and a firm tug, or gentle twist that bloom into bruising. After final impact, we tend to your system, as well as the lingering sensitivities, to ensure a mindful recovery in the days to follow.

A very standard scene in kink, but this playbook lands equally well in consensual mind games. When a daytime’s worth of successful interpersonal interactions reply on a relaxed detachment from the emotional influence of others, emotional masochists like to play in contained turmoil by letting someone else control the climate of their inner world. Someone playing with emotional martyrdom will play with their partner to tease their sensitive places and also maybe bruise them.

In Playing on the Edge: Sadomaschism, Risk, and Intimacy Staci Newmahr says of the described martyr archetype: “Martyrdom romanticizes the ideas of both victimization and powerlessness, and actively performs both. It requires the casting of the experience as one of powerlessness, claiming passivity and helplessness, even in the face of evidence to the contrary.”*

Imagine a dinner date: You’re seated with your companion— tall, brunette, goth— in a somewhat busy but not yet crowded restaurant. You’re beginning to relax into you evening, a beverage and the aforementioned brunette in front of you, though your workday is still scrolling in the front of your brain like a screen widget you can’t close. As someone who is accustomed to having this particular type of brain widget running most of your waking hours, you’ve forgotten that it’s apparent to others around you where your focus is locked in on.

Settling into your chair a bit more clumsily than you would otherwise be at this time of the evening, you have one arm almost off the edge of the table and the other almost holding your glass, your gaze fixed firmly in the middle distance between here and next week’s meeting. You’ve momentarily forgotten where you are while you briefly mentally review Teams messages you forgot to respond to. You once expressed to your companion prior your personal dislike of engaging in public displays of affection to include any form of physical touch in public or overtly emotive behavior, on grounds of social modesty.

“Sweetpea,” her voice prompts you to return, but the next sensation of her lifting your free arm and pushing back your shirt cuff makes you forget Teams entirely. “What time is it?” She’s not actually looking at your watch. It’s on your other wrist. She’s looking at you in the eye, smiling, holding your hand by the wrist. You tug away as imperceptibly as you can, and she tugs just a little more back, to give a quick kiss to the backs of your fingers. “Can you check for me?” said with sudden doe eyes.

She’s mocking you. You know she’s mocking you, and she of course does, but no one else can see what is so painfully obvious to you. She smiles again, small head tilt, slight eyebrow raise. You give her the time, and keep your hands closer to your chair for the remainder of dinner. Still, you remain alert enough with the slight embarrassment lingering, to stay in the moment and not in your unresolved inbox.

After dinner you gather your coats and help her put hers on. She takes your arms suddenly to wrap around her and pulls you to sway with her, landing a kiss on your cheek. It’s a rare moment, warm and sweet to you, still ruined by your simultaneous mental scan of the room for witnesses: The coat check attendant isn’t at the desk, with no one else around either, but you can still feel the security camera in the corner watching your private moment.

Leaving the restaurant, she takes your hand to cross the street, but by the wrist again to lead you through the crowded sidewalk, only letting go once you’ve reached a clear spot. Neither of you remark on it, and carry on to your hotel. The lobby elevator wing is crowded on both sides and she takes your hand tight, leaning affectionately on your shoulder, just two sweethearts going up to their room together. You feel the embarrassment creeping up your throat as you feel her face turn on your shoulder to look at you. You feel obliged to look, as others are taking small glances at the two of you canoodling together.

Again, she’s smiling, but it’s so clearly a smirk this time. She gives you a very close but still controlled air kiss, again with a growing smirk. You know she’s waiting for one back, with her eyes fixed, again with the secret mocking. You aim your air kiss at her forehead and hope that suffices, and look to the elevator, sweat prickling at your neck and chest. You know better than to test her boldness if you try to pull yourself together, so you endure without attempting to break apart until a free elevator arrives, an everlasting ninety seconds later.

In this lengthy time period, you consider that, while not guaranteed, it’s more likely you will be reviewing your lingering chagrin from this particular faux pas rather than once again reviewing your brain’s personal task widget before you sleep for the night.

*Newmahr, S. (2011). Playing on the Edge: Sadomasochism, Risk, and Intimacy. Indiana University Press.