A somewhat disturbing personal essay about one woman's masochistic desires.

Sometime this summer, in a high-rise condo looking out over the city, I will be given something I've been wanting for a long time: a black eye.

Let me preface this by saying: the author is a grown woman and she can do what she likes. I respect her right to make choices even if I don't agree with them. And I can't really make a bullet-proof judgment about her based solely on this article.

Still, if she was a friend of mine, and she told me all this and asked for my opinion, I'd tell her she should be working with a kink-friendly therapist.

It's not the physical intensity of the play that bothers me. I've participated in some very extreme scenes, and I loved it. It's the way she sees herself, and the way she feels about her behavior. Anytime that someone says, "I have strong sexual urges that lead me to actions I later regret. More than regret: I hate myself for them."- that's a problem. The author says she's seen therapists and taken medication, and that it doesn't help. My answer – not the right therapists, not the right medication. They say cigarette smokers try to quit an average of eight times before they're successful. Get back on the couch, and get back to the pharmacist.

And I tell you what - I would never, but never, want to top someone like this. It gives me the creeps just thinking about it. I've met people who I think were something like this woman, and I can remember thinking, They're looking for a monster and they're hoping it's me. Fuck that, I don't want to play with someone who's hoping to bring out my inner serial killer.

SM is not, in and of itself, a pathological activity. But there is such a thing as doing SM for all the wrong reasons. That's what this looks like to me.