Sub Spaces

There is a lot of interest in the BDSM community on the “sub space”, a blissful state that it is said to be achieved through the use of skillful techniques of impact play, or rope play, or perhaps through masterful Dominance and unwavering submission. It is also assumed that sub space is mediated through the release of endorphins. In the past, I have pointed out that some of these beliefs are supported more by myths than by actual scientific evidence. Still, it is undeniable that bottoms and submissives achieve some remarkable altered states of consciousness, often followed by negative emotional states called “sub drop”. I would like to propose here that there is not just one sub space but several ones with distinctive, sometimes even opposing, characteristics. It is important to emphasize, however, that there is almost no scientific research done on masochists, and very little on the endorphin high and other altered states of consciousness produced by extreme exercise or pain. Therefore, what I am going to say here is highly speculative. It is based on my knowledge of pain neurophysiology and by drawing parallels between the effects of drugs and observations of the behavior of bottoms and submissives during scenes. I propose that there are at least three different states that can be considered “sub states”. I will point out their similarities with emotional states and with the effects of some drugs.

Adrenergic sub space. The most natural response to pain is the fight/flight response. In it, there is an activation of the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis that leads to a large release of adrenaline from the adrenal glands into the blood. This increases the heart rate, switches blood circulation from the viscera to the periphery, and promotes muscular activity. At the same time, inside the central nervous system there is a parallel activation of pathways that use noradrenaline as a neurotransmitter. Among them is a pathway that projects from the adrenergic nuclei of the brain stem (locus coeruleus, A5 and A7) to the spinal cord, where it intersects inhibit incoming pain signals in the peripheral nerves producing analgesia. Other noradrenergic projections go to the cerebral cortex, activating it and increasing alertness. In practice, when the bottom goes into this state she screams, struggles, stomps and laughs, while her pain thresholds go up. This sub state is characterized by analgesia, mild euphoria and high interaction with the Top. It is important to note that while the fight/flight response is considered a stress reaction, this is not necessarily bad. Some forms of stress (called ‘eustress’) are healthy and sought by many people in the form of roller-coasters, scary movies and exciting sports. I consider BDSM a form of eustress. A certain amount of eustress may be necessary for good health and can counter the nefarious effects of distress (bad stress). The adrenergic sub space is similar to the effect of stimulant drugs like cocaine and amphetamines, which act by increasing the availability of noradrenaline and dopamine at some key brain areas.

Endorphin sub space. This sub space also produces analgesia, but in almost all other aspects is the opposite of the adrenergic sub space. In it, the heart rate goes down, and activity and alertness decrease. The relevant release of endorphins takes place not into the blood but in some brain areas. The pain inhibition is driven by a pathway connecting the periaqueductal gray area in the middle of the brain with the nucleus raphe in the brain stem and then down to the spinal cord to block incoming pain signals. There are reciprocal inhibitory connections in the brain stem between the nucleus raphe and the noradrenergic nuclei (coeruleus, A5 and A7), so that when the endorphin system gets activated the adrenergic system gets inhibited, and the converse. This is because, while the adrenergic system mediates fight/flight, the endorphin system is related to freezing behavior, in which the animal becomes immobile in order to avoid been detected by a predator. Repeated freezing behavior and certain patterns of endorphin release have been shown to lead to learned helplessness, a dysfunctional state that decreases learning, reduces immune activity and produces several other negative responses. Therefore, endorphin release is far from being the panacea that it is cracked up to be. This is not to say that that endorphin release is bad. However, a when a bottom continuously goes into this state, the long-term effects may not be good. In practice, a bottom in the endorphin sub space becomes dreamy, in an emotional mist, stops screaming and struggling, and is less alert of his surroundings. He will respond to questioning by pleading for the beating to go on - what some people call the “forever place”. The endorphin sub space is similar to the effect of opiate drugs like morphine or heroin because endorphins activate the same receptors as these drugs, the mu and delta opioid receptors. Endorphins also produce the release of dopamine in the nucleus accumbens, which is at the end of what is called “the pleasure pathway” that mediates motivation and is activated by addictive drugs.

Serotonin sub space. This the sub space that is properly-named as such because, while the adrenergic and endorphin sub spaces are produced by pain and other sadomasochistic types of stimulation, this sub space is induced by the Dominance/submission (D/s) interaction even in the absence of pain. Surrender, obedience, service, mind-fucking and other strong intimate interactions with the Dominant  likely lead to the release in the brain of oxytocin and vasopressin, neuropeptides that mediate bonding. The similarity of this state with that produced by the drug MDMA (ecstasy), which also increases bonding, intimacy and affection, makes me suspect that this sub space is predominantly driven by serotonin release in the brain. Serotonin produces positive mood and counters depression. However, it produces mixed effects on pain because some serotonin receptors in the spinal cord increase while other decrease pain. The same goes for dopamine, which can increase or decrease pain depending on the emotional state of the individual.

Whereas the adrenergic and endorphin sub spaces are incompatible, it is quite possible that the serotonin sub space can combine with them to produce mixed effects. It is also clear that the noradrenergic, dopaminergic and serotonergic neurotransmitter systems vary a lot between individuals. That is why it is so difficult to fine-tune antidepressant drugs to each person. Therefore, sub space is going to vary a lot from individual to individual. A flogging technique that is blissful to one bottom may be hellish to another. An accomplished Top is not one who has perfected techniques so that they are going to work with anybody, but one who has learned to accurately read the body language of the bottom and knows how to adjust the scene accordingly.

Let me finish by addressing the issue of sub drop. There are at least two types of sub drop: one that happens right after a scene and another that occurs about two days afterward. The first one is likely the coming down from the fight/flight adrenergic reaction. After a strong activation of the sympathetic system (the one that releases adrenaline into the blood), the parasympathetic system kicks in, decreasing the heart rate and cutting blood circulation to the periphery. The result is that the bottom feels cold, tired and emotionally exhausted. A blanket, lots of cuddles and emotional support are the best solution. The second sub drop is similar to the one produced by MDMA and may be the result of the serotonergic or even the endorphin sub space. It is much harder to address, because the scene is long over and the Top may not be available for emotional support. It may even last several days. The only way to address it is to be ready for it and have some kind of emotional support system (friends, chocolate, a good movie, etc.) in place.

The take-home message is that things in the scene are not as simple as going into sub space and come out of it a happier person. The human brain is something incredibly complicated that we are just beginning to understand. By inflicting lots of pain, or messing with strong emotions like shame, guilt and submission, we are giving our minds some extreme challenges. It is hard to predict what is going to happen. The best course of action is to go slowly, pay a lot of attention to your body, and find the path that is best for you.

The octopus fisherman

[Trigger Warning: Childhood sexual abuse]

I woke up earlier than usual. Little sunbeams filtered through tiny cracks in the blinds, announcing a beautiful summer day. I slid down from my top bunk and, not wanting to wake up my brothers, dressed up quietly. Just my swimsuit, a T-shirt and beach slippers.

I was thirteen.

The sun was still low over the pine trees. The bay was calm, an incipient breeze changing its color from silver to deep blue. It was going to be a hot day. Nobody was up yet, so I decided to go for a stroll.

I wandered through fields of cabbage and corn till I came to the rocks on the shore. Not far on the water, in his wooden boat brightly painted white, brown and blue, was the octopus fisherman.
Octopus is a delicacy in Galicia, sort of a national dish. It is served boiled on thick wooden plates, seasoned with olive oil, coarse salt and spicy paprika. I loved to eat it but was also fascinated by the animal itself. I had learned to catch it. With my mask, snorkel and fins, I would swim over the sandy bottom looking for odd objects: an old rubber boot, a pot, a tire. Then I would dive down and check inside for octopus. More often than not I would find one, which then I would wrestle to the shore, kill and proudly present it to my mother to cook for lunch.

The old fisherman used completely different methods to catch octopus. He would never get in the water; like most Galician fishermen, he probably didn’t even know how to swim. He carried long poles with a hook at the end. When he spotted an octopus in the bottom he would quickly get one on his poles, hook the octopus and haul it into his boat. Sometimes the octopus would get into a crack in the rocks and stubbornly held to it with all the considerable strength of its tentacles and suction cups. Then a fight would ensue, the fisherman pulling with his pole this way and that and the octopus holding on for dear life.

* * *

One day I witnessed one of these struggles while lying lazily on a towel on the beach. The fisherman fought for over half an hour and still couldn’t get the octopus. I grabbed my mask, snorkel and fin and got in the water, wanting to take a closer look at the struggle. There was a large rock on the bottom and the hook of the fisherman’s pole keep going under it. There must be an octopus under there. I asked him if he needed help, but he just muttered something incomprehensible in Galician. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I took a deep breath and dove toward the rock. Bracing with my knees on the bottom it was a simple matter for me to turn over the rock. The octopus came out and took off swimming at full speed, opening and closing its tentacles, looking like a little ghost. I went back to the surface for air. “Now I’ve done it!” I thought, “I have lost this poor fisherman his catch.” Desperately, I swam on the surface following the octopus, which was heading for deep water. I dove again. If the octopus were as smart as some people think it is, it would have just keep on swimming and I would have not been able to catch it. Instead, it opened its tentacles on the bottom and waited for me. I grabbed it and head back to the surface. It was a big one. It wrapped its tentacles around my arm all the way to my neck, pulling hard to slide between my fingers. I knew it just wanted to get away, but I started to get scared. Then I looked up and saw the fisherman in his boat. He grabbed the octopus and peeled it off me.

“I’m glad I could get that octopus for you,” I told him after I climbed into his boat.

“That’s your octopus, not mine,” he said. “Take it home and ask your mom to cook it.”

* * *

I used to ride with the octopus fisherman in his boat, watching him peer into the water to see an octopus where I could see just rocks. Another way he had to catch his prey was to drag a line to which he had attached a small rock with a crab and hooks tied on top. The octopus would try to get the crab and get hooked. He taught me the names of all the beaches in the bay and a lot of things about the sea. At the end of the morning, he would pull his boat to the beach and the beachgoers would gather around and bid for his catch.

So when that morning he called me and rowed his boat backward to the rocks to let me in, I didn’t think twice. I went and sat of the prow as he rowed back out on the bay.

I was starting to ask something about octopus when something really weird happened. The fisherman pulled the oars in and came to where I was. Then he started touching me over my skimpy swimsuit. I couldn’t believe what was happening.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Whoa, you have a big one!” he said.

That was completely ridiculous. I haven’t reached puberty yet, I had the penis of a child. It didn’t even care if it was big or small.

“Do you want to touch mine?”

I couldn’t imagine anything more repulsive than to touch that old man’s cock.

“No! Stop! Leave me alone!”

“Do you want to go to shore?” He said in Galician. But he wouldn’t stop touching me.
Go to shore and do what? Go to a hiding place so he could continue touching me? Anybody looking out from the beach could have seen us. But there was nobody.

“Stop! Stop, or I’ll jump in the water!”

He took a step back, considering what I had said. Then he started again.

I quickly took off my T-shirt and my slippers and dove head first in the sea. The water was cold. I come to the surface and looked at him. He could row his boat much faster than I could swim. Would he fish me out of the water like I was an octopus? But he just stood there, looking at me with apparent indifference. I swam in a perfect crawl straight to the beach.

I wanted to slip quietly back into my room and change, but my mother saw me walking in, barefoot and wet.

“You have been swimming already?”

“Yeah, the water is nice,” I muttered and went upstairs.

* * *

What was that old man thinking? How could he dare? He was just a poor man, my father was a local authority. If I told, I could get him into a lot of trouble. He would probably wind up in jail. But I couldn’t stand the thought of that free spirit in jail. For me, he symbolized the freedom and wildness of the sea. Even what he had done to me represented that wild freedom. Those were still the dark years of the Franco dictatorship. I didn’t know anything about sex, nobody had told me. Obscure desires had started to awaken inside me, like the strange excitement I felt when I watched my classmates getting a spanking. I didn’t understand any of that. It scared me. The priests told us something about it, but it was always unclear. It was shrouded in secrecy and sin. Perhaps the old fisherman could explain it to me, the same way that he explained the way of the octopus. But not if he was going to touch me like that again.

It slowly dawned on me that I could never ride in the old fisherman’s boat again.

* * *

Later on that day I saw the fisherman pulling his boat on the beach. He had a system to pull his boat out over the tide line. He lay the oars over the sand, then put a round log across them. Then he rolled the boat over the oars using the round log as a wheel. He repeated the process until the boat was on the white dry sand. Some beachgoers always helped him, although he was perfectly capable to do it on his own.

While the bid over the catch started, I quietly grabbed my slippers and T-shirt from the boat and walked away.

* * *

He must have done other boys. One day, I was walking on a beach that could only be reached by hiking through thorny gorse and blackberry bushes, or from the sea. Then I saw him, walking out of a shack with a teenage boy. I pretended that I didn’t see them.

The locals never talked much about him. He had no wife, no children, no family that I knew of. He seemed content and self-sufficient. He looked as old as the world, with his short white hair and his wrinkly face, but there was no way to know how old he really was. Perhaps he didn’t know himself. I saw him once dancing at a local fiesta, alone. He jumped and pranced with a vitality and abandon that I almost envied.

* * *

I may have been already in college when I heard that the octopus fisherman was dying. Stomach cancer, they said. I made discreet inquiries and found the way to his place. It was an old stone house surrounded by an unkempt garden, but there were peach trees and fig trees and plum trees, the fruit still green in the early summer days. I knocked on the door, called, then walked in.

The inside of the house was just a large single room, with a high ceiling, a wooden floor and walls of naked granite. There was a large bed in the middle. The old fisherman was laying on it, his belly swollen.

I sat by him and asked him how he was. He knew he was dying. I asked him if he was afraid of death. He said he was afraid of the pain. We must have said other things, but that’s all I remember. I’m pretty sure I didn’t mention the incident in the boat.

A few days later my father told that the octopus fisherman had died. He asked me if I wanted to go to his funeral. I said no. I had already said my goodbyes to the old man.