On the Nobility of Masochism

a teacher walked through the forum, flanked as was usual by his two students, who walked side by side, though not together. the three of them passed through the decadent arches of those places they knew so well and spoke candidly about the sort of topics that interested them. they did this almost every day, passing through humanity, in it but not of it. the repetitive nature of their daily habits never dulled the novelty of their conversations that they pursued with poorly hid passion and who's value rarely was understandable to those people who happened,in passing, to catch the banter that passed through them. a stop as usual at the public fountain where the teacher would refil the bottle he kept at his hip, and his students would adjust themselves- the male ever dusting off his boots or adjusting his belt,the girl tightening the braids that pulled her hair tightly at her scalp, or pulling at the corset that held her figure underneath the dress her station required.
they moved into the loud temple district past the the drunken priests with their wine dyed hands and the virulent ashen faced doomsday criers. fools bought pigeons and cats for sacrifices, women with wild dyed hair pulled apart the intestines of goats scrying for futures.  occasionally they would stop, listen, turn to each other- the teacher asking questions and each student attempting to explain their thoughts.
near the end of the district there was a solitary man who spoke to no one. he knelt facing a wall, many times covered with sacreligious and suggestive graffiti which he quite obviously was oblivious to. with his left hand he held himself off the ground, with his right he used a small hand made whip, shards of broken pottery woven into the lashes to flail his back. he cried out not at all, only the sounds of the gasping breath accompanied the end of each shuddering effort.
the teacher turned to his students and asked them what each of them thought of the spectacle. the boy's face twisted in disdain, spoke to his teacher saying, 'i am surprised any person would treat themselves in such a manner.' the teacher smiled dismissively, though the boy missed it, as did the   girl for she could not take her eyes off the bleeding, bent man. not even turning back to her company she spoke, and the old teacher was sure, even though he had over heard her, that she had been speaking to herself, 'i did not know any Man could love himself so much.'