This entry was posted on Thursday, June 12th, 2008 at 4:55 am and is filed under General Word Vomit. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.
(I almost feel that this would make a better poem than narrative. Must be the Bukowski in me.)
There was no hello.
There was only the anticipation, the look, and the understanding that I would be relieved of myself.
And then my head slammed into the wall.
If I had wanted it, there would have been evil in the intent. Darkness often usurps my consideration when I wonder what it would be like to be own victim. To feel myself from the inside, to taste what it is that simmers in the basement of my mind would make my understanding all the more actual.
His hands know better than I do, and elicit satisfaction without the brutality. Where I would tear, they scratch. Where I would batter, they beat. It’s better this way. He gives me what I need when what I want would destroy me.
The blows are sharp. I lean into the pain and love it for its complexity. I shouldn’t internalize it as much as I do, but I think I would like it less if it came without explanation. I do not deserve this; it is not something I have earned. It is something I have asked for.
My body breathes in the violence. My sweat signals I need more. When all I have is my control, he forces me to release it. There is only more: more breathing… more screaming… more succumbing to strength that is comparable to my own.
There is pleasure, too: fierce jolts of it that free me of my reserve. My spasms do not stop him. From caress to squeeze to whip, it all equals the same reaction. And though I offer a piece to him, I keep most of it for myself. Intricate greed makes me the best and worst of submissives.
Perhaps one day I will offer my surrender to him – or another – entirely. Until then, if I cannot have what I want, he will give me what I need. And for this, I thank him.