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Calling

August 31, 2010

I want to talk about boys. And men. Boys and men and women with long hair and defiant faces. About the physical-emotional sensation of pulling rope snug or tight into someone else’s skin and muscle, leaving layered patterned wakes.

I did, for the first time in months.

But this isn’t about that, though it was a catalyst.

I want to talk about the unspoken wonder of interacting with a person who is psychologically present with their submission, the energy, the classic, unmistakable, undeniable, joyful recognition.

I was able to, for the first time in a year, and half that again.

This isn’t about that either, though it was also a catalyst.

I want to talk about submissive captors and dominant prisoners, assertive submission and a model of d/s flipped suddenly horizontal. About wildness and inner gardens growing suddenly past the skin, ephemeral branching reaching into the tangible world, obscuring the differences, making the physical world seem paler, somehow less complete. I want to talk about the melding of my inner and outer realities into the whole in which I walk, about paths which go deeper than I ever expected. But they feel lighter, in a way I can’t describe.

I want to talk about stories and how the boundaries that separate them from reality are only illusions. We are our stories, our stories are us. I am craving to express stories, to share in that way what I am not often able to share when touching. I want to flood the world with reams of words of what I feel, let it loose to worm its way into the human consciousness, altering by a sliver the flavor of broken mirrors of my desires, connecting, here, there again, until we connect and connect and connect and the broken mirrors are only a memory.

I want to talk about being a man and how hard that is for me to express, how lonely I feel in the incredible intimacy I am gifted with, and this loneliness is because I cannot face myself, embrace myself, pull myself out of myself and into my whole, my reality, my inner garden sprung suddenly out, vines eating away at the edges of my vision.

I want to talk about laughing, and safe spaces, and how each and every one is the lick of a wave which will crash higher and higher until we are so inundated we will never remember the drought.

I want to talk about the things that I know and yet have never experienced and so don’t allow myself to know but I know them, they are me have always been me have always been us, our humanity.

I am sorry it is so hard for me to talk to you.

(I am talking to my man)

I am sorry it is so hard for me to reach.

(Sadist)

We will not always been so hungry.

(Dominant)

We are whole and alive.

(Woman)

I want to talk about the compartmentalization of my self, about translating every idea and thought and feeling I have ever had into someone else’s language. I want to talk about violence and ritual, my relationship with pain and the smoldering sensation behind my sternum when I allow myself to be what I am. I want to relate and understand, and be related to and understood and I see glimmers, flashes, not the whole thing only the sign that it’s there, I see now.

I want to beat someone until they cry. I want to cut someone and make them bleed until they slip so far into that space they cannot speak. I want to hurt someone. I want to tie them and take them in their vulnerable inside places, their exposed outer places. I want to make them mine and crawl inside their skin  and still have them only belong to themselves.

I want to hurt someone.

I want to hurt someone.

I want to hurt someone.

I am saying this and it is not a demand, not a battlecry, not a whimper or a hope, it is a statement of my being without decision of value and a sense of creeping wonder.

I love pain.

I love accepting control.

I love sliding into that space where to kill you would be as natural as to fuck you except there’s no reason to, only the acknowledgment of danger.

I am alive.

I have to keep reminding myself.

2 Comments leave one →
  1. September 1, 2010 5:45 pm

    I want to beat someone until they cry. I want to cut someone and make them bleed until they slip so far into that space they cannot speak. I want to hurt someone. I want to tie them and take them in their vulnerable inside places, their exposed outer places. I want to make them mine and crawl inside their skin and still have them only belong to themselves.

    I want to hurt someone.

    I want to hurt someone.

    I want to hurt someone.

    Yes. I need to hear that once in a while. There’s a need that faces mine, there’s a part there that will click to mine. I am not so much a masochist as I am into submissing and being dominated, but what you said still applies. For me, your need to crawl inside the skin of the submissive, is the act of the weak one (this might be somewhat incoherent, but it’s a part of my point of view). And them letting you in is so brave. But then again, I relate to the taker and encompasser, the submissive point of view. Being a submissive, for me, is I guess being irreplaceable. Agonizingly needed.

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