On His Lap

I have a very dear friend who I have been playing with for around two years now. He is very gifted at bringing me to dizzying heights when we play.

At the last Surrey Munch I sat for sometime in his lap.

We spoke of many things, he and I.

Of how he will hurt me. He will make music out of the sweet, blissful agony he will cause me to experience. I will stay still enough for it all, no ties need bind me to this end, it is my darkest desire. I will beg and perhaps at times taunt him in order to ask, even demand a higher pinnacle to be reached.

The ways in which he torments me never fail to astonish me. My responses to him are primal.

I will cherish each moment.

I go to him, in need. He knows, and he fulfills it.

Intolerable Cruelty

I am a masochist. To be more specific, I sexualize pain, I make it something more, I make it pleasure.

I crave pain, in many instances I find myself craving pain to such a high degree that I will inflict it on myself to get an endorphine "fix". I could go so far as to declare pain as my drug of choice. I don't drink, do drugs, smoke, or participate in any addictive behaviors. Only in this sweet agony do I find solace and comfort, humour, and passion, it can amplify and beautify any emotion I need.

I have in the last last year discovered that there are forms of pain I do not crave. In fact there are forms of distress which make me throb and ache in unimaginable ways. Suffering that overtakes my very being.

This is torture I do not crave. This is a hurt that affects my heart, that tears at the very fabric of my soul.

This torment is inflicted on me in unspeakable ways, and the people who have hurt me this way are intolerably cruel.

Unfortunately I also seem to want very badly to forgive these people and offer them a chance at redemption. Each time they respond with new depths of cruelty, depraved acts that seek only to punish my heart for being so hopelessly able to care.

And I do care, for them, deeply. So I subject myself to this hurt that starts on my insides and twists and turns and bubbles inside me. Seeping out through the marrow of my bones until it oozes from my pores and drips like poison.

I find myself washing this poison off of me, scrubbing until my skin is rubbed raw. Crying in great wracking sobs, as I hide in the billowing wreaths of steam, trying to forget, and hoping I never do.

This agony is not what I wanted, there is no joy in it. Only anguish and defeat. I have failed, and another piece of my heart has broken off.

Tonight I curl in bed, aching, both inside and out. Pain my cruel companion. I am alone in this and it is encompassing and exhausting. I have a needle and am scratching myself slowly and lightly, the physical pain giving release to the demons within.

Tomorrow I will start again... perhaps with the right sort of stimulus this time.