The nearly blank page was stained with the line "Experience is what you make of it and I am one who loves the clarity and rush of endorphins." I don't know if that is me, or the character for this piece. Certainly, it is not the easily accessible version of me. The clean and tidy public version. Perhaps I like to think it was left in the angst of teenage self harming? The search for something I couldn't ask anyone else to give me.
I love writing the dark side of erotica. Like eating spicy chili. I could have felt the brush of her breast as she leant across me. Her breath on my cheek. Perhaps I did, subconsciously. But the prompt dropped me here without a second thought.
Thank you Marie for your super prompts that drag me out of the daily grind. Last weeks glorious, soaring music, played through noise reducing headset whilst I met my new Doxy for the first time...in its beautiful and fictionalized version of course... didn't appear on paper in time for the deadline for Wicked Wednesday, but your ideas continue to be an inspiration. Perhaps it will appear here eventually. This week I have gone with the prompt. If you can't work out what it was...follow the link. Or enjoy the story without.
The difference between me and the teenager with a knife, is that peace from letting go is available without the input of physical pain.
But sometimes eating chili is exactly what you want.
Experience is what you make of it and I am one who loves the clarity and rush of endorphins.
Reclined in the embrace of the leatherette chair, I center myself in the moment. Externally, I’m responding to questions and comments because this is definitely a situation where informed consent is important, but inside I am already anticipating the dull lance probing raw nerves.
Outwardly, it is about pride. The duel is between me and the pain. The promise not to flinch or pull away. This is the convention of our society. To be tough and defiant. We are so black and white, either brave or coward, proud or weak. There is something beyond this though, something to be found in embracing or letting go. The infra-red or ultra violet of humanity. A thing we choose to ignore, to not even develop language to discuss. That is what I am anticipating.
This woman leaning over me, is just the tool. I am sure she is competent, but to a point that makes her irrelevant.
I am surfing this wave for me. Climbing this mountain for me.
I have walked into this room free and whole knowing she is going to hurt me. This should worry me. Scare me. But I am floating at the thought. Free and ashamed in the same moment.
The first scratch of a needle. A sting with an icy tail.
I have time to think and send a silent apology for using her this way. Then I forget her, forget the chair and the intrusively bright lights and sink into each raw second.
Vibration. Each nerve is woken in turn and like frightened animals the messages race away. I should run with them, pull away from the strangeness. The battle is only with myself. I stand as a solider at post, accepting the intensity increase through slowly creeping minutes from something intense to something beyond. I want to say unbearable, but that isn’t true. The cliff edge of bearable recedes rather than racing closer. To fight is to lose. In letting go, I win.
With little effort, you have led me to a place where the scrape and probe of each of your tools is a bright spark of brilliance. Where the silent scream of a nerve is a lightning show, spreading in magnificence through the wide sky. Time slows. Each flickering fork tears me free with a unique beauty.
Something snaps, breaks free. Finally, swimming in the night black sea. Tumbling formless. Timeless. Until the destroyed becomes recreated.
Even returning is not mundane. Each shiny, shimmering jigsaw piece falls into position and becomes clear, but special in itself. Each takes its moment of focus before it is normal. The new normal. Sharpened senses burn with fragrance previously ignored. Metallic taste of blood and fear. Tension returning to muscles.
Energy. Exhilaration and exhaustion swirl and merge until there is no telling one from the other.
Stepping through the doors allows the final pieces to fall. I am returned. Aware of the residuals. The wobbly knees. The discomfort, suddenly a bad thing. The sweat trickling like cum down the inside of my thigh.
The waiting room has flowers and a fish tank. Children’s books and a few obtuse customers.
Incongruous, I make my way home.