The separation between love and sex came early, split down the middle like the crotchless bodysuit that I liked to wear under my skirt when I went out on the prowl. Nudity meant being vulnerable, and being vulnerable implied a certain kind of weakness — something to be avoided at all costs.
Sex was a tool, one to be utilized, brutalized, never compromized — always on my terms or never to be had at all. Find \’em; seduce \’em; as soon as they show interest, start to lose my desire; fuck \’em; get the hell out the door.
My number? You have got to be joking.
My name? You make me forget it, you make me forget myself, oh baby, oh baby.
The last one I remember is a face I will never forget because it is a name I will never know. There have been others since but none worth mentioning, none as vital to the issue at hand as this encounter.
Venturing out at four in the morning to have sex with someone who\’s name I have never known, tying him up and whipping him until he bled to get all my frustration out, and still it was not enough.
Nothing was ever enough, and certainly this one little punk boy with his black hair dye was not going to be enough to fulfill this emptiness that was eating me alive inside.
The knife was still sitting on the table next to the door, and I reached for it, went to the bathroom and cleaned it under the hot water. The boy was still blindfolded, but he heard the water running and had an idea as to what was coming. My plan was foiled — he wanted it.
I never want to give them what they want.
Instead I walked over to him and hit him hard across the mouth, drawing a small amount of blood in the right corner of his thin, chapped lips. He tasted the blood and groaned, wanting more, desiring the burning pain.
Pain is something I am familiar with, but I was not getting the reaction I wanted. He was enjoying himself, and I was not there for his pleasure — I was there to get rid of the chaos that was eating me alive from inside.
I brought my knee up into his gut, just under his ribs. He attempted to double over but as he was strapped to a rack this was impossible. Instead, he spasmed and gasped for air, and I chose that moment to dance the knife carefully down his collarbone, across his chest and over his ribs — not yet doing anything but tickling the surface with the sweetest of anticipatory touches.
He attempted to thrust himself upwards into the blade, overeager for the thrill at all costs, and for this I got up and walked into the kitchen and helped myself to a drink for breakfast — it was now nearly seven in the morning. He called after me through his gag, \”mmmahfhsg! Mmfghgh mmmgggmamahmaam!\”
I walked back over to him, grabbed him by the jaw, removed his gag with two fingers. \”Inamorata, use the knife. Fuck me and use the knife!\”
Well this posed a bit of a problem — I did not want to give him what he wanted. I put the gag back in his mouth, tilted the rack further back, put the knife on his chest and went back into the kitchen where I did about a week\’s worth of dishes and considered going home. Back in the living room, I could hear his muffled screams, growing more and more angry.
The apartment was starting to fill with early morning light. Quietly, I walked out of the kitchen and back into the living room. It was of no use; he heard me and went still. I watched his cock grow hard again under his tight black jeans; such the hipster this one was, such the cool cat. And like a cat myself, I pounced on my prey, landing straddled on the rack, knife now in my teeth, fingernails dug into flesh as he moaned into the gag.
And I grew bored, but I did give in, I did use the knife, and I did fuck him. And then after I untied him the little fucker turned the tables and tied me up on the very same rack for three and a half hours, and the week after this I tied myself up in a committed relationship for seven months, thus attempting to put an end to my problem with having a separation between love and sex and not succeeding.
But the separation remains. The gap was never bridged. I gave up pain for pleasure and ended up with neither, and find that the emptiness is still there, waiting to be filled and perhaps never will. Maybe what I need is a non-vanilla relationship, and maybe the answer does not lie in bed or in relationships at all. I am inclined to think the latter.
As for the hipster boy, I still see him from time to time out at clubs, and we look at each other with a quick glance of perfunctory acknowledgement; in that look he has often tried to approach me, but I have turned him down, bored now that I have conquered him. And oh yeah… I do not do that sort of thing anymore. I keep forgetting.
