Marked: an open letter

In which I try to explain last night to those who would be uncomfortable with the direction I am traveling; in other words, just about everyone I know. No, I won't tell my friends outside the scene (save a few trusted ones) or, god forbid, anyone in my family. But if I did, this is what I would say to them. (A warning: the pictures, taken this morning, are behind links for a reason. Don't click if you're uneasy with this subject in general. Really -- don't.)

It's the marks that frighten people. If it weren't for the marks, I don't think y'all would have a problem with what I did last night. Truly now, were I to take you aside and say, "I finally got to experience it, and guess what? It felt so good. Meditative. Cleansing. It was like inhaling a paradox! He used a crop and a cane and floggers, and oh, I don't know, have you ever had a deep tissue massage where it hurt and felt good at the same time? It was like that, and afterward I felt like I'd been on vacation," what would you think?

You might think, Yeah, I get that, I guess. You might shrug one shoulder and smile crookedly and say, Hey, I'm glad it worked for you, but still not my thing, man. A rare few of you might hug me and say, That's wonderful! I'm so happy for you!

But what if I were to show you this and this? Would you recoil? Would you be frightened for me? But . . . why? Those are just marks. Nothing has changed. The first paragraph still holds true, but now there are some welts and bruises to show for it, that's all. I wasn't struck any harder than I was the first time I told you, nor did I suffer. Far from it.

Let me back up. Last night I went to the Voyagers party, arriving a bit late, sometime around 10. I had to park a quarter of a mile away, so I knew it was going to be crowded, and it was, but not intolerably so. I didn't see many people I knew at first glance, but soon familiar faces began to emerge in the crowd. Most people were in costume, the mood was decidedly festive, and I worried for a moment that I had made a mistake. I had considered not going at all because my sorrow over Vasily is still so raw, and I'm prone to bursting into sudden tears, but then I had decided what the hell. If I cry, people will just have to deal with it. Hiding for days and not talking at all about what is happening in my life is how I've dealt with grief my entire life. Things are changing, yes?

I was happy to see De'Juan show up. He's appeared in these pages before; I just didn't know who I was writing about at the time. In the weeks since then, I've had fun hanging out with him and various others; singing corny songs from Monty Python's Flying Circus and Hee Haw over groans of protest from said others; having blessedly intelligent conversation. Does it hurt that he's fantastically hot and possessed of a serene, unassuming confidence? No. No, it does not. By the way, he looked mmmmarvelous last night in a dark shirt, tight leather pants, a bit of "blood" smeared on his lips, his hair pulled back, and a heavy chain draped like a bandolier across his chest.

At one point we were standing next to each other, leaning against a wall in a room with a bed upon which one woman straddled two bound men, while standing beside us in the corner another man and a woman were finishing up a scene with, from the sound of it, a decidedly happy ending for her. In the midst of this decadence, De'Juan and I were whispering. He asked me whether I planned to play that night. I whispered back that I still hadn't worked up the nerve to approach someone and ask them. He asked whether I would like to play with him. I'm surprised the others present weren't annoyed when my eyes lit up the entire room. That is to say, I whispered, "Yes, I would love that!"

He started to say he was playing with A. later that night, and at that moment the couple in the corner finished up and lo and behold, one of them was A.! He laughed at that, and suddenly I was at the front of the line, since A. would need some recovery time. He suggested that my first time be private so I could talk and ask as many questions as I liked and we could adjust and go at a different pace if need be. I agreed -- though, as it turned out, I doubt I said more than six words during the whole scene. I meant to talk and be proactive and inquisitive, honest. It's usually impossible to stop me. I'm Hermione effing Granger in even the most unlikely situation, always piping up and interjecting and asking what's that and how come and why not, but . . . well, no, not this time.

The private room opened up and in we went, and he closed the door with a "Sorry!" to the people standing in the hall, and once that door closed I was whoosh, sucked into that heightened reality where something is happening, it's really happening, don't think -- act. The heels of my boots clicked loudly against the tile floor. De'Juan turned to me with a smile, and over the blood rushing in my ears I heard myself ask, "What should I do?"

"Undress," he responded kindly, and I, like the shy person in strip poker, started to fumble at the patent leather arm cuffs I wore, they being the least revealing thing I could possibly remove, asking, "Everything?"

"You can keep on the accessories," he said, and I asked his help in unzipping my corseted blouse (I was wearing the S&M Snow White outfit again). I shed my blouse, my skirt, my underwear, and that left the thigh-high fishnets, the patent leather boots, the arm cuffs, and my grandmother's red beads. Fearful that the beads might get caught on something, I took them off and laid them on the bench. De'Juan asked me to kneel on the pad at the foot of the bench and, bent over, to lie upon the bench. I did, slightly propping my head on my crossed arms. All I could see was the tangle of my hair, the leather of the bench, and my necklace twisted like rosary beads in my fingers. I extricated my fingers and pushed the beads slightly away but still within reach. I didn't want to accidentally break the string.

De'Juan knelt so that he was at face level with me and asked if there were any medical issues or concerns he needed to know about. No, I told him. He explained that he would build up slowly, keeping an eye on me to gauge my pain threshold, and confirmed that I knew to say "yellow" when I reached the edge of what I could take and "red" to say "stop now." I nodded and we exchanged a smile, and then I laid my head down and took a deep breath. And he began.

He did something very reassuring -- during nearly the entire scene, he kept one hand on my body, moving it as he moved, giving me a sense of where he was at any given moment. It reminded me of the way I keep my hand on a horse's flank and rump as I move about it so that it always knows where I am. Another thing I appreciated was that with each new instrument he would run it down my back, allowing me to get a sense of what he was about to strike me with. I didn't know what was being used, but afterward I asked him to show me and tell me the names, which he very kindly did. I don't know whether I can remember the whole order, but here's a sense of it, anyway:

There was a light flogger that felt soft and tickly at first, then began to sting faintly as he increased the delivery rate and force of each blow. My skin started to warm, and it was almost relaxing. I felt my breathing deepen and slow, and despite my determination to focus on the sensations and experience rather than analyze, my mind very quickly leapt into abstraction. The flogger was followed by a crop, then a cane, first tapping, then thumping, finally stinging enough to elicit a heave of breath or sigh from me. Now and then it felt right to turn my head or rock my body slightly from side to side as the intensity increased. It was rhythmic, and even when my muscles tensed in anticipation of a blow or when my body jerked in response to a particularly sharp blow, my mind was calm. It reminded me of the calm I feel when I'm traveling once I board the airplane. I'm there, and whatever is going to happen is going to happen. I am along for the ride. At the same time, I felt safe, because I knew I always had the power to make it stop if I needed to. I think that knowledge is what made it possible not to need to stop -- tu comprends? Smiles would come unbidden to me at moments -- euphoria cycled across the landscape of my brain now and then, criss-crossing through my thoughts like a ribbon. Some of those thoughts were light; others were dark. I caught myself struggling to capture the sensation of Vasily expiring in my arms and let my mind rest on that briefly, then retreated. I thought briefly of Rick; but my mind didn't want to stay there, and I let it go where it wanted. There was certainly an element of sexual arousal for my part. I felt myself grow wet, but it seemed an organic side effect rather than a lust, if that makes sense. At times I wondered what thoughts were going through De'Juan's mind. There were even times -- prepare yourselves -- when I didn't think at all. Hallelujah, right? I'm grinning right now just typing those words.

The Josephine-knot paddle and the kangaroo flogger were lovely in completely different ways. The paddle had a delicious weight to it, and it felt wonderful on my back. Eventually it felt completely different, especially on the sides of my ass (where I currently sport some interesting marks). And the kangaroo flogger was just intense. At one point he used two floggers at once ("mad conductor indeed," he commented with a smirk when he was showing me the floggers later), and my breathing sped up, I arched my back, and my hands went cold and tingly. I came close to pleading yellow, but instead I drew a sobbing breath and felt my whole body quiver, and he stopped, running his hands gently over my skin while the fractured pieces of me fell back together inside. He came to the side of the bench and knelt to speak to me, moving my hair gently away from my face. "Are you all right?" he asked. I lifted my head and felt a smile burst across my face. "Oh yes," I said, beaming. He was smiling, too. "Want to keep going?" he asked. "Oh sure," I think I said -- I know whatever I said was slightly goofy and vague.

He started again with a flogger in each hand, and I stretched my arms forward with a sigh, sinking into the sensation, stretching all the way out, and then I slightly amazed myself by arching upward to meet the blows. But it was a short-lived embrace of the moment, as the floggers whirled faster and faster against my skin, and the burning became intense, and I felt myself toss my head, my body beginning to protest. He stopped and stroked my skin again, and came to speak to me once more. I propped myself up on my elbows, dreamy and smiling. Thank you, I said, several times, if I recall correctly. Thank you. He sat on the bench and we embraced, not talking much, just (at least in my case) savoring the endorphin rush and snuggling.

I can't imagine a better first time. I was with someone I trusted, he gave me a range of sensations and refrained from pushing me too hard, and afterward he was kind and patient. Just perfect. I hesitate to call what I experienced kneeling against that bench "pain." It was a type of physical impact, requested by me and expertly administered by someone who knew what he was doing. Pain to me is the way I felt a few days ago holding Vasily in my arms while the vet administered the shot. That was pain -- it was searing, relentless, out of my hands, and because those feelings are unbearable the mind eventually goes numb. Loss is pain. Grief is pain. Regret, anxiety, remorse -- all of those are painful, far more painful than a measured and thoughtful thwack of a cane.

I didn't know what to do with the sexual energy the experience unleashed in me. I've never taken Ecstasy, but I think it must feel a bit like I felt after I had dressed and emerged from the room. I wanted to kiss everyone. I wanted to give everyone blow jobs and massages. I wanted to fuck everyone. That feeling faded relatively quickly (right around the time my butt started to feel sore sore sore). Someday I'd like to experience a scene that culminated in that type of release, but not for a while yet. For now I would rather hold onto it and use it as fuel. And there is a lot yet to wrap my mind around.

The rest of the night, I would duck into the bathroom whenever it was empty, lift my skirt, and take a look at the welts and bruises, growing impressively more colorful with each passing minute. My ass smarted, but I wasn't in pain. Just a bit sore. (I believe I have established for once and for all that I bruise easily. I look like I was mauled, but I really wasn't.) And it turned out to be a stroke of luck that De'Juan scened with me first, because afterward I got to watch him do much of the same and more with A. They used a cross rather than a bench, and she was standing (and obviously they were public). I stretched comfortably across the bed and watched him use the tools he had showed me earlier. I was still a bit floaty, and I drifted in and out of focus. I remember at one point, early on, he did something and she reacted and he got the biggest smile on his face, and that in turn made me smile, and I wondered if he had smiled that way while he worked me over. (I hoped so.) As he worked, A.'s skin began to glow. I think (although it's hard to say) that she was taking a significantly harder beating than I had, and now and then she would cry out and grip the cross or sag from her wrists (which were bound above her head). When he finished and began to free her, I quietly left the room. I know now just how valuable that time afterward is, and she deserved that time alone. (What I don't know is how important that time is to the dominant partner in a scene. Is it just as valuable; just as necessary to soothe the swollen braid of nerves and revel in the chemical high? I imagine it depends on the individual.)

Now and then I would pass De'Juan in the hall or see him across the room and a big grin would break out on my face. He would grin back. I felt enormously grateful to him, and when I finally took my leave, hugged his neck and kissed his cheek and whispered "thank you" one more time. He thanked me! I didn't feel as though I had done anything to be thanked for . . . but I am going to make cupcakes later this week and take him one on Thursday. Will that make us even? ::wee smile::

I was wide awake by the time I got home. Jeff was at his computer, and I, still a bit giddy, announced, "Guess what I did tonight!" I believe his response to my brief tale was an exaggeratedly (in)sincere, "That's greaaaat. Good for youuuu." Imagine the first words of each sentence in a higher register, the other words in a falling tone of resignation. Heh. He did not want to hear about it.

Good thing the clocks went back, because I didn't go to bed until after 4. Then I lay in bed awake -- and on my stomach! -- for a while, drifting in thought. I think that's when I had a little bit of a recoil effect, which I had dreaded somewhat, because what goes up must come down, and coming down for me can be a scary proposition. But it wasn't that bad, and it was short-lived -- no bad dreams. I shed a few tears for Vasily, wished for a moment that I had someone to snuggle up to; someone there to know that I was asleep. And then, just like that, I was asleep.

This morning I felt quite cheerful and energetic. I woke up early and charged my camera (yeah, yeah, I'm turning into quite the little picture taker, I know), started some laundry, went outside and sat in the warm sun with my black-and-white dog and my black-and-white cat (I didn't set out to make them match, but it amuses me that they do), and rubbed my dog's belly with my foot while I thought some about Vasily and what I would like to do with his ashes. My ass is already a little less sore -- I barely notice the soreness unless I sit down without thinking, and even then it's more like a nudge, a reminder of what happened last night.

And if it weren't for the marks, you would never know it had happened at all, any of it -- unless I told you.