the thirty-fourth night:
i am relieved that i no longer get crushes, but rather cultivate obsessions.
this morning i practiced knots around my ankles, and then i opened my window wide, to let the cold air in
i laid on top of my bedsheets, ankles tied and legs pulled together with cords, this time lacing through the leg holes of my underwear, pulling it at angles, exposing me.
i wore an old wifebeater i stole from my father when i was 16, the same night i stole old forgotten ties from him, the first night i tied myself up in private.
i remember that night, i was alone in my big bed, the bed i first tasted a lover in, the bed a lover first tasted me in. the bed with the wooden posters and the headboard where, if you look on the back, you can see the places i dug my nails in, for years, from lovers and from my own private pleasure.
i tied my father's ties around my legs and throat, i pulled them across my eyes and gagged myself. i tried to figure out a way to tie my wrists together, but the best i managed was to tie one behind my back, pinning it there with the other free to fuck myself, which i did in that bed, with my bedroom door unlocked, for hours into the night, under the covers, until i was sore, until i had twisted so much that the ties left burns on my ankles, until i couldn't feel my pinned arm anymore.
i unwrapped myself and hid the ties and then put on the wifebeater, the cotton soft and old even then.
this time, though, i took my x-acto knife and i cut careful lines through the worn cotton, watching my light skin come through the white in the dark. i dragged the knife across my ribs and stomach, down along the criss-crosses of the cords and the edge of my panties.
the cold air and the blade brought intense goosebumps up all over my skin.
i played with the idea of marking myself, but i don't want that to be a solitary act--i'd like to find someone i trust
and let him or her bind me up so i can't change my mind
and i'd like them to mark me, something beautiful and fine.
it would be the first planned modification to my skin; like my other scars it would tell a story, but this time it would be my own.
i am relieved that i no longer get crushes, but rather cultivate obsessions.
this morning i practiced knots around my ankles, and then i opened my window wide, to let the cold air in
i laid on top of my bedsheets, ankles tied and legs pulled together with cords, this time lacing through the leg holes of my underwear, pulling it at angles, exposing me.
i wore an old wifebeater i stole from my father when i was 16, the same night i stole old forgotten ties from him, the first night i tied myself up in private.
i remember that night, i was alone in my big bed, the bed i first tasted a lover in, the bed a lover first tasted me in. the bed with the wooden posters and the headboard where, if you look on the back, you can see the places i dug my nails in, for years, from lovers and from my own private pleasure.
i tied my father's ties around my legs and throat, i pulled them across my eyes and gagged myself. i tried to figure out a way to tie my wrists together, but the best i managed was to tie one behind my back, pinning it there with the other free to fuck myself, which i did in that bed, with my bedroom door unlocked, for hours into the night, under the covers, until i was sore, until i had twisted so much that the ties left burns on my ankles, until i couldn't feel my pinned arm anymore.
i unwrapped myself and hid the ties and then put on the wifebeater, the cotton soft and old even then.
this time, though, i took my x-acto knife and i cut careful lines through the worn cotton, watching my light skin come through the white in the dark. i dragged the knife across my ribs and stomach, down along the criss-crosses of the cords and the edge of my panties.
the cold air and the blade brought intense goosebumps up all over my skin.
i played with the idea of marking myself, but i don't want that to be a solitary act--i'd like to find someone i trust
and let him or her bind me up so i can't change my mind
and i'd like them to mark me, something beautiful and fine.
it would be the first planned modification to my skin; like my other scars it would tell a story, but this time it would be my own.
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i love the subject matter but not crazy about the media...
[Edited on Feb 20, 2003]