v u l v a l i c i o u s
yes danger yes
We sat across a table from each other, and he broached play. Yes. All I could say was Yes.
When I am asked what I want, I do not know the answer. Or I do, but it is wrong. I want it all, with few exceptions. I do not want to fuck, not unless this is something else entirely. I am not curious about urine or feces. And I know now that piercing does little for me, though I had hoped I’d thrill at a sea of needles swimming across me. There may be a few more things, but when asked at a party, No is the last thing I think.
Hit me. With anything, everything. I have areas that are off limits, but they are mostly obvious: no bones, no vital organ areas, and nothing more than an open hand on breasts. But slap me, Yes. Punch, kick, body slam. Clubs, canes, dog toys, Yes. Thudding and resounding, stinging and cracking, Yes. Please. Yes.
I like to have my breath taken from me. I like safewords. I like having all my senses. I like saying Yes.
It comes to this: every time could be the last time I ever do this, and so I want it all. I would unhinge my jaw and open my mouth wide enough to swallow down the whole thing in one gulp. And so he asked what I wanted, and I gaped. Stared. Sputtered. May have said, questioning and quiet, “Everything?”
He smiled. He’s wicked, in spite of being so nice. Or because.
I didn’t know, and I told him as much. He pulled out a blade. I remember the glint of the metal as he held it across from me. My eyes must have lit up. Give me Christmas, give me danger, give me it. I took it from him reverently.
He laughed, told me I liked knives. That sounds right.
I said before there are things I am not interested in. But I still like them. I may like everything.
But knives are special. I asked him what knife play was like.
Bodies, close. The edge right there, at your throat, your chest, your face. The point so sharp that you are sure you will bleed, though you don’t have to. A knife is surrender. A knife is careful, control. Being pinned down and held and examined. Yes.
Our play that night is a jumble to me. I only remember him holding me against a wall, the blade at my breast, telling me he could cut off my nipple if I moved. Not moving, then. He slapped me. Yes.
I still need to be slapped sometimes, and am not above doing it to myself. When I to stop moving. When I need to be pinned. When I need. Yes.
He played a trick on me, had me close my eyes while he moved a MetroCard across my arm. The sensation is like being cut: with the blade at your throat and the exchange made, it suddenly feels so sure. I could die, I could move and bleed out. I could lose myself and love it. Yes.
I know he hit me. I know he protected me, moved people away from our scene when they got too close.
And at the end of the night, he gave me food. He held me against him as we waited for the train, and he stroked my hair. Told me I was good.
Knives are danger. Knives are death, dangled in front of you teasing. A sharp gleam of metal that could rip you apart, leave you aching to be put back together.