Black

by The Provocateur

(U)nless one wants to live a stunningly boring life, one ought to be on good terms with one’s darker side and one’s darker energies.”

She is a dominatrix and I am standing at her iron gate, waiting for her to answer. I don’t say this out loud, but: I come to her not to be dominated by her – nor anything else outside myself.

My lips are the color of a Clockwork Orange and when she opens the door, I do not tell her that I am here to violently reconquer myself. I do not tip my hat and tell her that I am here to put myself back together again.

Couple that with my broken heart and clearly: I am not very smart at all. The evidence is in the previous weeks of my life where, the stars have reflected exactly what the days have said: I am weak. This is weak. This week. The week before.

I believed that I was giving shape to love. And I was ready for love to shape me. But I lost track of minutes and murky moments. I started to drown. And then, I did.

Ever the exhibitionist, she neatly crawls up onto her purple couch and sticks her ass in the air. We joke, saying that, clearly, this must be her first time in front of a camera.

I can feel the blood surging to my midsection. My face becomes flushed. And, unbeknownst to me, for the next couple of hours I will forget everything beyond that front door and swelling darkly inside me.

Apart from that, I am no master at all. Laziness and pride has infected me. My internal world, a detritus which has proved caustic to everything outside of me, or,

Swirling in the unbelief and ethereal uncertainty that the death of love carries under its vulture wings and I have broken myself completely down. Taken everything apart. Bolts and screws and plugs and radiators, all laid-out before me now as a ghost; me as an empty vessel. Me as something that is the sum total of all the parts and bolts and gaskets.

I am snapping away and she crawls onto the teal bed. There is a wine glass full of water on the nightstand that her cat drinks out of. In the background is the sound of the ocean swelling and receding. Industrial music in the other room.

She tells me that she is wild, but it is unnecessary. I know this already. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t return like I have. Whichever way, without words, you can see it in her eyes. In her tattoos. In the way that she begins to run her fingers up and down her clothed cunt as she splays her legs open before me.

On the other hand, I fear the simpletons. I revile the medians in the middle of my road. I am not impressed by you, but always astounded and intrigued by what you do.

I do not want network television and sit-coms and remedial tasks, boring college degrees and shopping in malls, for leisure. I do not care about your pedestrian celebrities, or the fact that they fill that dying place in you, one of many, where you are hollow and infantile.

I want something developed. If it is light, then shine on me. Burn me. If it is dark, let me crawl into it. And let it crawl into me.

However, I feel it: I am beginning to resurface – from the nearly irreversible sadness that I believe I will carry with me for the rest of my days. Yes, it is this serious: When you gamble with your heart, you gamble with the whole fabric of your entire being.

Only days later and: I am older now. Now I am changed. Now I do not think about her as much. Now I do not wonder where or what or how she is doing. This despite the fact that I would still kiss her cheek softly, or race to rescue…

The dominatrix is completely naked and writhing on her bed. She is contorting into every conceivable position. She opens her legs and shows me all of her wet sex. She teases me the way she teases the camera.

I conceptualize the word “naked” and as I am unbuttoning my shirt I think about how I didn’t even remember putting on the fabric that I came with. I have felt so bare for so long. As I peel my shirt off, the dominatrix snaps away and I feel that my skin is charred. Sore. Burned.

My cock is being pulled from my pants. I am only a half-participant in the reveal. She is peeling me out and away from myself. Her cold hands and manicured fingers make my head light.

She snaps away on the camera and then cups my cock in her hand as she shoots with her one free hand. I can see the vibrant lust in her eyes, licking and clicking away.

If you cannot burn on your own, then please recede from me in peace like the dream that you were. For I want not your counsel, nor your arms…

She is between my legs, helping me give birth. In this regeneration, my cock is alternately in her hand and in her mouth. Sometimes, when she clamps down on me with all of her wicked sensualism, she uses both hands and her entire, wet mouth.

She gives me the camera and turns the light toward us. The light is hot and bulbous as the sun and drowns-out the world beyond her between my splayed legs and my cock sliding in and out of her wet mouth.

Now clothed again, for some etiquette’s sake, she begins to pull off her clothes. I hear her reach under the nightstand and when she comes back out, she wraps my cock in a sheeth and says, now I’m going to fuck you.

When I flip her over, I violently pin her legs up in the air. With all the rage of everything torn and reversed inside of me, I fuck the dominatrix. She is not fucking me.

I am forceful. I am not weak. I am pounding everything I have deep inside of her, and beyond. This is my fuck you, I do not need you, I do not belong here.

As I feel parts of me melting away, dripping from my body, I can feel the condensation of my matter, as though I am in a centrifuge. I can feel the ugly particles, the ugly, black thoughts separating. I can feel something even stronger reanimating my white particles – the particles that I will need two hours from now when I am hunched over my knees and sobbing in the deathly silence of everything behind me.

Where I once had a heart, I am now left with ignorance and sadness. And where a girl once stood before me as a representative of all the love I have to give and receive, I now only see a shadowy figure, blackened and coal.

“I have often longed for peace and tranquility — looked into the lives of others and envied a kind of calmness — and yet I don’t know if this tranquility is what I truly would have wished for myself.”– Kay Redfield Jamison

*****

The Provocateur  — this writer of words that elevate erotica into the realm of  literature — speaks to my heart, my very soul, every single time I find my way to his blog.  Here is where — in the hungry blush of sexual expression, exploration and need — sex is therapy is stigmata is truth is poetry is transformation is introspection is celebration is promenade is psalms is nexus is oxygen is the very marrow of our human-ness. 

Oh, dear reader, please do give yourself the pleasure, the gift, of reading his blog.

xo, Angela

This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 12th, 2008 at 1:35 pm and is filed under Smut by Proxy. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.