a brother of breath

February 16, 2019

For people could close their eyes to greatness, to horrors, to beauty, and their ears to melodies or deceiving words. But they couldn’t escape scent. For scent was a brother of breath. Together with breath it entered human beings, who couldn’t defend themselves against it, not if they wanted to live. And scent entered into their very core, went directly to their hearts, and decided for good and all between affection and contempt, disgust and lust, love and hate. He who ruled scent ruled the hearts of men.

Patrick Süskind
Perfume: The Story of a Murderer

pain tells me that I am loved

September 16, 2018

Hanging around the office

By any standard pain is powerful, but for a masochist it is even more potent. Pain can unlock the mind, or shut it down. For a masochist, it can quiet the loudest of thoughts, and leave in their place the echoes of affection.

Sadness, for most, will mean that they need to be held until the tears stop. When other women are angry they may need space to cool off. Perhaps when they are frustrated they need time to think, and work through the problem.

But that isn’t what I need. I need pain.

For a masochist, for me, pain can heal. Do I want to be held? Yes, of course. I need to feel the firm pressure of your arms around me, and your soft words whispered against my ear. I need you to hold me and tell me that it will be okay, to talk me back to reason, and remind me that this too shall pass.

But first, I need you to pull me over your knee and warm my skin with the touch of your palm. I need you to coil your hand around my neck until my sorrows fade to black. To tie me down and multiply my tears until there are none left to be cried. I need you to drown out my inner monologue with the floods of pain.

Not because I’ve been bad, not because I shouldn’t be sad, not because you don’t want to hold me, but because you know that your hand on my skin is affection. Because you understand that the lingering heat, the sharp sting, and the aching marks your hand leaves in its wake, still my mind. They remind me that despite the storm, I am yours. Because you know that the pain tells me that I am loved, and some days the voice of pain is the only one I hear.

Pleasurewhore
The Power of Pain