Brand Spanking New

In the sterile room, I lay as still as possible and stared at the halogen lamp on the ceiling.
The vinyl of the table was cool against my bare skin.
I tried to take deep, measured breaths; tried to calm myself.
There was no countdown, no warning. There was simply a flash of intense pain at my right shoulder. A curl of smoke trailed lazily into the air in front of my eyes. The room filled with the bitter scent of burning. The pain was of the sort that one usually experiences in a brief jolt. the reaction to such stimuli would under most circumstances be to pull away cursing and shaking. Instead, I remained perfectly still. The pain did not diminish, but it did become familiar. It was like an annoying co-worker: unpleasant, but, by necessity, tolerable.
Nor was the smell unpleasant. I had heard of cooking human flesh described as manifesting a sweet, savory scent, like roasted pork. And, indeed, when seasoned and slow-cooked in an oven, it might do so.
My flesh, however, when subjected to the saudering iron, produced a smell akin to bread left in the toaster too long.
Perhaps I have been starved of intimate contact for too long, but when the woman wielding the metal stylus, glowing hazard neon orange, leaned eagerly over my bare chest, resting her arm on my stomach, I felt overcome by a powerful emotion. It was not purely sexual arousal. Masochist though I may be, and tough guy thought I may aspire to be, the searing (literally searing) pain twisting its way across my shoulder prevented full tumescence, but there were elements of the sexual. Instead, it was a feeling of- for lack of a better word- comfort. It was similar, if comparisons must be offered, to the feeling not of desire for sex, but the tranquil glow which settles over one immediately following sex.
But the pain was ever present.
Have you ever held your hand on an oven, or over an open flame, for an extended period of time? Just to test your tolerance. Well, I have. I assume most people have. At some point the combination of the physical discomfort and the knowledge that such discomfort is entirely unnecessary, makes one pull away. In this case, the pain continued. And continued. And continued. As I say, it didn't decrease. It did not in any real sense change. Sure there were some nuances, due to how deep she was probing or where exactly she was -closest to the bone was the most sensitive. I could appreciated the subtlties. Oddly enough, it seemed to hurt more when I looked directly at it.
She was done far sooner than I imagined he would have been.
I glanced at her handiwork: the tool had gouged its way across my right deltoid, piercing several dermal layers. A set of three arrows, bent into an equilateral triangle, was etched into my skin.


Attraction is a mercurial devil, is it not?
There are so many tiny contributing factors - a baroque, clockwork array of shifting gears and triggers.
This body modification artist I went to see, por ejemplo. She was tattooed, pierced, and studded into unrecognizability. her youthful demeanor did much to mask the fact that she had stepped into early middle age, even distracting one from the grey strands in her crow's-feather-black hair. Her severe appearance did not entice instant desire. However, her professional attitude and the fact that she caressed me repeatedly before laying me shirtless on a table and incising my skin with a white-hot knife did much to stir fantansies.
I could not imagine myself kissing her, but a pleasing image of being strapped to the aforementioned table and beaten by her danced through my sub-conscious.
I must admit that even now, shoulder bandanged and gnawing at me with a nagging, radiating sting, I can see how body modification addictions arise. I would love to get another one. The pain opened the door to a peculiar level of intimacy between self and tormentor. And it made me aware in a primal way of my physical existence.
Pain in a sexual context is more manifoldly complex. I appreciate it for the above reasons, but also because it implies a power disparity. It is not the pain itself I desire, but the knowledge that someone has the power over me to cause me pain if they see fit.

Where was I?

Attraction.

You may remember that in a past post that I commented on a girl in my botany class. I was attracted until I saw how young she was and, soon after, how dizzy and naive she was. Well, I found myself walkng beside her on our way to class one morning, both of us a little late. I held the door for her and as she passed me into the stairwell I caught, along with the over-arching sweetness of her perfume, a playful, piquant whiff of marijuana. She had been smoking before school. This explained her vacant gaze during lecture. The rebelliousness this scent implied brought me 'round again, one-eighty. I found her definitively attractive again, and sorry I had overlooked her hidden depths.
Also that day I caught sight of a woman walking by in some sort of uniform. Not Camp Po. It was simple black fatigues, but the demeanor of assured authority set my heart a'racing.
Women, so I'm told, love a man in uniform. Some have speculated that this is because women, far-sighted and forever practical, love a man with a job. I believe it is for the original reason. Women crave authority. I do not wish to be sexist here. From what I know of the sex they are a mess of layered dominance and submissiveness. Men are, I believe, one or the other.
Also at HCC: I was in the library recently. While browsing the mythology section I noticed a lanky female trot up the stairs and enter the stacks. While soaked with what is termed geek-chic, she was still not quite my cup of meat. However, when I saw her notice and make a bee-line for a graphic novel interpretation of George R.R. Martin's Game of Thrones I nearly creamed my jeans then and there.
Likewise, I have noticed of late a bevvy of broads who, though physically appetizing, displayed something about their demeanor which indicated haughtiness, or callousness, or lack of depth and made me instantly repulsed.

Of late, I have been imagining myself, in my leisure moments, in the company of various girls (now, I realize that they are women both by legal definition and maturity of manner, but might prefer, for divers reasons, to be called "girls") of my acquaintance. I'll be reclining, supine, on my bed, stripped to my skivvies, and will let my thoughts wander to fantasies of them straddling me lustily, or playfully tickling the sole of one foot on their way into the other room. Anyway . . . with most of them, the fantasy soon shrivels up and dies after that, owing to the fact that I cannot see it progressing much further than the obligatory intercourse. One girl, though . . .
You know, in the Renaissance, artists would often insert people they knew into the backgrounds. The Disciples ate The Last Supper, for instance, might have all been acquaintances of Leonardo.
Well, if you have a crush on someone, I feel the same event occurs, but unintentionally. Your thoughts dwell on someone, for instance. Every other thought. All day. It becomes rather incessant. Anyway . . . you are thinking about an adored person. You hear a song. Ache for You, for instance, by Ben Lee. Why, this song is about us, you think. In fact, every song you hear seems to be about this person. Every apt character in every book. But, is this infatuation? Is your subconscious simply inserting a known quantity into these archetypes? Or is it something deeper?
And it has a snowball effect.
You're thinking about them. You hear a song. You project them onto this. It makes you think of them more. You hear another song . . .

Ugh. Attraction.

What a day. Up early. Photo shoot for my Costume-a-thon at the restaurant. Gym. House hunt frivolities. Class. Branding. Purchasing show tickets. Gym. Yoga. Home.
A bottle of wine and several helpings of frittata later and I am nearly concussed with alcohol and fatigue.
Yoga was intense this evening.
I attempted to show off to the instructrix - as futile an endeavor as trying to out-run Usain Bolt - and am now racked with muscle aches. Were I to engage in coitus at this moment (and I grant you that is an astronomically remote eventuality) it would be confined to cow-girl, or reverse cow-girl - a position my ex was not keen on, sadly. I think I would have enjoyed it. There's a naughty anonymity to the procedure. I can picture myself now, slipping a saliva-lubricated thumb into her anus  . . . something I only attempted once. Slipping a tongue into her anus, now that's another matter . . ..
Or lazy doggy-style. Oddly enough, my second-favortie position. Think missionary, but with the receiving partner on their stomach. I appreciate the raunchiness of doggy-style, with the added intimacy of your bodies pressed against each other, the ability to kiss her neck or nibble her ear . . .

I am deeply in my cups at this stage and need to focus. . .


I have recently started watching ALIAS, J.J. Abrams's second effort in television. It is thus far superior to LOST both in narrative cohesion and character depth.
It is difficult to watch, however, because it was the favorite show of an dear ex-friend and I cannot watch an instant of it without thinking of her.
There is a moment in the first season when the heroine, weak from physical and emotional trauma, kisses a friend of hers. This friend, played by Bradley Cooper, has feelings for her. I know that we're supposed to feel empathy for the heroine, Sydney (Jennifer Garner). But the jaded male in me can only watch it and think, "You bitch." You know he loves you. Don't entice him. The poor bastard winds up by the end of the season beaten and tortured, in the hands of the enemy, all due to his devotion to Sydney.
And the fact that my relationship with the friend who used to watch this show ended when I poored my heart out to her only to have it picked up and discared like a used Kleenex, forever stunting my emotional involvement with others all hits rather close to home.

 . . .

Damn. I need to get to bed.
Parents' Weekend kicks off tomorrow.
Wish me luck, of Best Beloveds.
'Night, night.