I Guess I Said Yes.

The room grows very quiet, all of a sudden, as I get on my knees and stretch my arms up over my head and look at him, propped up on one arm, and staring at me. A familiar fear washes over me, and I wonder what joy I ever extracted from wearing bravado on my skin, it's no fun at all to be brave nor to play it. No, I'm scared, and I'm always scared when the sun goes away and takes with it all the tenderness with which he touches me during the day. 

"I'm terrified," I announce, because I find that speaking my fear makes a difference to something. 

It doesn't go away but it seems less threatening to me. He looks at me, squinting his eye, and pulling me closer by arm. 

"Do you want a break?" He asks, and it's not a threat, it's a consideration that I appreciate, "Do you not want to do this tonight?" 

It's interesting because I don't know what *it* really is. *It* can mean anything. The night before last *it* meant beating my legs to see exactly how far I can take the silence he demands. I was alarmed at how far I can take it, at some point, the activity became meditative, and I detached from my skin in a way that I never have before. I was trying to see if I can erase the instinct to anticipate completely, because most of the time that's where the urge to visibly, loudly and openly react comes from, it comes from your expectation of the pain, and the arithmetic of where, when and how hard it will land. About a year ago I watched an interview of a monk alongside which they demonstrated a study of his brain activity which showed that he had no response to the anticipation of the pain. No emotional response to pain. I've been wanting to access that ever since, and while I've been practising it ever since, i hadn't been able to really succumb until that night. 

I don't know if I can do it again, or at least whether it's a space I can freely access so far. It's like meeting someone new that you just know is going to be in your life forever but because you just met them you can't rightfully barge into their bedroom yet. I wonder if that's a relatable sentiment, whenever i share these I'm terrified I'm about to find out I'm a freak. I couldn't access this space last night when we were doing *it*. Last night *it* meant cuffing and chaining me down to see what happens when you hit the bruises on someone's leg with a very fat stick. The answer, to no one's surprise, is more bruises. It's also more noise, by which sadly, i mean twelve audible gasps because this is where we are not, whimpers and gasps are a riotous to his ear apparently and I think that's very attractive. Is what is means to be old? Those two nights sound similar, but there was a difference in energy. I sound like a hippie, I feel terrible, I make fun of people for saying "vibe" and "energy" all the time and I am afraid I use those terms liberally. I do it with the impunity thay when *I* do it it's okay. It's no wonder I have to go through life being beaten to correct all the little injustices i commit in my head. Tonight's energy is different as well. He's kinder but i suspect the kindness has to do with my weakness. 

"Does it matter if I want to or not?" I ask, and immediately feel the need to explain, "I'm not being cocky, I just need to know to be able to answer." 

I really did. My answer really was contingent upon his answer, I just wasn't sure what the condition was. 

"I guess whether it matters or not depends on your reason for not wanting it," he says, sitting up   so he was looking directly at me, "If, indeed, you do not want it."

Tonight's energy is thoughtful, I suppose. It is very different from last night's mindless, blind cruelty and somewhat reminiscent of the gentle, kind sadism of ereyesterday. That night he would have stopped if I had taken so much as a deep breath, last night I may have gotten away with a soft scream. A thoughtful energy demands communication, and these little conversations where we show ourselves to each other seem to cradle something in my heart that demands it only be pummelled. 

"What reason would make you not want to do it?" I asked, "What would qualify as a good enough reason?" 

He wonders, and I can see him decide who he wants to be. Does he want to shut down my probing and force me to answer or does he want to probe himself to answer?

"I suppose if you are just scared, if it is just fear of what may happen and nothing else, it doesn't matter," be says, making his choice, "But if you feel broken, exhausted or too emotionally overwhelmed to do this, it does matter. If all these nights have left you needing some comfort, i understand." 

That's the right answer. I know this for sure because I don't like it at all, yet I know it is correct. All these nights have left me, something. It started with the first night, actually, something insane happened. First i discovered when he stepped on my fingers a few times while circling me as he kicked me as I lay on the floor that I have wasted my life not asking men to step on my fingers. Truly, how does it take one thirty years to discover this? He did it until they were fucking bleeding, and maybe it's the instinct of an animal that I possess somewhere deep inside but once I see blood I cannot, I cannot stop. I must be destroyed. I begged, I begged until he just had to fuck me, to be beaten. He had to tell me it was enough, I couldn't accept it. I swear, and don't learn nothing from me kids, I heard stuff crack in my face and I couldn't fathom that any blow was hard enough. I cried because it wasn't enough. It couldn't have been. I fell asleep in one second that night. I woke up insane. Just, all books and poetry and jumping into lakes. And a lopsided mouth. 

The problem is, and this is my disease, i form habits very easily. Too easily. I don't need 21-days, if I do something two days in a row, I'm going to factor that in as routine immediately, and that's why, if you beat me once, you should beat me twice, and it's very likely you'll have to beat me the third time and by the fourth time that's just what we do at 9 PM. My most serious fetish within masochism (seriously, why don't we classify fetishes like this? Subsections are where it's at), is the fourth beating. You just have to keep doing, if you did it twice, I need it a million times. On schedule. Like clockwork. There's something sick about it too, you paint a blank canvas that's wonderful, but you take one that's already covered the paint-stains of yesterday's mistakes and you create something else all over it, that's sick. It's less sick in painting terms, admittedly. Let me try again. You take a woman who's broken at the mouth, limping at the hip, purple in the calf, blue in the arms, sore in the cunt and your instinct is, let's fuck her up some more? That's sick, and I am here for it. It's my most serious fetish within masochism, which is why usually the fear, that's no deterrent, but this guy, he makes me consider things seriously. The *it* is too ambiguous with him, and I must consider all possibilities. 

"I think I am just scared, just terrified," i tell him, and it is the truth, "I wonder when I'll find the edge of my tolerance and some nights it feels like I may be there, but then I walk a little further, and I'm not, but in the moments of consideration... I'm scared."

He never, ever says '*don't be scared*' in response to that. Sometimes I say it for him, in my head, but maybe it's an honorable thing that he doesn't say it, he definitely doesn't mean it. 

"That just sounds like fear, I don't really give a fuck," he says, "But you didn't actually answer my question, do you not want to do this?" 

He's right, but he is also wrong. I didn't answer the question, but i established the condition, and gave him all the information that was relevant to it. 

"The truth is I cannot answer," i tell him, "I am so used to not considering what I want when it comes to...this, to you, that I don't ever really factor it in."

He laughs. It's not funny, but it is true, I really cannot answer this question. I don't want to either, if I did, *this* is not the game I would choose to play. The very fact that I will sign off my will, my ability to say yes and to say no, manifests in moments like this when it is very clear that I do not want to choose. It's where I want to go. I want to go to the place where it doesn't matter what I choose, and for that to truly be achieved, I must not choose, and it's made easier by the fact that apparently, I cannot choose. 

"It's okay, you don't have to answer," he says, getting up off the bed, "In fact, you probably shouldn't say another word tonight, I've heard enough from you." 

He pulls me the bed, and I get on my hands and knees myself to avoid falling. 

I guess, I said yes.