I remember vividly the first conversation I had about it. Well, actually it was the second one. Two of my closest friends fell silent on that old and lumpy sofa. They were looking at me with questioning eyes. Maybe they were trying to find a flicker of humour in my eyes, hoping to not have to take me seriously.
I don’t remember them saying anything at all. Which is funny because at another time and place I had talked with the other one, K, and she had shared similar secrets. But when faced with a situation that was confrontal, she fell silent, and I was silenced. I didn’t understand why they felt so uncomfortable. In the past we had talked about lots of incriminating acts and feelings: fucking in a bar bathroom, with a married man in his office, threesomes and then somes. Why was it different this time?
The other conversation had been very different and let me to believe I could talk about these things.
It happened in early september, walking in a park, pushing forward against the cold sea wind. It happened when we were trying to bond again after a long period of not seeing each other, her being half a world away. It was wonderfull. For everything I opened up about, my friend K would reciprocate. She told me about a leather bench and restraints and some fun she’d had with a guy she barely knew. Somehow, though, that might have been the biggest difference now that I think about it. To her it was something daring, almost dangerous but a fun tale to tell, a once in a life time experiment. To me it was something deeply unsettling. Something I’d found out about myself. We probably didn’t understand each other very well that day but it felt like it. I felt accepted and understood. I really needed to, too. It was all very beautiful, the skies were clear and she was back in my life with a Bang.
When I learned more, experimented more, found a way to sink in to a play with Wonderboy and to detatch of my old scores, I naturally wanted to share the feelings and thoughts of disbelief and happines extacy I felt. I really wanted to share what had been happening to me. I’m usually very open about my thoughts and analyze everything to bits if given the slightest chance. The conversation on the sofa was a first sign that I’d gone too far, in my actions as well as words. It wasn’t sexy chitchat anymore, like the stories of the writhing bodies in the bathrooms that we used to laugh off. My friends really couldn’t relate. I was all alone. I could talk to noone about it.
That’s when I started surfing the webs with a reason. I read Bitchy Jones and understood all the sentiments if not the actions. Suddenly I bounced from A Girl with a one track mind to Maymay and on to A Place to Draw Blood Laughing and to Clarisse Thornton. And then stumbled upon the sweet Denied Thumper. And while it makes no sense at all, Thumper was the most influential. A trigger in my head went off. He’s thoughts were not only so close to mine but they were hot. Something, somewhere in me wants to be bound, caged, denied. Not like Thumper, probably, but somehow.
Here’s where I am now. Holding a loaded gun very gently so it wouldn’t go off in a wrong direction.
I tried to talk to Wonderboy but he really didn’t understand how male chastity could cause me to trigger (in a good way). Realizing that I really have noone to talk to I put this Blog up and hastily wrote two posts. And felt relief. Now I had a way, finally, to talk about it.
Then late last night – or early this morning – I realized that I can’t talk about things that are private between me and my Wonderboy. Because he wouldn’t want that. I felt a pain in my gut that caused me to sit up and leave him in bed wondering where I went to in the middle of the night. So I dashed to save his dignity and took away the post about sweating and biting, my second post here (now put back up, moderated with taste). I could almost hear him sigh of relief although he didn’t know about the post. I thought about why I want to write this Blog and what I want to write about, and it turns out it’s gonna be just whiny, self-indulgent, self-doubting chronics of a lost girl. (I somehow would really want to use a label here but what would it be? I guess my academic need to label and cathegorize everything strikes empty now. Because I don’t feel the names fit. And I’m a long way from admitting that it’s just because of my wrong images of what’s behind them.)
I need to talk about it. I want to share how I got here. But I can’t betray his trust. So it’s just gonna be me. A girl with kaleidoscope eyes.