I was being clawed, well, picked, I suppose.
I attended CLAW 12 this past weekend, serving as boy to Dr. Jones from the 15 Association in SF. I had a good time, time shift and lack of sleep aside.
More importantly, I had a major revelation during a brief play session with Dr. Jones. I tend to not watch during tactile play, mostly since my eyes roll back in my head so immediately. His used a cherished gift on me: a set of modified banjo picks sharpened to points, one for each finger tip. Lightly used, they offered up heaven; more heavily used, they unlocked everything.
I have known for most of my life how very much I remember of it; details, sensory experiences, dialog. All of it stored tightly in my head. Now I have full understanding that my body memory is every bit as profound.
Dr. Jones focused in on one nipple, increasing the pressure of the picks. My euphoria turns to panic and fear in an instance, even as I recognized the silliness of such things with this man. My mind raced with current sensory signals and past memory recall overlapped simultaneously, something I experience often at summer camp. And in this case, I returned to this past camp session. The Needle Man put a single needle in the same nipple. The experience was overwhelming and soon shut me down, asking him to remove the needle. I began sobbing, wallowing in defeat and reliving the moment prior to chemo when I was informed that my metal had to be removed.
As Dr. Jones continued teasing my nipple with the metal fingertips, my sobbing was severe. So many emotions drown me: sadness, regret, shame. I felt unworthy, unable to take even the lightest of sensations during play. I awoke a shame of which I had been unaware. One I have been carrying since my last flogging about two and a half years ago. My body unlocked all of its repressed memory, and in it I felt unworthy, isolated and alone in a leather community so strongly focused on intense acts I do longer feel I can process. I had been hiding a sense of less-than that begged the debate of my right to belong. I opened up a locked-up sense of failure and comparison I am not one to carry. I was ashamed of both my shortcomings in play and my wallowing in these awful thoughts.
Through tears and running snot, I fought to control my ragged breathing and communicate some small bit of this to Dr. Jones. He soothed me and held me tight, rocking me as I continued to sob, helping me to dismiss the demons I hadn’t even known I carried. Of course, logically, I knew these things to be untrue. Admittedly, I am still stunned by how much bleak and demeaning crap was held so tightly in my body, locked into my muscles and bones.
I am cleansed of the bulk of it, and empowered to dismiss what remains. I have gained more of myself to carry proudly into my journey through life.
(Thinking back to it as I reread the post, I am grateful for how easily such things unlock in me, seeing as that the session was quite brief. And I am curious to realize that this same brevity is part of the sense of shame I felt in not being about to take the intensity that I witness among my peers…)
And now, sitting at MDW waiting my connecting flight, I drift away from this outer world, lost and floating in the ether without the weight of the lock and chain that is no longer about my neck. I drift. I sit numbly, waiting to return directly to a job I despise. But… I know I belong in the world of kinky men. I know I am on a difficult journey of self-development that may leave me often with such feelings of isolation among the men that I adore. I know I am loved. I know I am worthy. I hope that I will find more of these men that embrace my weirdness the more I embrace it myself. I hope that I will learn better vocabulary to bring them deeper into my world if I am to travel deeper into theirs…
And I hope that I become more of the man I am meant to become for knowing the generous, nurturing heart that belongs to Dr. Jones. I am humbled and honored to know him and share his space.
gryphon's hole 