Warning for graphic description of consensual cutting & sexual language in this post.
Today is the day I cut you.
First, you can expect to be pushed back against the wall by my sharp strong fingers, fingers that lay bricks, bake creatively, and type out a revolution in the heavens and a rebellion against hell.
No coated nails for you, no whoredom – short clean nails, as befits a Goddess without masks.
I shall understand that while your will is strong, you are merely human, and affix your hands above you, where they won’t try to have any last minute change of heart.
Do you have one; is it strong, stronger than the desire to avoid pain, strong enough to bleed freely for me?
We shall find out.
I take my knife, small and well-sharpened, the blade deceptively curved like the smile of a kittycat, and open it.
I consider the following carefully before I begin to carve open your flesh – what is the measure of a man?
Is he a mere passive beast, a cringing slug that seeks to crawl towards pleasure and flinch from pain?
The measure of a man, in my mind, is simple – he is a being who defines himself as something bigger than his urges, something that surpasses the warm flush of sensation from the latest toxin waved before his eyes.
He is man made god, by his ascent beyond beasthood into that state of personifying greatness, and the greatness can only come from some concept higher than the envelope of flesh in which my beloved is delivered to these planes.
So I begin to cut, carefully and with one hand holding the flesh taut, into the left-side pectorals.
As a child I possessed many books, always curious to open the covers that held universes within them, and among my Ladybird books was a story of the “Indians” of the American plains.
It contained a graphic depiction of the Sun Dance, in which young men proved their ability to be more than sensate meat by piercing their chests with dual wooden bars, affixing cords from these to a central pole, and dancing around this until they attained the ecstatic state in which they were able to tear through their own flesh and walk away from the pole, as men – freed from the bondage of infantile tender skin, a triumph of will over won’t.
I loved this book.
I loved, especially, that page, a full-colour realistic drawing complete with flames, the skin dragged up and out, and the blood flowing slick in the sacred night.
This is how you must bleed for me, to define yourself as more than meat, my friend, my love, my diamond in the rough.
Are you ready?
Carving into your skin takes longer even for me than I expect, but of course, your time is longer, each second spent crafting multiplied by the shocking horror of having your body violated, nerves sliced and skin ripped open.
And I don’t speed up to accommodate this, of course.
The male body can be beautiful or obscene, but most males manage to have attractive pectorals, suited to their shape and form – it’s the finest part of a man, sitting above his heart, covering the organs of respiration, that cellular reactor within; of this, the finest section still is the left-hand side, above the heart.
We come back to your heart, beating madly as the rest of your frame sustains the shock of being carved like an oak tree, to define my will surpassing yours, and in so doing, lifting it to transcendent heights.
Above that beating drum: to mark a man here is to mark in the most profound of ways; he who wears a scar or brand or ink here, is marking himself uniquely a god, more so than the abstractions of arms or back or shoulders, they are mere mechanisms, tools, here is the seat of the will, and the shrine of the ascended self.
Living human skin is somewhere between thick rubber and leather, it resists then tears oddly: snags, suddenly, and tries to bury a blade in suffocating fluids, seeking always to escape, to end this, to make it be as though it were not so. Never was there so grudging a penetration, as my small sharp knife into your flushed and animal flesh.
As I carve the symbol into your left pectoral, the skin tries all its tricks, but I am wise to them, I have cut men before, I cut meat, I cut wood, I cut all the time, and I cut truly therefore, in spite of this resistance.
Your face is transformed, as at orgasm, into a mask, and I glance occasionally to take in each crease, reaching from orbit to jaw line, so beautiful in your pain on this sacred day.
The parts of me that bleed and bring life are sympathetically warm and aroused, but I will not cheapen this moment by focusing too heavily upon their arising, nor shall I consider whether you have yet found your own.
Cut, cut, cut.
I know, from bearing pain, what has gone through your mind, I see its stages writ plain like a poem I can recite – the first jolt of adrenaline, the early moments of wondering why exactly the fuck you would have put yourself in this position, the seconds where your mind scurries like a small and trapped animal, wondering if there’s a way out that would leave you feeling whole, can you take it, will you be freed? – then that moment when the transcendence kicks in, often from the back and base of skull and spine, you accept the sensations without resistance, and let them work their alchemy upon you.
I have known pain, I have known this state of transcending, from beast to Grail, and I see it in the slow transformation of face and iron muscles, away from dreading hell, and into acceptance of the fire.
Finally my work is complete.
The flesh parts that I have removed from you are spattered obscenely upon my red dress where I have wiped them, the velvet clotted and the shreds looking like semi-transparent gems, gelid and sharp – I have done this crude wiping deliberately, because I must be garbed in your cast-off flesh, the man who has become god, for the ritual to be correct.
And I have resisted the need to drive you deeper into hell, with red wine, salts, or vinegar on the wound, as well – you’re strong and will heal without the cleansing, and I want to fuck you without screams.
I place my smeared hand on your forehead, and you know to open your eyes.
I look into them for a long time – some primal aspect in the ritual says to take that knife, and slide it, just deep enough, into heart, veins, arteries, if what I see there is incomplete, if the fire of pain, will, and suffering have not transmuted the man within. If I see cringe, or fear, or dread, or anger within your eyes.
But I see what I sought: the eyes of a god, a man who has faced his fears and given up his flesh, to rise with me.
I have seated this symbol above your heart: you are complete, my love, my lovely, I have carved from you the weakness, the ape-pig-beast that held that you back, and replaced it with the divine.
I free your hands, taking wrists in my hard small fingers like play-handcuffs, and lead you to the altar, the bed, where finally I allow my attention to follow my own throbbing pulse, and where I will deliver you to a rhapsodic release, using every avenue of flesh and ecstasy.