The cane marks that Ethical Hedonist inflicted a few weeks ago have almost gone, my skin now has the barest smudge of silvery lines across the top of my thighs. Shadows of something you can't really see. In a while, they will have disappeared completely as if nothing ever happened. I'll be back to being an empty canvas once more, the only marks those that I display permanently: my piercings and tattoo.
The hand-made marks from floggers or whips are short-lived mementos, like the electronic imprint frozen on old computer screens. They are notes and reminders, to myself and to others, of a particular activity that is specific and unique to one person and one moment in time. They are the biro scribbled phone number on the back of your hand after leaving the club, something to remember the night by, something to act upon. I can smile in the shower as I catch a glimpse of them in the mirror and can think who put it there and why and when I'll see them again.
The ink and ironwork are different. They stay put. These are the more general markers in my life, decisions I have made about my identity that I felt strongly enough to put on my skin forever. These too, make me smile, but not on any fond memory specifically. When I see them, I'm reminded not of other people and other places, but of myself.
Inescapable extended captivity in rope bondage
1 month ago