Monday, September 22, 2008


My fingers toy with my rings as I lie in the warm cocoon of our bed, and I find myself astonished as they burrow through the curling thicket, having forgotten it is so soft, warm and tender and tickling. Like lost treasure, the sensitive fingertips seek the solace of the cool metal, one, two, three, four, silver twirling through flesh grown tight and intimate, flesh untouched and growing cool.

A very long time ago I began shaving, so long ago I can’t remember when I began but my recollections are all of smoothness and the glint of silver rings. Rings whose sterling circle of ownership skewered through flesh in a blinding, hot, aching moment of pain each time I had one done. I remember the cluttered basement, with the fine blond hair of the artist spilling over her narrow shoulder, dress hiked to my hips, long bare legs obscenely spread, feet in stirrups, spread wide like a sacrifice to some ancient god, fretting and wondering if the hot sweet smell of sex lingered still or if it were my imagination.

My heart beating, voice tight as I pretended nonchalance but remembered agony tightening the strong muscles of calves and my thighs flexing as I fight to keep them spread. And her voice, calm, kind, explaining each step, the long silver skewer glinting in the strong light which illuminated me unforgiving, picking out the reality of childbirth and scars of time. The sudden coolness as she swabbed the almost delicate labia, the nudge as she marks the spot and then a breath, deep, and a conscious counting of seconds as the tip of the skewer pricks then slides through skin and gristle and the hot white RAGING pain, a sharp vicious pinch of molten fire and then the lesser pinch, almost a relief as she threads the ring through and the circle is complete and the clasp done and the ring is nestled in the most intimate of places.

The hardest part was waiting for the next one… anticipating that awful pain, borne stoically for his pleasure.

How lovely they looked, my rings against the pale translucent flesh, flesh stained the most delicate of pinks when freshly washed and ready. To retain that velvet soft skin was a daily ritual, as straightforward and mundane as washing your face or teeth but in the doing, the scrape of the razor over the intimate folds and swirls, the complicated delicious complexity that is a woman was a reaffirmation of my place, so eagerly embraced.

I had indeed forgotten what nature intends, the look, the feel. How different everything is! From the mound, so vulnerable and appealing in its naked state, now softened and obscured by a soft thicket of golden red curls, whirls and curlicues, soft as a kitten’s fur to my fingers which dance and burrow and learn anew the complexities of my forgotten body.

Like an ancient site of worship, an Aztec shrine, obscured now with the creeping reality of now, I feel myself disappearing, as if the natural order of reality has reasserted the dominance of time and laid claim once more to the circle of life.

I have never really managed nor wanted to separate the reality of the physical me from the spiritual or sexual being and have always found the outward is often a barometer and outward manifestation of
the inner.

My fingers burrow and explore and I find myself lost in the complexities of the now and the sweet, intimate parts of me slowly disappear, sinking beneath the detritus of a soul gone dead and I wonder, poignantly, whether my time is over.

1 comment:

Buffalo said...

Though sometimes smothered to a tiny ember by the miasma of darkness sent by a sometimes capricious and malovent universe, the soul can not die. Our concentration on the darkness may prevent us from feeling the warmth, but it exist none the less.