Intro, Of Sorts
Part One of the Submission by Kay series.
Here is what I know:
For the longest time I was a cutter. In a very loose sense of the word. I never broke the skin. There was just something about dragging the sharp edge of something along my bare flesh that filled a part of me. My physical pain, I found, had the ability to match my emotional pain. I had concrete evidence that I was, indeed, hurting. But it was evidence only for myself. I had scratches on my body, sure, but they were in places that I could easily cover with clothing. No one else could know. Unless I wanted them to. And a part of me wanted them to make the effort to discover those scratches, but no one ever did. So my outlet was temporary because after a while, the fact that no one ever noticed began to cause me more pain.
I began to tell people. And then I realized that I was having to defend my status as a “cutter.” I didn’t break skin. My injuries meant nothing. While self-inflicted, they meant nothing compared to the many people who drew blood. Who made scars. I was never one for blood.
But I kept doing it, kept dragging sharp edges across the skin, my tears stopping as I felt a jagged edge dragged across my thigh.
And then one day it just went too far. I won’t get into the details because I’m sure you’d rather not know them. Personally, I’d rather not know them but it’s something I’m forced to live with.
At any rate, I tried rather unsuccessfully to slit my wrist with a razor but I chickened out when the skin broke. It stung too much. So instead I downed a bottle of pills, then ran down the hall to get help.
And suddenly people cared. People wanted to know why.
And that was when I stopped knowing why.
I went to a therapist. And even now, almost two years later, I’m still seeing the same woman. And I’ve still barely scratched the surface of my problems. Pun intended.
A few weeks ago I moved in to my new place.
I had a huge fight with my parents the day I was slated to move out and it ended with me in tears, practically hyperventilating as I sped down the road, my car loaded with all manner of boxes.
My roommate invited her friend over that night. We started talking about sex, as my friends and I are very open about our sex lives and our preferences in the bedroom (in fact, the few that know about this endeavor of mine are very supportive of it!).
I don’t know how the subject came up, I mean specifically…I know how it eventually came up, knowing my friends the way I do. At any rate, I mentioned at some point that I enjoy knife play. Which, at that point in time was a lie. Not a complete lie. I rather did like the idea of knife play. I’d just never…played…before.
Let’s just say the night got better as the guy pulled his knife out and began to drag it across my skin. I’d never felt anything like it. I mean…I had, obviously as I’d formerly done stuff like it to myself…but it was something completely new now. It felt different to have someone else in control of the blade, to control how long it dragged or where it dragged. And I found it highly, highly erotic.
He dragged it over my nipples, over my stomach, my neck, pressing the cool blade into my skin, leaving beautiful pink scratch marks in its wake, marks that I would begin to feel alarmingly proud of.
He tied my wrists together and I found myself unable to clutch anything, barely able to writhe comfortably as he continued to drag that blade. And it was even more erotic. My body felt hot, the space between my legs aching terribly. Pain had become pleasure.
He came back a couple days later, his manner more forceful, pressing me against walls, slamming my face into the bed, tugging my hair. But the more he did, the more I began to enjoy myself. It was intense. It was insane. And it felt so wrong that it began to feel so right. He gave me more scratch marks and this time, I found them accompanied by nice blue bruises, some of those bruises still visible even now.
I was hooked.
Days later, my roommate took me to a friend’s house. She’d told me a lot about him and his girlfriend and the lifestyle they have. His girlfriend and my roommate are like sisters and she gladly showed me their “dungeon,” a basement with a large table at one end and all manner of suspension gear along the other, not to mention an entire wall lined with shelves covered in any manner of toys and devices necessary for their lifestyle.
Later that night, I got into a discussion with her boyfriend and I found myself practically drooling at the thought of working with them. I asked if he would train me and he readily agreed to, offering to go ahead and take me down to the basement for further discussion, including in depth descriptions of the toys and implements.
Later, there was more.
To be continued...(next Sunday)...
**This is an edited version of Kay's first post on her new blog, A Life Beneath. For the full version (not much is cut out, but there are more posts) you're welcome to visit her blog.
Or just stop by here next Sunday for her next post, "My First Lesson".**