Love & Violence I

Loving everyone from a young age has its challenges. I was baptized as a baby in an open and affirming church, where many members were of the queer persuasion. As a curious child I asked my mother, “Can boys and boys get married and can girls and girls get married?” to which my mother responded, “yes they can.” What a novel idea to a five year old! (This was ten years before same-sex marriage would become a legal right in every state.) As a lover boy, I wanted to show my affection with touch. Sadly I had to learn early that I couldn’t hug everyone, I couldn’t kiss everyone, and I couldn’t tell everyone that I loved them. As I entered the public school system, I had to get creative with how I could physically touch someone. I turned to violence. Hitting, kicking, biting, screaming, throwing things…my parents kept a suspension letter from elementary schools after one of my more ferocious outbursts. The poor teacher who witnessed it recounted, “student showed no remorse.” It’s true that I didn’t. There was a fun aspect to overpowering someone, even if it landed me in detention. Oh no, being alone where I can read and draw! Tragic! I will certainly learn my lesson and not develop a kink for violence later!

I have this thing where I can visualize a feeling so intensely that I can’t help but wear it on my face. This can make it hard to concentrate at work, especially after a particularly rousing sexual excursion from the previous night or days gone by. I feel it in my cock, rising through my stomach, flushing my cheeks until I break out into a smile. Sometimes a small moan. I have to be careful at work, the dead silence and clattering of keys leads my mind to wander and the fantasies flood in. Fingers exploring skin, teeth finding new ways to tear at flesh, nails leaving beautiful crimson trails as they scrape along someone's back. Feeling their hand around my throat, closing my airways, so close to stifling my breath I can only gasp for air as I am fucked deeply, passionately. I love allowing my life to be in someone else’s hands. For a while there I could barely trust myself with my own life. This lead to darker fantasies…watching my intestines leave the vivisection of my stomach as my own blade drips with fresh blood. My severed head resting with a face of bliss after decapitation at the moment of climax. My hands and ankles, bound and purple from red ropes as my body is stretched to the ceiling, stripes of bruises from whips and bite marks dappling my freckled back.

All of this intensity, and I’ve kept it mostly to myself. As my anxiety turns into excitement and arousal, it’s becoming harder and harder to pretend I am a being of innocence and purity. Fuck that! I’m a whore and I’m tired of hiding and pretending to be demure! I still have to overcome the embarrassment of asking for a fuck, or a cuddle, or a kiss. Sometimes my raised-by-the-bible brain gets the better of me (nasty foul whore! repent or you will be condemned to eternal hellfire! gays and sluts are evil! etc.) and I hesitate, or choose not to engage to suspend pre-perceived rejection. I am lucky, though. I usually get what I need with patience and planning. Maybe a bit of magic, too.