I’ve been like this since I was very young. Motion-sickness. The worst of all evils. I recall leaving vomit trails on nearly every road trip (big or small) my family and I took; not to mention on my beautiful and scenic adventure through France in early 2015. Master J was convinced that I was intermittently leaving plots of my own DNA for people to find me, you know, in case his plan was to kidnap me and never let me return to my homeland.
Why am I telling you these gross details?
Because, every time I fly I take two Gravol to knock myself out. The effects of those little pills have never failed me…that is, until the day I left Portugal.
I walked on that plane, still feeling high from the all that had happened – the adventure, the experience, the stripper – when I noticed a brunette flight attendant standing at the opposite end of the aircraft. She was greeting people with a smile. Not just any smile, but one with genuine enthusiasm. Her hair was tied back, the shape of her dark eyes defined subtly by black eyeliner, her curved lips blushed with crimson flavor. I stood there in awe of myself, in awe of her, before realizing that I was holding people up. When Master J and I took our seats, he immediately put his head against the window to fall asleep. I leaned in close to him, still believing I’d too get some shut-eye. Instead, the nearly two-hour flight was filled with explosive images of Master J – my lover – doing to this flight attendant, all of the things he does to me.
My brain could not stop. She had set off mental fireworks of vivid sexual imagery I had never before envisioned, nor explored within my own psyche.
My skin tingled. My limbs quivered. My heart pounded. My mind raced.
What was happening to me?
When Master J and I landed in Nantes, France, we had a few hours to kill before our friend came to receive us. We found a cozy table in the corner of a small restaurant. He was smiling. I was quiet. I told him I hadn’t slept on the plane. He must of taken that (as well as my record of sickness) as the reason for my silence. He didn’t push me. We sat there, him, most likely recalling all the colorful memories of the trip; me? Trying not to implode. And, if you’ve read, A Stripper Saved My Life, you’ll understand that there’s really only one way for me to kick out my demons: write about them.
So, as I’m sitting in this little French restaurant with my Master, I pull out a pen and piece of paper, and this is what comes out of me:
The only details that matter about the night we met are that he was dressed in black, and holding a whiskey neat. I could smell disaster from across the room. When he kissed me that night, I felt the fire under his skin. The animal on his breath. The rapture in his chest. He didn’t like to be touched, he liked to touch. I liked to be hurt. He liked this better. It took a month for him to fall for me. It took less for me to worship him. When a man can spend his day loving you, then let it fall to his feet like a dirty robe once your legs are spread, you’ve found the key to an alternate universe.
It is sacred.
You protect it
Never let it out of your sight.
In the beginning there were more bruises and dirty words. As time went on everything became louder, deeper, more intense. The life married to a savior…every time he touches you, it’s like a shot of heroin. I do not shame the addicts.
The jet-fuel rush is traumatizing, liberating, unfathomable.
I understand the allure.
The first time we made love, I laid on my back.
Ankles bound together.
Legs straight up in the air.
A rope from my ankles to the head board.
My body at a ninety degree angle.
My hands secured to each bed post.
He spent time; moments feeling like hours.
Grazing with his fingers, his lips, his tongue.
It was the first time I was scared of my own body.
My flesh crawled, then went numb.
My limbs trembled and ached.
My mouth released sounds that were not my own.
My eyes filled with tears, and my skin burned as they fell.
The bed was no longer against me.
I was floating.
I was somewhere on the ceiling, breathing lighter air, receiving the head rush of pure oxygen from way up there. I didn’t know if I would explode or implode, or turn to dust simply to be swept away by him. He fucked me so well, I thought I’d disappear with the passing time.
Piece by piece.
What a beautiful death that would have been.
But the orgasm came to save me.
It twisted and convulsed inside of me, ripping its way out.
I was a monster.
I had not known she lived there, in some deep, untouched place.
The second she was released, life ended as I knew it. All of me died. I did fall into dust beneath him, only to be awoken into a greater existence. I am the phoenix. I am life and sex and the Universe itself. Everything revolves around me. I can feel it when he’s there, touching me. I can feel it, and therefore it must be…
I could not keep this for myself. I couldn’t. Nor did I want to. I had to experience this on a different level. Feel that sixth sense.
I needed to watch him with another woman, see her turn to dust, too.
I am the phoenix.
I am the devil.
Because I love watching the animal being released.
Because nothing else exists of him but his animal.
I love seeing these women escape, watch their beasts run freely.
The untamed inhaling for the first time.
They are all different, and I breathe them in.
The Universe wants our wild freed.
That’s what keeps Her strong.
So, I feed the Universe.
They would be free, but that would be all.
What happens once the wild is out, yet goes unnourished?
There are over three billion women in this world.
I am the devil.
He is my savior.
He belongs to no one else.
When I write impulsively like this in front of him, Master J struggles with an engulfing curiosity. So, I pushed it across the table. I let him read it. I watched his eyes. I saw a glint of intrigue, yet confusion.
Where is this coming from?, he wanted to ask. Yet, instead, he breathed, “Wow.”
“There’s something I need to tell you.” It seemed irrational to spill my secret, for I had merely just discovered it a few hours ago. Although the Portuguese stripper oxygenated my fire, I was still trying to break down the mechanics of what got it started in the first place. What am I?, very rapidly became a real, and daunting question in my mind. Once I said these words, could I ever take them back? What would happen next? What would our relationship become? How would Master J look upon me? With more desire, or would the change frighten him?
It seemed irrational, yet I trusted my instinct. The anxiety bubbled to the surface, I felt tears in my eyes, my hands were shaking. Suddenly I felt I was looking into the eyes of a stranger, from the body of one. The two of us – lovers, best f
riends – suddenly had a distance between us, and I was terrified that my words would birth its permanence. But the fire was blazing, and hot, and too powerful for me to contain…so I trusted him, the way he always asked me to, and I let it go:
“I want to watch you fuck another woman.”
Fuck-well, my friends!