There is nothing static about performance art. Even if one were to stand in a department store window for 3 days, perfectly still, enduring the curious, probing eyes of passersby, there would still be the passage of time, the drying of skin, the dulling of eyes, the growling of belly, and the traces of urine down tired thighs.
We suffer for our art.
We suffer for our submission.
We suffer, we accept pain, and then pain persists as our skin becomes an evolution of art, like a canvas covered with specially compounded oil paints that change color over time.
I speak of two bruises. But in fact there are many bruises, clustered in two locations. My Master is right-handed. I was going to say his dominant hand is his right, but that seemed too easy. So he is right-handed. My right buttock and my left nipple are the ones that suffer most. There are only traces of a bruise on my left ass cheek. But oh... the right one.
There isn't as much pain now. Or, rather, the pain doesn't jump out at me on its own accord. It is still nestled in the muscles, though, and can be coaxed out with a little judicious massaging. I regret its passing, and do what I can to remind it that it is still welcome.
I wonder if the sadist is surprised at the form my reaction to the beating took. I'm sure he did expect my reaction would be strong - I am very sensitive to everything he does and says. But I don't think he expected this obsession with the torture and the pain and the bruises. I asked but in his usual cryptic way he didn't respond.
The bruise on my left butt cheek is actually more around the side towards the top of my thigh, below my hip bone. Today it has been an amazing purple hue, matching perfectly my long-sleeved pima cotton t-shirt which LL Bean has this year dubbed elderberry. Such thoughtfully coordinated attire is quite unlike me.
On the toilet at work, I squirm my head around to admire my bruise.
Here at home, I pull out a small mirror to get a better view.
In the bedroom, I stand before the mirrored closet doors and embrace my badge of submission.
And while wandering the Internet I window shop for floggers. Expensive, handmade, colorful floggers. I read the descriptions and wonder which would be right for me. What is it that I need to transform me into my Master's perfect, poetic property, trained and restrained by pain and praise? A thuddy blow? Stinging slashes? Nasty cats with tips that cut? This is bizarre, this is confusing, I didn't like the pain!
It screwed up my brain. And once I stopped crying (thank you, magic pills) I felt closer to him by the minute.
And the transformation continues.
Thank you, my Master.
Thank you for beating me.
Thank you for training me.
Thank you for choosing me.
Thank you for teaching me to please you.
I am yours, my Lord.
And the stripes from the cane are dancing in my flesh.