It's a new year, and the threads of my confused life are weaving a complicated tapestry.
For 24 hours I was immersed in Judaism as I know it. I lit the Shabbos candles before a crowd of hundreds, I prayed with friends, I was a welcoming warmth, I spoke as Jonah, impressing with my theatricality, and I made people think I am sweet and generous. Which I am. Sometimes.
Even there, I was a cut and marked woman. Property of a raging sadist. The scabbed scarlet letter on my butt was covered with gauze, and its healing distracted me with its itching. Prayers and readings reminded me of the man who owns and tortured me, and I made notes relating what I read to what I feel and how I live. And I told my leatherman friend that I'd had a BDSM story published after hugging a young masochist friend whose partner had unexpectedly died of a heart attack a few weeks ago.
I welcome the crossover.
I have a new housemate. Young, sweet, and musical, she has brought good vibes back to my house. She's away for the weekend. I miss her. What joy to have a housemate I can miss!
Musical friends are in town. Tonight they perform at a club in DC. They play Eastern European music and they are great. I'll go see them with other friends from that part of my identity. The guy who started the band is gay. We talk about it. Well, mainly he talks... But he doesn't know I'm submissive. I keep that from most of my gay friends.
S-- comes to town on Tuesday. I'll pick him up at the airport, we'll spend some time at a nature sanctuary, and then have dinner with our mutual friends. The ones I'm going out with tonight. S-- will stay over, but not in my bed. I have to scurry and clean up the guest room, evicting Ketzel from her nest. We are friends now, S-- and I, but no longer have sex. It's better that way. A week ago I had wondered if he would want to sleep with me after all. But I can't now. My Master marked me. Whether or not he wanted that outcome, I won't want to have vanilla sex until the thin line of dried blood disappears and the scar fades.
He will think about his mark, my Master will. The sadist who hacked at my left butt cheek with his knife as I screamed and cried. The beast who burst from his shackles. He took pictures of his handiwork, and of me posed on the floor as if for some centerfold, my eyes red, my cheeks streaked with tears, holding the knife point to my belly per his precise instructions. He is always very precise.
Wednesday I head north for a week, visiting family and friends as I make my way to Boston and back.
None of these know about the fiend.
None of these know about my story.
None of these know about the mark.
I will e-mail my tormentor, and text him, and leave voice mails if allowed. He will make sure that I don't forget who I am. Not that I could. Because any time I'm alone, I will loosen my jeans and reach behind, under the waistband of my plain white cotton panties, and run my finger over the simple, scabbed outline of the first letter of his name.
And I will feel myself return to that place.
That place I never really leave.
That place where all my other identities disappear
and I am nothing but his.
I am happy.
I am scared.
I am grateful.
I am marked.
I am his.