Monday, February 07, 2005

Aztec Gold

Whazzis? I come back from sebatical and post once a week?

Sorry 'bout that.

Been... ...distracted lately. My Sunday night edge play guy from MAL had to make a trip to NYC. And was up for a whipping. From me. His first.

Imagine! It's not Delta or Inferno, it's not MAL, it's just a Saturday in February, and I get to whip a man! Unbelievable good fortune there, huh?

So on Saturday, I headed up to NYC. A bulging toybag in the back of the jeep. I found my way to his hotel, got all my gear up to the room, and we picked up where we left off three weeks ago. Verrrry deep stuff. As the sun was setting and the lights were coming up on the Chrysler Building outside the window of Room 1503, I put my restraints on his wrists, and got busy.

The warm up flogging seemed soooo... besides the point. Like inviting someone over for dinner and serving Campbell's Soup. It went quickly. When I started in with the whip, things quickly became amazing. Just joyous. He was lustful. There's no other word for it. Just lustful. He kept backing up. It drove him nuts when I would crack the whip just over the skin of his back. He wanted connection.

Often in a whipping scene, particularly when the man you're whipping is a first timer, you are supplying all the energy. You're throwing the whip, keeping your focus, maintaining the rhythm, but also coaching, comforting, encouraging. But I swear, this man was blazing with power. Radiant. And every time I connected, the power would just surge.

I stopped short of drawing blood. For varied reasons, some of which I can't guess at. I wanted to leave him wanting more. I wanted to leave me wanting more. I didn't want it to be complete. There was a fear there. Once you conquer Everest, what's left to you?

Luckily, the analogy is a bad one. It's not mountaineering we're talking about, it's whipping men, and every man has his own special gift to give, and every whipping scene has it's own special gifts from the gods to bestow as well.

But still. The energy there was almost too much. A wolf never eats his fill. If he does that, he'll might be too sluggish when the next lame doe wanders across his path.

We hit the Eagle that night. Not much different there. Then back to Room 1503 for bed.

This guy needs a nom-de-blog, No? And I've thought of one. The Necessary Man. Not quite sure why that's fitting, but it is.

Huh. Lots of Mystery this past weekend. Lots of Mystery. Let the Mystery be.

The next day, Sunday, we hit Starbucks and got ourselves some lunch at the Boathouse in Central Park. And then we went to the Guggenheim.

The Gugg' is having an exhibit of Aztec Art.

Run. Don't walk.

It's just extraordinary. Absolutely breathtaking. Wonderful stuff.

Their depictions of the human face have mostly the same expression. The eyes are wide open, and the mouth is gaping. It's fascinating. It could be a look of anguish, or it could be ecstatic rapture. Or, y'know, both.

The Aztecs were a warrior society. Consequently, it was all about male energy. All the gods in their pantheon were male deities. And the only time women were portrayed in the art represented, they were on their knees, hands raised with the palms out, a gesture of supplication.

And then, of course, there is the Ritual. The Ritual. Every year, (in their extraordinary calendar) a warrior was selected. He was brave, he was ferocious in battle, and he was beautiful. For one year, he would live as a god. Every thing he wanted was his. Nothing was denied him. And he was treated as a god. No one could look upon his face and live. His touch was healing. And then, when the year was over, he would climb to the top of a pyramid, and there a priest would cut out his living heart. He would become a god, he would be the sun. Apotheosis.

Tucked away in the exhibit at the Guggenheim is a collection of daggers, the blades made from precious stones. And one of them... well, it was amazing. The blade was made from a sort of pale reddish-brown stone. And the handle. Wow. It was in the shape of a male head, in profile. The mouth open, the face upturned, in an expression either of anguish, or ecstasy, or both.

Necessary Man and I, looking at it, we just knew. That was the knife. That was it.

Imagine. Imagine what it would be like. One year. Your life, your dreams and ambitions and hopes and desires, all met, but in the compressed time of one year. And at the end of the year, well, there's sort of the ultimate snuff scene. You climb the pyramid, step by step by step. And at the Top, you gaze at the sun. Lose yourself in the brilliance. And then, expertly, your heart is removed. And your blood washes down the sides of the pyramid. For all the people. For all the people.

But that year. What would that year be like? What are your wishes, dreams, and desires? I don't doubt that early on in your year, you'd go for all the obvious stuff. I want to have sex with him! I want to hear that piece of music played for me while I bathe in water scented with the most fragrant flowers! I want to gorge myself on chocolate!

But how long before you run through all of the obvious things? Then what? Like Faust, do you come to regret your bargain?

Maybe it becomes about 'I want all the poor to be fed.' Or, 'I want all children to know that they are loved.'

How would you spend those precious 365 days? 364. 363. 362. 361...


The Aztecs were onto something.

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