It's Whip Day!

Nice night last night. After my volunteer shift at the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center, I grabbed something to eat, and then went to Ty's to watch the latest installment of the California Civil War, aka, the World Series. 16-4 hurt. I am really liking the Angels. Donnelly, their pitcher, is kind of what I want most for my birthday. You could plant a flag in his chin cleft. But anyway, after the series, I hung out with this guy from my softball team, who was really, really chatty after his eleven vodka and sodas. Really chatty. Very chatty. Eventually, he wandered off into the night and presumably back to Queens. So I hung out talking with the bartenders and fellow softball players, Tommy and Joel. At one point, I got up and got ready to go and whaddya know, there was another O'Douls that I couldn't let sitting on the bar. We sat there shooting the breeze for a while. I wasn't home until almost 3 am.

Left me reflecting this morning as follows... My brother and sister are 15 and 13 years older than I was respectively. So they were prettty much out of the house when I was growing up. Thus, I was raised as an only child. Which I loved! All that attention! I've never really recovered from that in many ways. But anyway, I've always cultivated solitary pursuits. Not only do I not mind being alone, I love it. Reading, traveling, eating dinner, doing crossword puzzles. Often, when I'm in my own space and a friend hales me in the Factory Cafe (or wherever) I have to suppress a feeling of 'Damn!' to greet the person.

But that seems to be changing. My pursuits over the past year (softball and whips) are inherently social. You can't do them alone. You can't have a catch with yourself, or practice batting; and whipping works best if you have someone you're throwing with, or whipping, or being whipped by.

When I was 17 years old or so, my Great Aunt Helen died of colon cancer. Not long before here death, I went with my father to visit her. She basically cursed me from her deathbed. She told me that I was selfish and self-centered. She sort of struggled to raise herself up on her elbows and said to me, "No man is an island. You can't live alone." I remember thinking, "I can. I will." So, my uncle and my dad sort of hustled me out of the room ('she's getting upset'). I had recently gone to France with my high school French Class, and one of the many places we stopped on the trip was Lourdes. Where I collected several bottles of holy water. I had brought one for Aunt Helen. I presented it to her, and she started to cry, saying she was sorry, thanking me over and over, and saying she 'took back' everything she had just said. Uh huh. I of course, was agreeing with everything she said, and I hadn't had her in mind specifically when I filled up the water at the grotto at the foot of the Pyrenees where the Blessed Mother appeared to Mademoiselle Soubirou. And bringing her one of the bottles was not quite an afterthought before I left the house with my dad to visit her in Enola, Pennsylvania. ('Enola' spelled backwards is 'Alone.')

Intimacy. Connection.

(Incidently, this was the second time a dying relative had pointed an accusatory finger at me. When my second step mother was essentially racked with cancer, her hip broke while she was cleaning my room, calling me to come and pitch in to join her in the effort. While she was propping herself up against a book case of Junior Encyclopaedia Brittanica, she told me that with that break, the cancer had spread all through her body, and it was my fault. I kind of knew that this wasn't the case, and knew even though I was only eleven years old that it was sort of her cancer speaking and not her. But, her hip never healed. She had a sort of slit in her thigh where they had inserted a metal pin. Her leg was swollen and would usually ooze pus. I would help her wipe it away, and give her back rubs. She was essentially was confined to a wheelchair from that point until the time she died, on the eve of my twelfth birthday. That would be twenty six years ago on Monday.)

In therapy last Tuesday, my therapist posited that I had never known intimacy. I responded by saying I thought it was over-rated. And, when I was at the Lure on Wednesday with Past President, he questioned whether my heart had ever been broken. I was going to say, "No, it's titanium steel. No need to worry." But we were interrupted, and given time to consider, I said that the death of my sister has left me changed, as has the experience I had as a young'un with a boyfriend of mine in Philadelphia who, upon receiving an AIDS diagnosis, split town, leaving me only a brief note saying that he didn't want to subject me to being his 'care giver' or whatever. He also said that if I ever saw an AIDS Quilt panel with his name on it I was to do whatever was necessary to destroy it.

One more in this chain of rambling thoughts. After my sister's illness (primary pulmonary hypertension) took a turn for the worst, I drove down from New York to visit her in the hospital. On the way back, I played the Bruce Springsteen box set and choked on sobs the entire way. Then I got home, and my Ex was waiting for me. As I was cruising around looking for parking, I decided (!) that I would allow myself to cry and be comforted by him when I got in the door. And I did, sort of. He responded to the best of his abilities, given his intense narciscism (I may be self-centered, but I'm not narciscistic). So I sort of faked it.

Lolita sent me an email about the whipping and said that 'after you cry, it really gets good.' I responded by telling her that the last time I cried was when I was 12 at my mother's funeral, and I faked it. This is pretty much true. When my mother died (yeah yeah yeah, she was my step mother, but my mother died when I was three-and-a-half and I have no memory of her, and Ruby was a lot more than a 'step mother' to me), it was after a long and terrible convalescence. I had ample time to prepare myself. And, I was incredibly re-assured by my father's love for me. She died on the eve of my 12th birthday. All of my relatives (grandmother, grandfather, Aunt Helen, Uncle Devoe) were there for my birthday. So it was a full house. I heard commotion in the middle of the night, and woke up to see what was going on. The local volunteer ambulance corps was taking my mother to the hospital. I went back to sleep. The next morning, I was sitting at the breakfast table. I sensed every eye was on me. I had this weird feeling of trying to figure out what was expected of me, what reaction they were looking for. I decided (!) to appear to be sort of preoccupied and distracted, pushing my food around on my plate and eating very slowly.

Then came her funeral and burial. She was buried out of St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, the church where my brother and sister and I had been baptized and confirmed. She was reared a Scots and Presbyterian, and would have had a lot to say about that, I remember thinking. And, at the funeral, I decided (!) that I should cry. Again, it came out of that weird feeling of performing for an audience of my family. They would think it weird if I didn't cry. I didn't quite fake it. The tears came easily enough. But I just as well could have not cried.

So tonight, I'm going to meet up with ARt at 10pm. I'll be wearing these sexy new leather pants I bought. They're sort of fashion forward: low hipped, and flared at the cuffs. They make me feel trashy and loose . We'll talk briefly. Possibly establish safe words. Then I'll take off my shirt. ARt will restrain me to a St. Andrew's Cross. He'll move in close behind me. I'll feel his hands running over my back. I devote an entire session at the gym to my back, alternating with a session where I do chest, biceps, triceps, forearms, and legs. I do this because my back is naturally fairly well developed anyway. My Dad would refer to my 'strong Polish back' when we'd be doing yard work together. Doing back at the gym is easy for me. He'll say some comforting words. (In the Anglican Tradition, there is a segment of the liturgy called the Comforting Words. I think it's the part where the priest says, "Draw near with faith.")

Then, he'll back away. I'll wait. Quietly. A small thing, like a dim, lonely star in the evening sky. First I'll feel the sweep of the flogger. The strokes will slowly build in intensity. The blood will rush to my back. It will redden. I always love that when I'm flogging. It's like watching the dawn. My body will begin to process the trauma. I'll do my best to still my mind. To just react. To feel, and not to think. The blows will come with more and more force. Then, there will be another pause. Stillness, and calm. Perhaps more comforting words. Then, I'll hear ARt give a few preliminary cracks of his whips. I'll possibly jump at the first one. Then, he'll begin to throw in the direction of my back. The rosetta of muscles between my shoulder blades. He'll at first be far away. Beyond the reach of the whip. He'll inch closer. I'll start to feel the little bursts of air on my back where the whip is cracking. it will be tantalising. Then the whip will begin to crack on my back. I've only experienced this through a denim jacket, when ARt and the Master of Mirage (who will also be present) taught me how to throw at the GMSMA workshop on singletails. it will be painful. I wonder like what? Like a wasp sting? Like a hard slap? Like a burn? Like a pinch?

I don't know what comes next. I have no idea. I've never, ever known anything similar. Will the pain be a searing white-hot ball, radiating out from between my shoulderblades, consuming all thoughts, all feelings, the future and the past? Will my higher brain functions shut down, leaving me in some more primitive, fundamental state? A frightened, tortured animal? Will I feel the incredibly high from endorphins that my friend St. Louie Woman described in recounting her experience giving birth? (As soon as the baby was out, all the pain was gone, but the endorphins were coursing through her veins and arteries and capillaries. She felt rapturous joy and incredible peace, felt her body rise and float out of the saddleblocks and off the table.) Will it be awful? Will it be a terrible experience that I will do my best to endure? Will a worm of hatred for the man that did this to me, seduced me into this, be born and grow? As when I was flogged by Does Mean Well, will it become tedious?

Will I cry?

And then it will be over. When ARt decides it's over and not before. My back will spritzed with hydrogen peroxide. (I remember. I'm a little boy. I've skinned my knee. My grandmother moves in to spray it with bactine. "No! It will sting! I don't need it!") ARt will be busy releasing me from the restraints. He'll hold me. At this point, I imagine the club where this will all take place will start to fill up. Men will be wandering in, stripping and checking their clothes, coming from the lounge through the curtain into the back. And they'll see us. Probably not what they were expecting to see. What would be the response of Joe Sex Club Patron, parting the curtain, stepping through, seeing a small group of men in jock straps in a lose semi-circle. He positions himself to see what all the fuss is about. ("Huh. Looks like things are getting going already.") Instead of some hot boy in a sling getting his kitten punched by s fierce Daddy, there will be two men. Sitting on the floor. Whispering and holding. Maybe I'll be positioned so that he can see my back. "Hamburger back," I've heard it called. Like a Jackson Pollock canvas, done in deep, rich red. Glistening and wet in the dim light. How will he respond when it clicks what he's looking at? Wonder? Repulsion? Fascination? "Dude! That is fucked up!"?

Then I'll get something to eat. i hope that ARt will be available to join me. If it's anything like what I've seen in my bottoms and other men's bottoms, I'll have a big, stupid grin on my face. "Yow! I kinda forgot just now and sat back in my chair. Guh-huh-huh-huh. Guh-huh. Dang. That hurt." Then I'll find someplace (probably the Factory Cafe) where I can sit on my own. My back will be visible behind the tank top I plan to wear. That should keep people away so I can be by myself in the midst of the Friday night crowd. I'll find my way up to 43rd and Broadway and go to the Tom of Finland Dance. I'll find someone to dance with or I'll dance alone. With my shirt off. I love moving to music. I love to dance. I'll work my moves. Exhausted and starving, I'll leave at some point in the wee hours of the morning. Get something to eat. Maybe work on the New York Sun crossword puzzle while I eat my eggs. Then head home. Get a good look at my back in the mirror. Sleep on my stomach.

When I wake up on Saturday (probably not Saturday morning), will I remember right away? Or will it occcur to me, "Oh yeah. ARt whipped me last night." Nothing planned tomorrow. Shopping. Vacuuming (finally!). Lunch. Gym. Dinner. The Lure. Home. Bed.

It will be a Saturday like so many other Saturdays. But it will be a Saturday like none I've ever known before.

I'm standing on a threshold. Like Alice through the looking glass, I'm about to step into a universe I've never known. And when I return, I will be forever transformed.

Lord God, Heavenly Father, Abba... Be with me. Help me, guide me, let me say 'yes' to your love. Give me strength, give me faith, give me courage, give me love. Let me be a light in the darkness. Let me be an instrument of your peace. You who have knit me in my mother's womb, who knows my going up and who knows my coming down.

Show me myself. Teach me to call you by this new name that I will soon learn, your Winter Name.

Help me to be open to Andrew, to strip myself naked, to approach with my hands open at my sides, defenseless. Be an axe to break open the ice that has trapped me.

Be with Andrew. Hold him close. Guide him. Enlarge his heart. Let your love flow through him. Let him be open to your love.

Your son Jesus was scourged at the pillar. With a whip Jesus drove the money changers from your Temple. You know the whip.

Deliver me.

In your light we see light.

Dying, Christ destroyed our death. Rising, Christ restores our Life.

I pray through Christ, your Son and my Savior, in the name of the God who created me, the God who redeemed me, and the God that sustains me.

Amen.