Beat

Wow. That was quite an experience.

I had hoped to get to the gym this afternoon. But alas, the Holland Tunnel was a disaster, so I didn't have enough time before I was due to meet up with PunchPig at the Starbucks at 16th and 8th at 3pm. So, I went to Better Burger and got myself something to eat.

When I arrived at Starbucks, there was PunchPig, looking... well, not just like his picture, which features him with a shiner and a good mouse or two... but instantly recognizable. He was sitting in the corner reading the letters of Emily Dickinson.

I got myself an iced latte and we talked. PunchPig is great to talk to. His mind is wide-ranging and he is full of insights, and was also interested in listening to me. We talked but briefly at Starbucks, when PunchPig suggested we get to Jersey City. We talked on the way home. Installed here at the Humble Abode, we talked some more.

Then, while talking, PunchPig stripped down to a jockstrap and from his gym bag pulled out a leather MC jacket. Things were starting. He told me to strip. I got naked. Then he put on leather restraints that secured my wrists to my thighs.

And then, PunchPig beat me in the face.

I thought the scene would go something like this: PunchPig would punch me, and I'd be tough. I'd say 'Awww fuck, that one hurt,' and he'd say, 'Yeah? Ready for another?' And he'd punch me again, and I'd say, 'Hooo-EEEY! Saw stars that time.'

It wasn't like that. Well, maybe it was for about 20 seconds, although even that is giving myself a lot of credit in the tough department.

What happened was that I discovered that getting punched in the face freaked me the fuck out. Very quickly, I was curled in a fetal position, so that my restrained hands could protect my face. I was screaming and begging and crying. I was screaming, mind you. I learned a long time ago in GMSMA and I've heard it repeated several times that you should listen to the register of the noises that your bottom is making. If it's low and guttural, that's good. If it's high pitched, that's bad. I was singing fuckin soprano. And PunchPig kept coming.

If I was a dungeon master observing a scene like this, I would have intervened and stopped it.

I'm glad there was no dungeon master observing the scene to intervene and stop it.

Now, as it was happening, I wanted nothing more than for the scene to end. I hoped that every blow would be the last one. I was crying. Really crying. Crying like I've never cried before. I was intent on crying really hard, hoping that PunchPig would be merciful. There was no mercy coming from PunchPig.

The punches kept coming.

Not so heavy. But there was a point when PunchPig's voice changed. He became gentle and kind. I relaxed. Pow. I wasn't going to do that again.

And then, I said something like, 'No, please, I can't take any more,' and PunchPig replied, 'Actually, you can. Take one more for me.' At this point, he was gently caressing my body. This was good, when I could account for both his hands, I felt safe. When one of his hands would leave my body, I would scream and cry and bury my face in the carpet. But when he said that, he unleashed a firestorm in my brain. Two contending spirits had a screaming match...

"C'mon. You can take one more."
"No! Fuck no! I can't!"
"C'mon, he's gonna think you're a wuss."
"I don't care. I can't take another one."
"Wuss. Take one more."
I am a wuss. I. Am. A. Wuss. I can't take one more."
"Fuckin wuss."
"Fuck you! I can't take another one."

Still caressing, punchpig stopped pressing. I did not relax, remembering what happened the last time that happened. I kept up my guard. It wasn't until PunchPig removed the bag gloves from my hands and the leather restraints that I started to relax, take some deep breaths.

It was amazing. I think my first wiords were, "Wow. I've never been there before."

And where exactly was there? I was curled at a man's feet, screaming and crying and beggiing for mercy that wasn't coming. I was in a place where there was nothing that I could do. It was total and complete surrender. Surrender like I've never experienced before. And I mean, I could have done something. At any time, I'm reasonably certain that if I addressed PunchPig by his name and said with all the calmness and firmness I could muster, "This is over. Safeword. Don't hit me again," then that would have been it. At the same time, nothing prevented me from slipping the restraints off of my legs. But I didn't do any of those things. I displayed an aspect of myself that I've never allowed myself to display before ever. And I did it in the presence of another man, and it was fine.

In fact that was the essence of the experience: fine. It's like... this might not come off well, but it's the image that's in my mind and has been all day... imagine a fire blazing on a glacier. Just raging. Consuming. Destroying. But the glacier is vast. The fire is gonna do some damage, but the glacier will still be there.

Get it?

The fire is PunchPig's merciless brutality. Clearly. And the glacier? I would say that was the connection between PunchPig and I, and his bedrock human compassion. When it was all over, I would be fine. And it would be over. I was in good hands, even though they were hands that were beating me.

Then, PunchPig and I talked some more. I suggested that we go to dinner at Comfort Bistro.

I got my shiner. Walking down to the restaurant, no one made eye contact with me. I had made the decision that I wasn't going to look in the mirror. Rather, I would try to gauge what I looked like by the reactions that I got.

It occurred to me, and I mentioned to PunchPig, that the women at Comfort Bistro might make a fuss. I could very well end up with a package of frozen peas on my eye during dinner. PunchPig suggested and I agreed, that if that went down, just go with it. Don't fight it. When we walked into Comfort Bistro, one of the women said, "Oh Gosh! What happened to you?" I smiled and said, "Don't make a fuss," and she said, "Okay. What'll you have for dinner? We're doing it bufet style tonight. It's $15, all you can eat."

Then, PunchPign and I took the PATH train into the city. (With one eye swollen shut, I have no depth perception, and thus I'm unable to drive.) As we came down to the PATH platform at Grove Street, there was this tall muscleboy waiting for the train. If he had been chewing gum when he got a load of me, he would have swallowed it. He stared at me, openly. When the train came, he found an excuse to talk to me, asking me if this train went to Manhattan. (For those of you unfamiliar with how PATH trains run, let's just say that's the equivalent of standing at the counter at McDonald's and asking, "Can I get a hamburger here?") PunchPig whispered in my ear, "This would be your first favorable reaction." Muscleboy sat right across from me on the train, still staring, until he got off at Christopher Street. I thanked PunchPig, and promised that tomorrow morning I'd take a picture with my digital camera and mail it to him.

That's the wonderful thing about bruises: they blossom after the scene. It's like watching the stars come out, or watching a springtime garden come into bloom.

I got off at 23rd Street, and PunchPig continued on to 33rd. I headed to Big Cup. If I wanted reactions from witless gay boys, might as well head to the hive.

I was sort of disappointed. No one looked at me. Then I realized that that in itself was exceptional. I always get cruised by somebody.

In the movie 'Wings of Desire,' the angels in the movie could hear humans thoughts as though they were spoken aloud. I tried to imagine what those thoughts would be... "Fagbashing. God, I've gotta be more careful." "Abusive partner. I hope he knows where to go to get help." "Somebody needs more boxing lessons before getting into the ring again." I sat calmly reading PunchPig's book (sort of a PunchPig immersion was today), and laughed a few times at some of the humorous parts.

Then it was off to the Eagle. There, it was more of the same of no one looking at me. I had told PunchPig that I considered this trip to the Eagle as an important element of the scene: showing off my shiner, walking around like some Irish tough from a bygone New York, frightening the horses.

I ran into a bartender from Ty's, who asked me, "What the hell happened to you?"

"I got punched in the face," I told him.

"Oh, man, I'm so sorry. Looks nasty."

"It was really cool," I said. In response to his uncomprehending look, I said, "I am a very sick fuck," and smiled.

Up on the roof, I met up with UnFortunate. I had briefed him earlier, so he wasn't surprised. He was, however, pretty impressed with how bad it looked. (I still hadn't seen myself in the mirror.) We talked about the scene, and I smoked a cigar. UnFortunate is altogether on the outside looking in when it comes to S/M. He doesn't get it. Well, he gets it, and thinks it's great, but it's not anything he's drawn to in the least.

A gentle, warm summer rain began to fall. The roof cleared out. We stayed. I found that I was able with effort to open my swollen eye a crack.

Then, mission accomplished, I headed out with UnFortunate. We talked about architecture and urban plannning and the Edward Durrell Stone building at 2 Columbus Circle while UnFortunate walked me to the PATH train.

When I got home just now, I looked in the mirror. I have a good sized bump on my left temple. My left eye is royal purple, like there's a fat plum where my eye socket should be. The eyelid is a slit. I sort of look on the left side of my face like an alien on the X Files.

Tomorrow morning, when more bruises come up, I'll take some pictures. In addition to sending them to PunchPig, I'll see if I can post them here.

Something for you to look forward to, no?

I don't know if I would be the one to be a demo bottom when PunchPig presents at the GMSMA program. It would be one thing if I was indeed able to pull off the tough punk thing, but I think if the membership of GMSMA were to see their beloved Chairman reduced to a quivering, blubbering heap on the floor, someone might call the cops. And we wouldn't want that. That's just for me and PunchPig.

One other interesting thing. My eyes play tricks on me. What I see bits of is my brains attempt to fill in the signals that my left eye is not sending to my brain. This is hard to explain. Bear with me. Imagine a Paul Cadmus canvas of buff, bronzed men wearing pale blue-grey uniforms, and writhing in a mass, and imagine that Paul Cadmus canvas viewed through a kaleidoscope. I mean, I can almost discern faces and body parts. Wild, huh?

Anyway. Pictures tomorrow. For now, I'm gonna walk Faithful Companion and get to bed.

It's been a long day. I'm beat.

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