Post Punch

PunchPig wonders how I'm doing. Of course, in the wake of a scene, things come up. Reactions emerge, it's like a parade. A sort of depression is not uncommon, possibly the effect of the sudden drop in those mood governing neurochemicals.

Yesterday I left the house to buy cigarets and walk my dog. I didn't shave. I didn't shower. Depression, right? Not quite. Last night, I called my parents, and I called my friend Son of Gaetano. Son of G. is one of my oldest friends, something of a touchstone for me. I made tuna noodle surprise, and then I sat down and was compelled to write my book. And it just flowed. I couldn't get the words on the screen quickly enough. I did the ice-pack thing with my shiner, thinking of the drive out to Sayville to get the ferry to the Pines. I want to be able to see for that ride.

Today, my shiner looks great. The swelling has gone down. Yesterday it seemed to me to be a little grotesque. Now it's perfect. It's a classic black eye. No more ice. I'll hold here.

So how'm'I doin?

Honestly, yesterday I was thinking along the lines of "I'll never do that again. At least, not for a long time." But this morning, almost as soon as I woke up, I'm thinking differently.

Next time... heh heh: "The fire next time"... I want to back up some. Maybe see if PunchPig would go at me with some heavier gloves with more padding. Y'see, I want to learn how to take a punch to the face. Wammo! And I see stars. And I'm grinning. If PunchPig and I were to meet up again tomorrow, and he would put on the SAP gloves, I don't doubt I'd skip the preliminaries and go right to screaming in the fetal position.

Yeah. That's it. No restraints. Me standing. Both of us standing. Looking in each other's eyes. PunchPig wearing heavier gloves. Measured. Slow build. With some body blows thrown in.

Look closely at the pic of me below--the day after shot--and you'll see that there's a decent bruise on my tricep. Compared to getting whomped in the face, I didn't even feel that. Taking those punches was sweet.

Don't know if PunchPig plays that way. He wants the raw, authentic response, and that looks a lot like me screaming and crying and begging. So in a sense, I'd be making his job harder by schooling me in how to take a punch and not freak out. Cuz it's the freak out that he's after. But I doubt harder by much. I think it's genetic. Keep coming at me, and I'll freak out. I give a lousy blowjob, I have a tight hole that takes lots of warm up, and I freak out when I get punched in the face.

And, also in PunchPig's favor is my fiercely competitive nature. When I do S/M, I don't just wanna be good, I wanna be the best. And that goes for whether I Top or when I bottom. I wanna be the best that he's ever known. "S/M is the quest for excellence in ourselves and others." So I wanna be the punchmeat that makes PunchPig forget all the other punchmeat. Now, that's hardly realistic, and it's a black/white way of looking at the world. But still, it makes for good headspace.

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