I’ve been in a dark space lately. I go through these phases and they just gradually grow worse and worse the more my need goes unattended. My mind is constantly deep in thought when it’s not focused on the current task at hand. It has led to me having a very bad bout of insomnia and my mind feels as if it’s diminishing every sleepless night.
Someone (Daemon) suggested I write about razors and while I feel he is the true master at this topic it did spur some thought processes as I was soaking in the tub during another insomniac trance.
When I was very young I took my dad’s razor refill box. I was fascinated with razors at a young age and also with the thorns on rose bushes that grew abundantly in the back yard. One afternoon I took my dad’s razors and tucked them away in my pocket. I was a thief, a liar and a cheat at a very young age and it was all for survival. Having a shiny and sharp treasure in my pocket was the best thing and when I was alone I would sneak the box out and stare at the razors hidden inside. I knew they were sharp. I knew they were dangerous. I knew they would draw blood.
My own blood and cuts never caused me fear. It was a fascination to watch the bright red bead from my skin, as I would suck the wound for comfort. Watching the fresh cut pull open exposing layers of skin and flesh inside. It wasn’t sexual back then but it was intrigue and comfort watching the cut heal over the course of days. Picking the scabs to make it bleed again and sometimes I would scar up. My body is riddled with scars. Some self inflicted, some accidental and quite a few medically needed. When I injured myself, I didn’t run to my parents for comfort, in fact, I hid the wounds from them.
The night I stole my dad’s razor refills I slept with them in my hand like a doll. It was comforting. When I awoke the next morning I found dried blood and cuts on my hands and arms. A razor had slipped from the refill box and danced on my skin during the night. Yet, the only panic I felt was my parents knowing I had taken the razors. I saw a blade on my sheet stained with my blood lying there innocently and another blade trying to free itself from the box. I washed my hands and the water stung the open wounds but it was all a rush for me watching the blood and water swirl down the sink to be long forgotten. I threw the rouge razor blade away and put the razor box back in the medicine cabinet.
Fast forward to my late twenties and I’m still innocent to the extent of sexual behaviors. My thoughts were always dark but it was a morbid dark and I had yet to transfer this darkness into a sexual manner. I was not aware of people using sharp objects for sexual pleasure. My first mental exposure was with V (you will need to dig to the older posts) and reading about someone’s experiences was with Daemon. Daemon’s blog is not for the faint of heart. He is raw, honest and the most sadistic man I have ever encountered in my years of keeping this blog. Reading Daemon’s blog opened a dark world to me and even more it caused a deep arousal that caused countless masturbation sessions over the years he maintained the blog. It was connecting all the dots and truly seeing the darkness.
My desire for shiny sharp objects grew and grew over the years: razor blades, knives, scissors, scalpels and a personal love for straight razors. I dream of someone I can trust to carve my skin with skill, experience and creativity. To draw my blood, hear my gasps and cries and yet arousal streaming from my mouth. Tending to my wounds, fucking me and reopening fresh wounds. Fucking the next day to reopen old wounds. Breaking me and putting me back together. It’s the ultimate sexual interaction for me. Cutting myself is not the same. I know what’s coming. I have to fix myself and I’m tired of fixing myself. For once, I want someone to take a true charge of my body and mind and fix me for just one moment. That one moment I can just let go.
That sense of balance.
That sense of comfort.
That sense of, I’m alive.
In the meantime to curb some of this I have pierced, stretched my ears and sat for hours of tattooing. It gives me a rush to have the pain and watch it heal over the days and weeks. It’s a sense of meditation for me to get a tattoo. I sit there and savor the pain. Sometimes I get to see the blood bead from my skin as the needle penetrates me over and over. The wiping of my blood and ink mixed together. The scratched burn afterwards. It’s near perfection sans an orgasm.
I have found my interactions with various lovers is this; I bring out the worst in a man/woman. I am the enabler of dark desires. I will take a boundary and go beyond it because I can and they don’t stop me. They don’t want to. I’m the devil that hangs on your shoulder telling you to do it because we are here to live and not indulging in this one moment may never happen again. Just do it. I’m dangerous. I’m destructive. I’m immoral. I have no shame. I harbor no regrets. People uncomfortably laugh at my claims but that’s because they have not seen me for what I am. It’s denial because they don’t want to think that my seemingly nice demeanor couldn’t possibly have a menacing side. It does. I wear a mask and sometimes the mask slips. Sometimes I scare people. Sometimes I make people nervous. Sometimes people fade away. I won’t apologize for this. I refuse. Life is far too short to dwell on my childhood misfortunes or trying to figure out why I am like this.
I follow this simple motto and have been doing so since a teenager who survived a failed attempt at killing myself:
I WANT TO LIVE.
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