I am headed to see Robbie this weekend and very eager to be there.  My sex drive has returned at at least half-strength, if not more, and I have an urgent need to be with him.  Plus, we have at least a few wicked plans.  I say we, but Robbie seems to be doing most of the planning.  I’m hugely relieved at this.  For past visits Robbie has planned an elaborate schedule of activities, and I panic at the thought of getting it all done as well as worry about how it will go.  This time, he gets to enjoy all the anticipation of things that “I know but you don’t know” (as he likes to sing in a little song he’s made up), but I don’t have to stress about any of them.  It’s as it should be–him in control, me in the dark.

Well, I’m not in the dark about everything.

When we were first getting into BDSM and Robbie and I filled out the requisite checklists about perversions, it turned out that I had a real fascination with needles, knives, and play piercings.  Robbie was extremely cautious about all of these desires; he was happy to hurt me, but very reluctant to injure me, if the distinction makes any sense.  Part of the reluctance stemmed, I think, from some professional medical experience in his past.  But the hearty doctor fetish I have made the whole idea frustratingly hotter.

And here we are, three years down the line, and he’s finally studied up on needle play, asking a very experienced friend of ours for instruction, advice, recommendation on equipment, and an actual demonstration.  We’re having dinner with our friend and his girl this Sunday night.  I’m at once over the moon and terrified.

It so happens that I sliced my hand open by (accidentally) putting it through a glass window pane this summer.  (I tripped on someone’s inconveniently-placed roller skates in the dark, and the rest was pure Marx brothers.)  The masochist in me was pretty thrilled at the resultant blood and the pain, while the rationalist in me said: “You dumb retarded twit, you can’t like it, or people will think it’s self-inflicted!”  Fortunately, the obviously treacherous position of the roller skates exculpated me from charges of self-harm–or so I hope.


But I digress.  My point is that the thing felt deliciously painful until I got to the hospital, where I was scheduled to have a few stitches.  I even remember lying there with my hand elevated, watching the nurse prepare the saline solution, various bandages, the local anaesthetic, and thinking, “Cool!  This is the nearest I’m going to get to needle play for awhile!”

And dammit if it didn’t hurt like a mother.  There was none of the euphoric pain that had come from the slicing cut to my hand.  There was a really nasty pinchy stab, multiplied by about a thousand.  Stingy bitterness.

So, we’ll see on Sunday.  I very much like the thought of being the useful experimental pincushion for Robbie and our friends.  I just hope that the experience is a happy one for all involved, and that the pain is the flying-high kind rather than the hop-on-one-foot-and-swear-a-blue-streak kind.

I’ll try to report back, depending on the scale of my injuries.

High-fashion pics by Philippe Kerlo.