In their bedroom, there was no pretense, no acting one way and meaning something else, no suggesting that something mean was spoken with the best of intentions. The game was pure; the violence, such as it was, unambiguous. Sometimes, she thought it would be better if everybody did it. They could take turns being the dominant and the submissive. Or not. Whatever worked.
She couldn’t help wondering, if some entity were observing, had been observing her all her life, whether it would assume that there wasn’t that much difference between this man and her husband, barring the little matter of degree. Boy, would they be wrong. One hurt her in order to express his love, fucked up as that might sound to many. The other used the expression of love to hurt her. Not torture as sex, but sex as torture. One was capable of love, the other wasn’t. Both had been damaged, but only one, irretrievably. Oh, and one other thing. Her husband had been a good man. And this one was a very bad one. It would be a joke to even compare them. Violence wasn’t the issue; cruelty was. And her husband had never been cruel.
The whole thing had begun fairly lightly, back when they were first married, a secret bit of naughtiness that they had discovered together, the thrill of breaking a taboo. They noticed that people seemed to think it was amusing when it was the woman dealing out the blows, laughing at jokes or images of the powerful man being humbled by a slender, black-clad female; not so funny or so p.c. when it was the man doing the humbling. For them, that just added to the kick. But things took a turn for the rougher when the bad times came. Sex then was no longer just for sharing love and acceptance. Sex then was for sharing pain. Before, it had been just a game that they played. But in the bad days, it became a bizarre sort of refuge, allowing them to act out a hopeless battle against themselves, each other, and fate. It was also a release valve. Sometimes his sadism was able to distract them. Other times, they’d just stop in the middle, and she would cry, while he would hold her, stoic as always.
What turned people on sexually was decided long before they had any say in the matter, probably before they had any consciousness of it at all. And she didn’t think it could be undone. Whatever was driving him or her, it undoubtedly went way back, as it did with everybody.
Everybody’s got something; it doesn’t bear looking into too closely. But it was definitely worthwhile when you knew enough to know what really made you feel good. And when someone else knew it too.
And here is another funny thing, she thought. No one outside it can ever understand what two people do in bed. In a dark place, it is a dark urge lit up only by the miracle of human contact, of love. So that nothing those two people do together is ever disgusting. Not to them. And that’s all that matters.
Sometimes she used to think that they were special and different, and that it was kind of cool. Then she’d realize that she didn’t know what these other people around her did. Maybe they dressed up as the opposite sex; maybe they made love to each other’s feet; maybe they pretended they were animals, or cheerleaders, or babies, or their best friends. Sex was like a joyful, unkempt garden overgrown with wildflowers, some of which were stunningly beautiful and others of which were weeds, hardy and unstoppable. Sex could be so many, many, many wonderful things.
And some men turned it into crap.
That took talent. That took skill. There was already violence if you wanted to hurt someone. Why fuck up sex?
To do that took a real dick.
So many weapons looked like penises. To someone like this man, his penis was just another one.
He was enjoying the quiet, sitting back on the sofa, away from her. She’d gradually stopped crying. She remained lying where he’d left her. He’d removed the gag to allow her to breathe more easily. And then he heard it. It didn’t compute at first, but it sounded like she was laughing, a strained laugh, it was true, but definitely a laugh. And then she spoke.
“I forgive you.”
“Stop that!” He couldn’t help laughing a little himself.
“I can’t help it. Now I only see the scared little boy inside of you, craving the love he can never ask for. Look how angry you got at the mere prospect of a real human connection. Of not being always what you are now.”
“Oh. Is that what I was just doing?”
“You know it is. You always do.”
“Always?”
“In the time I’ve known you. We were talking about love and change. Next thing you know, you have to show how cruel you are, how untouched.” She paused. “How transparent.”
“Careful, woman.”
“Or you’ll do it again? Proving me right?”
“And that makes you laugh? While you’re bleeding out of your ass.”
“Oh, it hurts. No question about that.” She managed to gently probe the area and gave a little gasp. “Although I probably neglected to mention to you that I kind of dig on pain.”
“You don’t quit, do you?”
From the floor, she managed to smile at him. He looked at her more closely.
“No way,” he said.
She snorted. “Way. If it weren’t you, I’d be happy as a clam here,” she said.
“‘If it weren’t me?’ If this is really what you like, what’s the problem with it being me?”
“I didn’t choose you,” she said simply.
“Oh, that. But if you had, you’d like what we’ve been doing, what I just did to you.”
“Well, to be fair, not exactly. You play a lot rougher than anyone I’ve ever been with. And you hit a whole lot harder. You make me really cry... But otherwise, it’s pretty much what I’m used to.”
“Your husband used to smack you around?”
“In bed. Yes.”
“Before or after your kid died?”
She didn’t answer for a moment, gazing off into the middle distance, then she smiled to herself. The expression offered a strange contrast to her bruises and her tears. “Before, it was just fun, just playing, among many things we tried. During – it was brutal (though not as brutal as you are). He was so angry. He needed to take it out on something. And that pain was the only thing that could even begin to take my mind off the other. After – well, we didn’t touch each other at all.”
“You expect me to believe this?”
“It doesn’t matter to me if you do. But you already do. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Then I don’t see why you don’t like it when I do it. Pain is pain.”
“Hey,” she said. “Prostitutes have sex with strangers. Doesn’t mean they like getting raped any more than anybody else does. Neither do I, for that matter. When it’s voluntary, there’s an understanding. Obviously, not with you.”
“You are either blowing my mind, or you’re just trying to blow my mind.”
“Your luck! You’ve never run into a masochist before?”
“Plenty of unintentional ones. Never an intentional one. Jesus, you take the cake.”
“Don’t get discouraged. Like I said, I’m very unhappy with what you’re doing. In fact, you may have just managed to cure me of my unfortunate predilection. I’m just not shocked by any of it.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I was just getting tired of pretending to be shocked.”
He shook his head again.
“What you did hurt. I wasn’t pretending to cry or anything. I was just tired of pretending about everything else.”
“Stop trying to comfort me,” he said. He thought for a few minutes. “How long have you been into pain?”
“All my life. But I didn’t know it. How about you? Inflicting it, that is.”
“The same. But I knew it. How could you not know it?”
“I bought into the fairy tales. I thought sex was supposed to be like in the movies. And it was fine, doing it straight. Don’t get me wrong. It was only many years later, when I met someone who gently began to hurt me that I realized: it was what had always turned me on. In pictures, stories, fantasies I had as a child. Like you said. That was who I really was. I’m not sure we can undo who we are in that respect.”
“Jesus Christ,” he intoned yet again. “You’re so matter of fact.”
“It’s good to know who you are. And to have no illusions.”
“Ok,” he said, moving closer to her. “Since I have an expert on hand. You tell me. What do you like about it?”
“Untie me,” she demanded.
“Not a chance.”
“You know the joke about the masochist and the sadist, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The masochist tells the sadist, ‘hurt me,’ and the sadist says, ‘no.’”
“I’ll give your suggestion some thought,” he promised.
“Ha.”
“Answer my question.”
“Oh, I don’t know. For one thing, I guess I’d argue that the masochist is the center of attention. It’s all about her. Or him.”
“Hmm.”
“And then there’s the fact that you get to have your sex and be punished for it, too. Time-saving and economical.”
“And why would you need to be penalized for sex, hmm? Let me see. You felt guilty for arousing Daddy’s lust, so some punishment is in order. Am I right?”
“As rain.”
“But you have limits – as far as pain goes.”
“Yes. You’ve passed those limits. Relax, the pain you’ve applied worked. I’m truly terrified. You don’t know how to play the game. You do it all for real.”
“Who was it?” he asked. “The person you met, the one who opened your eyes?”
“Is that sarcasm? He did. But it doesn’t matter. You don’t know him.”
“I’m just fascinated. I admit it.”
“I guess it’s better to discover this kind of thing with somebody. You’re always alone,” she added thoughtfully.
“Everyone is fundamentally alone.”
“No. They’re not. You are.”
“And you,” he noted. “Now.”
“I guess. But I have you now, don’t I?”
He chuckled.
“Now, I have to figure out which course of action will displease you more,” he mused. “Doing what you like or what you don’t like.”
“It doesn’t matter. No worries, mate. Everything you do displeases me.”
“Because you didn’t choose me.”
“Exactly,” she agreed. “And also because you’re going to kill me.”
He shook his head in mock despair, or mock mock despair. “You keep thinking that. I don’t know how I can persuade you that it’s not true.”
“Let me go.”
“It’s like you’re obsessed.”
“Or you go.”
“Now don’t be silly.”
She sighed.
He crossed the room, picked her up and brought her back with him to the couch. He put his feet up and lay across it, holding her body on top of his, arms around her, like a lover.
“Sorry this isn’t more painful right now,” he whispered into her ear.
“Oh, that’s ok, it’s painful enough. There are so many different kinds. You bring all of them with you, don’t you?”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Still,” he said. “You’re really just a dilettante.”
“Huh?”