On Marks

I have some red spots on my arm from the party on Friday night. There was a piercing demonstration at Paddles, and in a mini act of bravery, I decided to see if I could deal with a needle in my arm. I have a weird phobia about things piercing skin. (the first time I saw Reservoir Dogs, no one told me about the ear scene. It left me curled up in a ball for what felt like ten minutes) Not too long ago, piercing was on my *no way no how, and did I mention not* list of kinks.

I decided to see if I could deal with a needle in my arm. Now, on my arm are six little red dots, clustered together like two thirds of a compass. For me, this is a small achievement. I found myself at work, staring down at my arm, running my fingers over the tiny red bumps. A memory of the evening perhaps?

I have two other mementos from that evening from a scene I did that evening; a small round bruise over my left pectoral and another on the back of my right arm. I was feeling bratty and aggressive that night and did a small struggle scene with a friend.

What is it about marks, those small relics of a scene that make them so powerful? Many times after I scene, one of the first things I do after the aftercare phase is to find a mirror to survey the damage. I like looking at my bruises almost as much as the activities that put them there… well, maybe that’s a bit of an overstatement.

It doesn’t have to be a bruise or a scar that fills that space. I’ve been thinking about the power of marks and relics since I saw a bootblacking demo a few weeks ago. Bear with me, there is a connection here. I didn’t have any real interest in bootblacking, but I went to see some friend and support Kyle, the boy teaching it. I don’t remember the specifics, just the passion that boy had for boots and how he waxed poetic on the smell and feel of saddle soap.

He talked about his associations with the sensations he associates with the act of blacking, and how it puts can put him into a deep sub space. Just the scent of polish alone can send him back there for moments at a time. All of a sudden, I felt the urge to go out and buy a set of boots so someone could black them.

But what struck me most is what happened on the way home. Kyle and I happened to be on the same train. He still had some black polish under his nails after the demo. Throughout the train ride, he’d keep looking down at his fingers and bring them up to his nose. A smile still lingered on his face.

“I love the smell of polish and grease. Such a sexy combination.”

He held his hands up to me so I could smell, which I did… Black polish was still under his nails. It was clear he didn’t wash his hands on purpose, to let that mark linger just a little longer.

There’s real power in those associations.

I wonder what tops have to fill that mental space… if such a space needs to be filled for most people.

~ by Sascha on March 4, 2008.