Fantasm Caning Class

Strange sticks in a case
handed around
one at a time.
Biter.
Stinger.
This thuds.

Classmates, Trin and I huddle
our men book-ending.
We strike into our palms
and share looks,
sneaky little glances
that say,
Oh yes,
Hell yes.

From the back of the room
we watch
like school girls
wiggling in our seats,
waiting to see if he will offer to demo
on those new
and green.
And we are so much of both that we scent
of newly cut switches

Wide eyed
we watch.
Hopeful.
Excited.
Eager.

There is a joy
that effervesces
from his face
as the supple cane
flicks lightly across the pretty curve
of a demo bottom,
pale moons
offered as charming canvas

His marks
dance.
Flick.
Flick.
Joy.

His body sways
and bounces with emotion.
Sting.
The cane sings in the air
lands,
bites,
lifts back to his shoulder.
He watches the girl and touches her.
His voice is kind.
He makes space for her
even as he teaches the room.
I will learn
what she is feeling
but in that moment
I am captive in curiosity
itching to know,
wanting to attach
the look on her face
to layers of emotion
I can only guess at.

He says
That she met him last year and offered to be his demo
For every class this year.
I am not surprised.
I look at Trin.

She and I are in the same places,
shared thoughts unspoken,
but understood between us.

When the demonstration ends
and he offers
two hands in the back shoot up,
but there are many more up front
and time bleeds out the door.

He radiates no malice,
just invitation to experience.
His own joy
in what he does is palpable.
It fills the room.
That emotion curls against my skin
and I want him to hit me.
I want him to hit me
very much.

Trin and I
form a plan.