Gun Metal

It's the reality of the cold metal barrel of a gun pressed into your throat. It is every alley rape that you have never been the victim of. It is the torture scene you saw in that movie, and you weren't quite sure why you got so wet.

This is my world. Pressed against the cement wall by the hands of a man who will never be my lover. The whole thing is changing shape and focus, blinding pain, and that incessant click that may be my demise. Do I care? Do I really care? If he'd just talk to me, I could answer that question, but he remains silent. Only my half excited, half terrified moans and his deep, monotonous breathing fill the void. This is my idea of sex. Even as I gasp in terror, that pulse pounding, breath stealing fear, I visualize. I see myself; mouth stretched wide as he works the gun between my lips. It's sick, even to me. I want to retch. I want to come.

Sick. Evil. Twisted. Perverted. It is all I am and all I ever want to be. I want to drown in his eyes, lose myself in that abyss that gets forever deeper, the infinite dark.

~

It is earlier in the evening now, around midnight or so. I fold myself into a chair and watch him work. It's a confidence in his measured strides. It's the way the army green of his holster sets against the white of his shirt. He ignores me, but I love his every movement. I don't know what will happen, so my whole body is tense with it. It being the kind of sex you have when you can't take anymore and you don't have the choice. It being that cold sweat that pours down your body as the lash falls over and over. This man doesn't play with whips, though I've seen him use one in practice expertly, he uses his hands. Sometimes other things, but it is his competence that attracts me. It is in his skill that I am lost. Hone that edge on my bones, I cry.

He comes over to me. He is not speaking, so I know the scene has begun.

~

I open my eyes. I'm not sure where I am. There is a dim red bulb as backlighting. I see stairs, a chair, and detritus on the floor. I could have sworn that I was pushed against a different wall. My perspective is off. The whole room is collapsing on me and I can't move a muscle. Breathe, I tell myself. If this one comes, the next will be easier, so I keep breathing until I don't have to pay attention to it anymore. I'm thinking I should be moving, saying something. That he should say something, and then he does.

He engages my intellect so that I can pretend to ignore the wetness between my thighs. He turns my brain on with poring over of minute details. I lose myself again in the psychology. It was not I pressed against that wall, almost in tears. No, that was my other self, the animal, and the one that calls herself by a different name and wears short skirts and make up. This is getting easier. I can almost move my feet.

~

I go up the stairs, into a world that glitters with a crystalline beauty. I will ride on this for the rest of the night. It will keep me awake when my bones beg for rest. It will not let me think of my true love saying, softly, because he is kind, "Mienne. Mon Assez."

I love him for his kindness as I seek out the man with the gun for his brutality. They stay in their separate worlds, but they define me.

It is in this love and in this violence that I am my true self. Truth and beauty. We are both of these, the disowned children of our parent's nightmares.