On Torture

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    floki
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    When I was in college, I dated a girl named
    Lacey. We had an emotionally twisted
    relationship, where she was in love with me (or
    believed she was) and I was afraid of being
    lonely. It was classic codependency.
    Nevertheless, we had great sex.
    Once, late in our relationship, beneath the sheets
    of my off-campus apartment, she asked me to tie
    her up. This was the height of my concern about
    political correctness with respect to women. I was
    shocked and confused. In my loss of words, I
    probably appeared to have not heard her or to be
    ignoring her. She became embarrassed and the
    mood was destroyed.
    In hindsight, I understand that my disgust was
    not related to the idea of the act, but rather the
    idea that the act seemed to be a cartoon-ization,
    an exaggeration, of our already dysfunctional
    relationship. “For Christ sake”, I thought, “I am
    already torturing this girl emotionally and we both
    know it. How could she take pleasure out of its
    physical manifestation”.
    Later in life, I was dating a girl named Grace.
    Grace was particularly naughty, and I don’t mean
    in the fun way. She was prone to throwing
    tantrums in public, being nasty to my friends,
    starting fights with sales clerks, hating people she
    just met, and cheating on me. She was
    completely dependent on attention and had the
    temperament of an underfed dragon. Once again,
    however, great sex.
    Grace and I could only get along when we were
    living in different cities. Once when she was
    attending law school in Boston, I went to visit
    her. We had engaged in some pretty erotic phone
    talk before I arrived and she had also requested a
    bit of the silk tie action. This time, I planned to
    oblige.
    But I wondered how much fun this would be if
    there was no fear or anger. I assumed (I had
    never done this before) that it was the mingling of
    the different and extreme emotions that made the
    idea so sweet.
    Our routine was to debrief when we visited each
    other. That meant going to a public place,
    drinking coffee or having dinner, talking, looking,
    and smelling. Touching was all but forbidden. It
    was a good practice. Reunited lovers are too
    quick to focus on the body and they leave the
    person for later. It’s better the other way around.
    Afterwards, we returned to her studio. I remember
    she was wearing a sheer skirt with a full opaque
    slip, an ivory top, a brown suede baseball jacket,
    and Coco Chanel. Actually, in my mind she was
    always wearing that, so my recollection of the
    event is probably inaccurate. Nevertheless, I took
    off her clothes one piece at a time, touching and
    kissing as I went. I made it clear that all of my
    clothes, even my shoes, were to stay on.
    When she was fully naked, I lead her to the bed
    and took out my ties. Still kissing, I gently but
    very securely tied her to the posts of the large
    wooden bed. When I was sure she could not
    escape, I blindfolded her. Then leaning over her,
    close but not touching, I picked up my phone.
    I had a friend, Dave that was also in town that
    night. I called him up and asked him what he was
    doing. He was going out later but had a small
    window of time open. “Great,” I said, “I’m at
    Grace’s. Swing by and pick me up and we’ll go
    get a beer.” As I expected, this call turned Grace’s
    arousal to anger. I grabbed her keys and a coat
    and headed out the door. As the elevator closed
    behind me, I could still hear her screaming.
    The bar was close by. In the space of about 45
    minutes, I had two beers and talked about the
    usual, girls, cars, and work. Dave had a date later
    that night and was in a bit of a hurry to get back
    and get ready. “Don’t worry about it”, I explained.
    “I’m also in a bit of a hurry. I have something in
    the oven and I’m afraid it will burn up if I leave it
    too long.” He expressed concern that I would put
    anything in the oven and then leave the building.
    He was right. It was probably dangerous.
    Five minutes later, I unlocked the door and
    entered the unnatural calm of Grace’s studio. She
    was lying, unmoving on the now crumpled bed,
    my improvised shackles still in place. My friendly
    greeting went unanswered. I leaned over her face
    and whispered, “hello.” I’m sure she could smell
    the beer on my breath and she responded by
    spitting violently in my face. I wiped it off and
    then kissed her. Although her anger was not
    subdued, she responded. I untied her, and for the
    next three hours, we had sex. With decreasing
    frequency, the rage would snap back and she
    would punch me with all her might or bite
    through my skin. I would respond by kissing her
    harder.

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