Powder

I need a second sense almost, to know what it is you need before I ever see your face. Sure, you checked the boxes, filled out the forms. Were you honest with yourself? Did you mark an ‘X’ in the wrong place because you knew the woman at the desk was going to see it? Do you know that she has her memory wiped every morning for confidentiality? Do you know that she does care what your fetishes are or what you’re into? Do you know that I’m the only one who will know what happens in this room?

My fingers toy with the glass in front of me. The liquid is tasteless, just tap water. It’s the powder floating around on its surface that makes a difference, to you and to me. I can drug myself to do, not do, feel, not feel, and deal with anything you want me to. I ought to know, right? I’ve been doing it for years.

I can’t actually make myself feel anything any more, not without these innocuous white packages, a fresh supply of which is given to me every month, like clockwork. They removed my ability to feel, ripped it right out of me as sure as they give me those powders. Without them I do not feel, and if I cannot feel what’s the purpose of life? Why live in a world without feeling?

I can’t even remember what it is I’m swallowing: the lifeless, white substance floating in my water. What did you want from me? Did you want to tie me up? Did you want to beat me? Did you want beautiful courtship in armour and silk? Did you even want me to cum? I can’t remember. There are a lot of things in this life that work like clockwork: like you. Nameless, faceless, always the same and yet always different.

Why do you come to me, night and afternoon, every day? Why do the faceless masses of people visit me for their own comfort, amusement, sick pleasure? What do you really get out of it?

Everyone needs something different from me. The lady with the perfect blonde curls and crisp dollar bills needs oil, a reminder that she is beautiful, and the ability to tie me down once a month, trying to force me to feel something real. Sometimes I let her think that she’s succeeded. The gentleman with the polished shoes and muscleshirt needs to know that there’s something soft left in the world: something pleasant. He comes to me for tea and an open ear.

The man with the overcoat, it’s grey on the outside and lined in light blue. The first time I saw him I thought of cloudy afternoons that eventually break into sunlight. He has kind eyes with laugh lines. He always wears grey and he’s so carefully with that jacket. It hangs on the hook beside my door. He always makes sure that I drink before our visits together because he knows what it does to me. He knows that once I am allowed an emotion I am able to control it. He likes to hear me scream, it grates on his nerves, he says.

So I scream for him. I scream when the silk scarves tie my hands together, when he lovingly removes my clothing, when he hits me. I scream because it’s what he wants. I scream because it’s what he needs. I scream because he lets me, encourages me, beats me down for it. I scream because he gives me control over myself. He makes me enjoy it, makes me swallow Pleasure and Excitement before we're together and watches me drink it down for him.

It’s his visits I look for, not the oil and the calm talk over a sunny afternoon. I look for life, even if he makes it hurt. I look for life because out there is someone who lets me experience it.