WARNING: This post contains (somewhat) graphic sexual content and a (somewhat) graphic description of a violent dream. The sex is real. The death is not.
Yesterday night, I gave myself the most intense sexual gratification I have ever consciously experienced. But in my dreams that night, my subconscious was flooded with terrifying images of death, and feelings of anger and shame. I am left feeling afraid for things I cannot understand. I am confused and hurting. But I also think, at least I know one way I can make myself feel better, than I have ever been able to do before?
During the evening, I felt a lot of pinching and stinging from one of my only remaining genital piercings (of which I have had four). Since starting testosterone injections, I have been experiencing a rapid and prolonged increase in sensation, that is actually making it impossible for me to avoid shaving daily. It’s gotten to the point that I can’t even stand the sensation of my own natural body hair resting anywhere between my cheeks or outer labia, and I have to trim the rest that’s left in the Bermuda Triangle down to a half a millimeter, because otherwise the sensation this causes is a fierce itching sensation from constant tickling. That the particular genital piercing in question was causing problems with unwanted sensation, came as no surprise to me. It was starting to feel uncomfortable at times for the past month. It was finally time for it to go.
Perhaps because of what it took to get it, I hesitated. As I looked for the seams on the segment that is designed to pop out, trying to hold the ring in a manner that would make insertion of a set of ring-opening pliers a low-risk activity, I thought about the moment the needle went in. Never before or since that particular event, have I spontaneously started yelling and swearing, telling a piercer to get his fucking hands off me and leave me the fuck alone. I mean, I don’t have a high pain tolerance, but the effect of this particular pain on me–I have no idea where the fury came from. It pinched while I walked when the jewellery was finally put in, and after a couple of hours, I felt a dull sensation as though my blood pressure had significantly fallen, from deep within my lower abdomen. When I went to the toilet to see if there was something wrong, and also because I had an urge to void, I was horrified at how much blood had come out of it.
But the next day, all the clotting was gone, and I didn’t bleed. It stung every time I voided for the first three days, just as if I had a very severe bladder infection. Within a couple of weeks of the initial piercing, I started to become curious about different jewellery, because I was wearing a particular style of jewellery that occasionally caused tugging sensations and pinching of my anatomy. I quickly found the right piece to wear, and when I was ready, I had started having sex with my partner-at-the-time again.
The sensation was mind-blowing. Never before had I felt something that was so intensely erotic, that it was at the threshold of physical pain. And to my disappointment, I never got that sensation from the piercing again. I am still searching for how to achieve it through any other means. But the sensation I did get from it was still a very intensely erotic sensation. Like a second erogenous centre, just a few millimeters South of the one I was born with. For all the years I’ve had it, until deciding yesterday to retire it, my experience was one of fulfilment and improved capacity for sexual pleasure–when alone. And when I’ve been alone, I’ve had some of the most wonderful, gratifying, and enriching sexual experiences of my entire life. I’ve often wished I could feel this way about my interactions with other people, but my experiences have made me a cynic.
So yesterday, I felt inspired to love myself in the wee hours of the morning. I had been reading The Satanic Bible for hours already, and suddenly realized I was the only person left awake in my home. I knew I would neither be interrupted, nor be the cause for anyone else’s unnecessary [hyperbole] “trauma” [/hyperbole] from walking in on me. And so, I felt safe enough to relax. I set out my favourite things, got myself ready without attracting attention or disturbing anyone else, turned off the lights, and slowly immersed myself.
But something was different this time. Different in incredible ways! Things happened faster and felt more intense without so much need to build myself up just to tease myself so that I don’t plateau. And I didn’t plateau before I was satisfied. In fact, I seemed to keep escalating until I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt the rush of blood to my cheeks. Then my neck and chest. And unlike any time I’ve ever been this selfish, I felt the blood in my upper arms and shoulders heating my entire body up. A bead of sweat burst through the skin on my temple. I tried to remember to breathe, but I couldn’t. I’ve never felt this before–it was like when I bungee-jumped and instinctively gasped and shut my eyes as tight as I could, holding my breath and waiting for impact. My hips started rocking. I hadn’t even started using a penetrative toy, and I was already at such a heightened level of arousal, that I couldn’t stop myself. I tugged on handfuls of my skin and finally felt the release I needed.
And when I was too sensitive to continue to enjoy it, I took a moment to just lay there in satisfaction. My heart slowed down and my skin slowly cooled. I drifted into sleep easily, without dreaming anything I remember. Except that is, until the middle of my night of sleep. Deep sleep. Dangerous sleep, when all my demons make themselves known to me.
This night, I had another dream about my father. In my dream, he was 15 years younger than he is right now, and still working at the job he had for my entire childhood–as a guard for short-term imprisonment of criminally accused persons awaiting trial for non-capital offences. Only this time, he was filmed on the evening news because of a Black man who had been incarcerated, who claimed that he was innocent of all charges, and successfully managed to attract the media to his cause. And as my father escorted this handcuffed man while camera-persons filmed them walking to the court hearing, my father suddenly tripped the accused, causing him to fall to his knees. And just as suddenly, as the man fought to get to his feet, as if he knew what was about to happen to him, my father put his hands on the man’s face and promptly snapped his neck, instantly rendering him dead, just steps outside of his trial. The media were airing this unedited tape on the evening news as I watched from the living room with my father breathing furiously down my neck, and telling the story of my father, who was denying that he had just killed an innocent man.
I woke up both terrified and angry. I felt ashamed of how racist my parents actually are (not just in my dreams). I felt alarmed and afraid, like somehow he had reached through my subconscious to threaten me with the power he once had over me. I felt confused, unable to make of what to think of why I had this dream. Why on this night, immediately subsequent to the height of my self-gratification?
I want to escape from the world in my head where the cost of admission to my love and my sex includes automatic subjugation and violence. I just don’t know how.