We had not discussed fire in our extensive negotiations, but when the neoprene eye-piece was removed from my hood, the sadist was holding a lit candle. I froze.
I’m afraid of fire and don’t involve it in my scenes. Never have. Some children have to be told to stay away from matches, but my mom had to force me to learn how to light them on my own. It could have something to do with our apartment burning down when I was 6 or 7, but I don’t think so. That’s just the kind of kid I was: risk-averse, terrified of hurting myself. I’m still that way.
That evening, I was not supposed to say a word, but at the sight of the flame I almost broke scene. I don’t even like hot wax, even though it doesn’t hurt that much, or for very long. But I trust my sadist, so I overrode my natural response, famously a poor gauge of safety. They told me to listen, and watch the flame as they spoke.
The fire, the sadist said, was merely a symbol. A signal for my brain, for my prefrontal cortex, specifically. With their free hand, they pointed to the area of skull above my forehead, tapping gently. The prefrontal cortex is the part of the brain that governs complex cognitive behavior, personality expression, and decision making, among other things. “No thinking tonight,” they said. Thinking gets in the way.
I’ve never been into hypnotism, though after “sissy hypno” entered mainstream consciousness via Andrea Long Chu and Torrey Peters and became a lightning-rod/synonym for transfeminine sexuality and desire, my interest was piqued. It’s an interesting avenue for the giving up of control, synthesizing as it does so many locations and sensations attributed to medicine, magic, and the liminal spaces between: the Freudian’s leather chair, the ominous exam room. For me it also evokes practitioners who are not-quite-medical professionals, alternative healers with muddled certifications who work out of dingy office spaces or hotel conference rooms. Whether your body worker presents as proof of their expertise an Ivy League PhD or the back of a cereal box, giving your body over to psychiatry, science, or something else is a surrendering, and never without danger.
But it is a calm surrendering, a sinking under the surface, as opposed to a baptism by fire, with which I’m far more comfortable, provided the heat isn’t literal. At a different time in my life, I would have found the whole candle thing to be silly—cringe, even. But as I now understand, SM incorporates ritual for a reason: It works. It hacks.
I have had the pleasure of writing about so many things—dyke drama, pop stars, IUDs, beautiful men, holy women—but I obviously have a soft spot for whatever it is that leather is, this bodyhack for pleasure and presence. What’s most interesting to me is its ineffability, and the challenge of encapsulating desire, fantasy, and feeling with mere words. It’s my hope that my second book, X, goes a little way in doing that. I can’t wait for you to read it! Until then, I wanted to share the cover with DAVID readers in advance of its “official” release.
Gives “soft opening” a whole new flavor, doesn’t it?
David tweets at @k8bushofficial. Read the earthquake room. Keep reading DAVID to find out when X (Catapult, 2022) is available for preorder.
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David Davis