The sharpness of the steel lives on the tip of my tongue. A strange synesthesia that bridges outer and inner worlds. The ghost of its edge hums in my veins. The cut it will make, the blood it will spill, the pain it will cause all push my heart up into my throat until my pulse pounds in my ears and my mouth floods with saliva. It is a metal-flavoured anticipation.
To say that there is a war going on inside me is a cliched understatement. The angels and the demons are meeting on a vast, scorched battlefield, and I’m standing in no-mans-land with this razor in my hand. It’s not a civilized thing to want what I want. Nice girls don’t fuck themselves to fractured images of parting their lover’s skin. Perhaps, for some people it is about marking, claiming territory. Not for me.
Because I can hear the tight, shallow breaths you are taking. The brittle shield of a laugh you use to obscure your fear. There is a war inside you, too. The sane part of you wants to back out, wonders what on earth you were thinking when you agreed to this. But the other part of you wants to give me this as an act of love. It wants stay the course, to know you are brave enough, free enough to take it. You want to trust me not to turn sociopath and casually pull this fine, sharp blade across your throat. But you will never know for sure until it’s over.
So, here, I say, straddling your hips and trailing my fingertips over your fine, fragile flesh. The dusting of hair, the flat taupe nipple that quells at my contact, the hilly landscape of your ribs. Here just below the last one. Here, where Christ took the Roman spear. This is where I want to cut you. And beneath my fingers, the muscles tense. I smile.
You are meat and more. The miracle of being a human animal, and the audacity to think ourselves gods. And here, in this moment, I am god. With my instrument of destruction, I take the illogical, the unnecessary, the senseless fruit of your fear.
That’s the spot I press my lips to, burnish with my breath. Beneath me, despite your reservations, I can feel the your reluctant cock swelling. My cunt twitches like a clock, marking the seconds that pass when you flinch and hold your breath.
I know you want it to be fast and over, but I want it slow. Silver and gleaming, mirroring your skin as it travels, I tease the blunt edge down the center of your chest – a parodied autopsy – and watch the wings of doubt cast shadows across your face, the flint of fear crease your brow. But most of all, it is your eyes, flitting between the razor and me, until perhaps we are one and the same. How ever did you let this sick little woman into your bed?
There are no rewards on offer. No bargains or barter. No ‘if you let me do this, then I will do that.’ Give me this because I want it. Because you tell me you love me as I am and I am this thing that wants this. Let me be me, here underneath your rib, where Christ took the Roman spear. Be more for me than he was. Do it without the promise of resurrection.
Bending to the task, I hold your skin taut with my fingers and, angle the blade, let it rest there, anticipating its path. Then the slow shallow draw and the delayed hiss of breath as your nerves finally inform you of the offense being played out upon your flesh. The slow, wicked eversharp tug into the sacred softness of your skin.
Such a little cut, really. My eyes tear up at the sight of the deep red beads that are born in the wound, and spill over hesitantly, like thick tears as your chest heaves now that the deed is done.
I lay the razor down, close my eyes, and slide the rounded hill of my cheek over my sin. Inhale the scent of your skin and copper until I can bear it no more, until I draw my parted lips through the bloody smear, the raw new line, and taste my misdeed.
There is no always, no forever, but in that moment, I possess you. You are entirely mine. My sweet little imitation of Christ. So, give me one more.