CW: this post contains a picture with blood in it.
The first time I tried any form of needle play, I was a naive little 18-year-old girl. It was exactly one needle, underneath the ring finger of my left hand. It fucking hurt, and made me cry out in pain. It is one of the very few things that ever had that effect.
(Note that this was my first time ever really playing; I will write more about this experience later, but suffice to say it is still a favorite to this day and cemented my masochism as something as real as I’d always imagined in fantasy.)
The second time was years and years later. I was 26 and my now-husband and I were at an “exploratorium” educational which featured many types of play. He’d refused to allow me to try needles before as he felt they were too invasive, but decided to allow it now that he was confident in the abilities of the friend of ours heading needles. She stuck quite a few in my back, using my extensive back piece (I have more than 80 hours of tattoo work on my body; perhaps I’ll do a tattoo piece and explain them all at some point) as a guide.
She’d stuck quite a few in me before finally asking how many I wanted. I told her ten (she’d already done ten by this point), then said, “I don’t know. A few more, I guess.” She then asked how I felt about being stapled. I’d been stapled before; I quite like running my fingers over staples, so I was happy to try it.
The third time was during a friend’s house party. He stuck a few in my upper chest. It produced a fine little buzz, but that was about it. I was 28.
Only the first time thus far had given me any real pleasure. I am a masochist and pain is nearly a necessity for me. The second and third times had been pleasant and all, but more about gaining experience than anything else.
It was the fourth time that I came to love needles.
I was playing with a sadist who was good at particularly extreme play, but otherwise an ass. He wanted to draw forth blood, and so he used needles on my arms (with hardly a reaction from me), then on my thighs. And, oh God, the 16g needles in my thighs were heaven. They sent heat through me, tingling in my extremities. He then decided to up the gauge of the needles in my arms to match my thighs. And suggested something both terrifying and thrilling.
He grasped the meat of my labia majora and pulled with one hand, then smoothly slid in one of those frighteningly large looking needle. The wave that crashed over me, ripped through me, was like nothing I had ever experienced before (the closest thing to it was a g-spot orgasm, and those are rare and difficult for me to achieve). I readily agreed to another and another, until I was dizzy with pleasurable pain.
After that, I was addicted. I allowed that same top to teach needles to another person using me, and thus learned for myself.
Eventually, I ordered myself needles and now sometimes I’ll them out to practice sticking them into my own breasts and thighs. I have gladly taught others how to stick needles into my tender flesh, though that is a story for another day.
Is there any question as to why many women are (even now and then) attracted to other women?
We are soft, curving, delicate compared to men usually. I personally love women around my own height– I hover a little over 5 feet. Even being bisexual, most of my life I’ve had a harder time hitting on women or knowing when women are hitting on me.
Since getting married, it’s gotten even harder to date women. It’s assumed that I (with my husband) am a unicorn hunter. That is, a member of couple looking for a “third” partner to add in, often a bisexual woman who may or may not be treated as expendable.
I am not and I don’t. I date separately from my husband, and bisexuality is not a phase. The first person to ever actively turn me on was a girl who pinned me down during a playful wrestling match and bit my neck. The sound that came out of my mouth put an end to the fight, though for months after she would push me down and snap her teeth close to my throat to tease me…
There are few things that are certain in this world, but one inevitability is that if I live long enough, I’ll write again. About something, but mostly about the little things, the things always on my mind.
I’ve been writing almost as long as I can remember, and I have a long memory. Even before I could form letters, I was telling stories. I’d even ‘read along’ with books on tape, the same sorts of stories I like now (in perhaps less graphic detail).
Tamer versions of the Brothers Grimm and More Scary Stories.
I think I was six when I first picked up 1001 Nights. I put it back after fifty or so pages, because I thought my mother might not approve.
However, it’s always been the same stories that appealed– maidens captured, villains who both repulsed and attracted. I remember staying up late and watching Hellraiser movies as a small child.
When people ask me how long I’ve been kinky, I tell them when I discovered BDSM (at 11) or that I started my personal journey as soon as I turned legal. But thinking back to the thrill when Pinhead told Kristy he had such sites to show her… it began in the same place as my love for words.
That is, inside of me. Always present.
I bathed for the first time in ages today. Really bathed. Shaved my legs and scrubbed myself. More in depth than the few perfunctory baths I’ve had recently (clean the important bits, sit depressed for a minute, get out, maybe once every three days).
I have someone coming over though, so I felt like I had to. Even cleaned the house a little. Not much. Picked up the odds and ends lying everywhere, swept the dog fur off the floor.
Looking into the mirror after my thorough scrub-down as I washed my face, blurry because even though it was hours after noon, I still hadn’t put in my contacts. And I wanted to cry. It was already too much.
I have school tomorrow and I don’t know how I’ll make it through.
Mornings when my husband isn’t there are the worst. I’ll lay in bed and my mind will drift toward those thoughts, of his face when he’s inside me and his lips against mine and the desperate way he arches into me… I normally would play with myself.
But those thoughts, though they still inflame me, also quash me. I’m inconsolably sad. I miss him so much it aches.
And my fingers twitch to grab my phone, to message him, but I know I can’t.
I’ll just wait in bed and force myself to sleep until my husband comes and holds me while I try to forget another man.
Over the years I have discovered I love experimenting– with personal style, photography, art, writing, sex, play… trying new things, especially strange, is one of my favorite games. Thus, showing this little part of myself to the world, the part that still gets comfort out of curling up with a stuffed animal (in this case a pig named Buggy who has traveled through two duty stations and two and a half decades with me), was a bit of a risk.
I decided to up the ante by “painting” over the manipulated photo. Why not, right? If I fail, only the internet might be witness. The entire internet. Or the few people who will read this.