I
went to bed last night wondering what I could write for this cycle’s
topic, “Lifting the Veil”. I woke this morning from a vivid,
disturbing dream that seemed like the answer to my unspoken question.
In
the dream, I was about to be dismembered, literally sawed into
pieces. I’d somehow fallen into the clutches of some cabal who
quite calmly informed me of their intentions. I had no idea why they
wanted to do this, what they hoped to accomplish, or why I had been
chosen (though there was some sense that other people had been
subjected to the same fate). Immobilized, strapped to a table, I
didn’t even try to escape. It’s as though I’d accepted my lack
of choice.
Despite
this tacit acquiescence, I was terrified. It seemed they planned to
hack away at me while I was awake and alert. I pleaded with them to
give me some sort of drugs or anesthesia, and they agreed. At first I
just felt a bit foggy-headed, all my sensations muffled in cotton
wool, but soon I began to sink into unconsciousness. As I slipped
away, I imagined what awaited me. Were these the last thoughts I’d
ever experience? Was I about to be obliterated, erased? Or was there
some spark, some spirit, some essence of my being that would endure
after my body was nothing but a pile of bloody meat? I didn’t know
the answer. Even if I did, there was nothing at all I could do. I had
to let go.
I’m
not the type to brood, but when you’re in your sixth decade of life
and your partner is in his seventh, it’s hard not to think about
death at least occasionally. It could come at any time, for either of
us. Am I ready? Is anyone, ever? (Actually, I think some people are.
My ninety four year old aunt told me before she died that every
morning she woke up thinking, “Well, I guess I’m still alive.) Am
I afraid? As in the dream, I am probably more frightened by the
possibility of pain than of oblivion.
I
do believe (with varying degrees of certainty depending on the day
and my mood) that there is a dimension of energy or spirit beyond the
material world, that indeed spirit engenders and shapes physical
reality. Death might destroy the ego, the self, personality and
memories, but our life energy must be recycled. I try to convince
myself that death is just another stage of existence, that what
awaits on the other side of the veil might well be revelations
impossible to grasp when we’re shackled and smothered in our meat
selves.
Some
days I am more successful in fostering this enlightened view than
others.
I
really don’t know where my near-nightmare came from. I might have
been influenced by this article I read just yesterday:
In
case you’re too busy to follow the link, the topic is RAADFest, the Revolution Against
Aging and Death convention, part of a movement to use science to
defer or reverse the effects of age. The ultimate mission?
Immortality.
It’s
easy to snicker when you read this article, but who knows? The human
life span has more than doubled in a few centuries, and seems to
still be on the upswing. Of course immortality has been staple fare
in science fiction (not to mention paranormal erotica) for a long
time. I recently finished Cory Doctorow’s Walkaway,
a scifi novel bursting with provocative ideas, including some notions
about immortality. A technology is developed to “scan” a person’s
mind, upload and store the entire sum of his or her thoughts, memory
and personality, and later reconstitute the “person” as a
disembodied intelligence running on a computer. In particular, this
technology makes it possible to “reboot” you after you have
physically died. The process is far from foolproof, and can be highly
disruptive, emotionally, to
the person involved.
Probably the most traumatic aspect, when your scan is loaded and
activated, is dealing with the idea that you’re actually dead.
But
what does that mean—“actually
dead”—when
extinct animals can be cloned from historical
DNA? When new organs can be 3D printed (already possible for some
sorts of tissues)? When
stem cells can be teased into any sort of body part needed? We’re
used to thinking about death as a
sharp line, “The undiscovered country, from whose bourn, No
traveller returns”, but maybe things aren’t that simple. Ghosts.
Vampires. Clones. Sentient androids. Energy
beings from space. Who knows what the universe holds?
Another
strand in this tangle involves the eroticism of death. Most of my
stories tend toward the sex-positive and sunny, but when I pen a
paranormal tale, I often find myself spinning into darkness. I’m
drawn to the experience of surrender. Could there be a more profound
surrender than releasing oneself to death?
I
have a story releasing on the 17th
that explores this idea, mixing it up with a bit of magic. My
protagonist in Underground
craves
the experience
of orgasm as
she hovers at
the edge of death. She spends long, frustrated years looking for a
lover who can satisfy her needs, until she meets the mysterious Z at
an exclusive sex club reputedly frequented by beings with occult
powers.
He
places his silver blade between my breasts, a sweet reminder of the
blood he might or might not shed. The chill metal sucks warmth from
my skin. His mouth dances over my lips, my straining nipples, my
fresh-shaven mound. With every contact he draws the life from me,
leaving exquisite languor in its stead. My limbs grow heavy. It
becomes impossible to move, even if I wanted to. Meanwhile, profound
pleasure circles and settles in my pelvis like a purring cat.
I
open myself to him, mind and body both, desire overwhelming any
residual instinct toward self-preservation. His luminous body is a
magnet, attracting my essence. He drinks deep, taking what he
requires.
To
give him everything is my only desire.
~~~~
Maybe
working with this story kindled the strange dream. On the other hand,
I’ve been aware of the emotional link between BDSM and death for
years. Here’s something I wrote almost fifteen years ago, which
captures this connection better than most of my tales.
Ritual
To
GCS
They
meet, infrequently, to perform the ritual. She waits for him to
arrive, heart slamming against her ribs, stomach twisted with
nervousness. When he enters, they embrace, awkwardly. It has been so
long. She attempts lightness, a joke, a jibe, pretending that she
does not know why she is here. Then he gives the sign - a mere
eyebrow, arched in a question - and her protective humor slips from
her along with her clothing.
The
ritual demands much of them, the steps choreographed, but always with
room for improvisation. First he binds her, with rope, or silk, or
leather, ceiling-hung with thighs spread, or splayed across the bed,
or bent double over a hassock. Sometimes he will position her limbs
and bind her to stillness with his command alone.
Then
he teases her, dabbles his fingers in her wetness, lovingly mocks her
sluttishness. She melts at his slightest touch, sinks liquid and
helpless into the ritual spirit, moaning just as he intends. She
could drown in his rich voice, nuanced and full of power. He pinches
her nipples into aching peaks, captures them in clothespins, or
cinches them with rubber bands. All the while he strokes her pussy,
calls her his pet, muddles the pains and the pleasures besieging her.
Next,
he beats her. Here the ritual has many variants, but all with a
single purpose: to invoke the purity of her surrender. She writhes
under the lash, twists away from the hairbrush, whimpers as his bare
palm reddens her buttocks. She does not wish to resist him; her only
thought now is to please. But the pain is difficult to endure.
Breathe, he says, soothing, encouraging, even as he scourges her.
Open yourself. Yield yourself to me once again.
His
voice is the key that unlocks her. Some barrier shatters and she
floats free, each stroke of the whip an ecstatic kiss. His mind moves
with hers now, sharing her agony and her joy. His breath comes in
gasps like hers. His organ is granite. Now, come to me, my love, he
whispers, entering her front or rear or spraying her marked thighs
with his burning seed. She obeys, sliding into climax as he slides
inside her, white hot fringed with red streaks of the pain.
Transcendence.
Communion. Completion. They do not speak of it as they dress. There
is no need for speech when the ritual is complete.
They
meet infrequently. Sitting alone, on the plane or the bus taking her
homeward, she savors the gaping, twitching sensations in her rear
hole, the sharp echo of her stripes as she shifts in her seat, the
slickness, still, in her sex. His voice echos in her mind.
Theirs
is an old love. She thinks of him daily, imagines his life, her chest
swollen with bittersweet aching. He thinks of her less frequently,
but when he does, he gnashes his teeth, driven almost to madness
because he cannot possess her. Then he recalls her sweet pliancy, her
willing debasement, and his lips curve in a smile as he strums on his
cock.
The
ritual renews them. When she lies in a dentist's chair, or on the
surgeon's table, when she wakes in fear in the night, she remembers
him. Breathe. Open. Surrender. She relaxes into the fear, trusting as
she trusts him.
She
is sure that she will think of him, that way, when she surrenders
herself into the arms of death. And then, perhaps, their meetings
will be more frequent, and the ritual will be perfected.
~~~~
Despite
the terror, my dream held hints of this epiphany. I would like to
believe that when the time comes, I will cross the threshold in grace
and trust, not in fear.
