– Abraham Lincoln
Why is love so evasive? It hides behind impossibilities. Dancing around dashed hopes and crushed dreams, it laughs, seemingly immune. Attempts to force its hand are met with indifference. It scoffs at the futility of such manipulations. It can appear dead, then, resurrect itself in spite of all logical resistance. Contrary to reason, it brings to madness the mind of the genius. Delighting in the bafflement of its adversaries, it raises strong arms to show defiance of prediction. Having disarmed reason and logic it takes the journey into sweet insanity, a wandering exploration through places beyond imagination. Struck with its seduction, a mere touch becomes a fire of uncontrolled passion. A whisper transforms itself into an echo that continues long after the source had taken its leave. Having then all power held in suspension at its will, surely the proverb is true, “now abide faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.” I would have to agree, and that is the reason for love’s evasiveness – it is because it can.
It started when I was little, so little that my body scarcely knew what to do. Though guilt inflicted itself on me by nature and nurture, still I found solace in the pictures, a sense of peace and pleasure. The assuaging of my guilt, an advantage, as others commit that which intrigues me. The sordid interactions of the players on film and paper exempted me from the game of life. Watching removed me from the elements of rejection and worthlessness, instilling a pleasure that gave me sweet relief from the pain of this torturous childhood that cursed me.
The acts depicted were a reminder of those forced on me. By seeing those acts replayed by others, and gaining pleasure from the same, they gave me a sense of control over what had and would happen to me. Bodies flow and move and engage, bringing climax or a heightened sense of control as they guide their passions toward mysterious goals. Who can know what is in the heart of the one taking another sexually? Perverse and vile thoughts abound in that stormy atmosphere; refreshing rain on one hand, a lashing and punishing wind on the other. So I watch.
Gaining a surreptitious sense of control over things done to me by the beautiful lewdness of naked and bound play things. Of great interest to me are the abnormal psychological patterns expressed in my thoughts as I see the engagement. A baton of deviation passed on from generation to generation by not so subtle players who leaving the film of their imagination, now commit those acts on the fledgling innocents, and not so innocents, in life’s journey.
The act of sex is not so much the goal, control is. Control and power. Control over those acts which I had no choice, power over those who have hurt me, the faces of those violators superimposed on the victim in the play. So I watch and pray that I will never commit those acts that run so vividly through my mind. So I watch. Is there a choice anymore? What drug will relieve me this way? What counseling will subdue the raging fire, the misguided but ever true passion?
None ever has, nor will any ever, keep these demons at bay but one, that is my God, strong and ready to hold me by the reigns and never let me go, giving me the gift of choice. I must choose wisely, the way is costly. The power of this thing is so strong, I don’t want to admit the choice. I want to give in and never whisper a prayer for forgiveness. Prayers are hard now, harder still, the choices.