The Pleasure Box

Strange as it may seem, I wasn't all that anxious to meet you. I'd scoured all the social networks, searched every nook and cranny of the Internet, analyzed and scrutinized every photo, zoomed in, zoomed out, re-zoomed every image, read and re-read every text. I had spoken to you on the phone the day before, and the exchange had been very courteous and friendly, reinforcing the sense of trust I felt.
So it's with the confidence of a man who knows where he's come from and where he's going that I open the door to your building. I feel ready to take up the challenge, prepared and confident, repeating to myself over and over again that to conquer without peril is to triumph without glory.

As I climb the stairs, I think of one of your audios, in which you talk about the world inside opposing the world outside. I smile at the idea that I'm at the heart of the transition process. My head is still full of the little worries of everyday life and the little joys of tomorrow.
Now I'm standing in front of your door. I take a deep breath, tuck my shirt into my pants and knock three light knocks. There's silence for a few seconds before I hear a noise behind the door. I can see you looking at me through the peephole.
You open the door.
In the end, it only takes a second - the second when I first meet your eyes - for me to suddenly lose all my self-confidence. I, who have rehearsed and rehearsed this scene several times in my mind (with, I say in all modesty, a certain critical success), suddenly forget my lines and literally decompose in front of you. I become liquid, or worse, gaseous! As for you, there you are, super nice, super smiling, a touch of amused irony in the corner of your eyes.
To the jokes you tell me, I stammer back, to the cultural references you ask for, I stammer even more. You laugh at me, you make fun of me, you tell me I look like a five-year-old, and I know you're right.

I enter your world according to a ritual you explain to me: I have to undress, wash myself and come and knock on the door. I do so, open the door and enter this timeless room, naked as a worm. I see the red velvet curtains, the varnished oak parquet, the moldings on the walls and ceiling. I see the paintings and the chains hanging from the ceiling. Here I am, in your den, and there's no turning back. You ask me questions, and I don't answer them at all, having to repeat myself three times to articulate an intelligible sentence. Part of me laughs at this, chatting me up and sending me images of this scene in other contexts. I smile yellow, which doesn't really help.

So, in the middle of this room, you talk to me, you dance, you waltz around me. You pinch me, you caress me, you scratch me.
I'm watching you on the sly. I find you breathtakingly beautiful and wildly elegant. I do everything I can to catch your gaze. I'm hypnotized by it. I'd like to lose myself in it, but you're no fool: you offer it, you withdraw it, you distill it.

I'm now standing in the middle of the room, my arms in the air, my hands hooked by handcuffs to the chains falling from the ceiling. Even my other self, so hilarious ten minutes ago, no longer dares to laugh at me when you pick up a martinet. He and I are worried, I wasn't expecting this.
I'm apprehensive about the pain but don't show it: there's still an ounce of pride left.
The hammer blows quickly get the better of him: they rain down. On my buttocks, on my back, on my stomach. I'm gagged, blindfolded and shackled. Bitten, spanked, pinched, sodomized. The pain is sharp, but when it is combined with the gentleness of caresses or words, it is transformed into a sensation that I discover with surprise: in my body, an avalanche of contradictory information telescopes, speaks to each other, responds to each other. Some limbs tremble with pleasure, others with pain. I'd like to stop and think about what I'm feeling, to analyze it, but my brain doesn't understand a thing. I feel immersed in a fine mist that gradually invades me.

The music is incredible, haunting, beautiful. I recognize the sublime voice of Nick Cave, the wonderful timbre of Janis Joplin. My other self is now with me, more than content. I'm in a kind of communion. You spit on me, I love it, I want more.
A slap goes off. I look surprised, you pretend to be surprised and I ask for more.
You boast that you've read my questionnaire perfectly, and you gently quibble with me about the expression "light masochism". It's true that at this very moment, in the position I'm in, this expression seems a bit of a dick to me. I stammer, a little ashamed. But when you ask me if I've indicated wax as a limit, I see this as an opportunity to take meager revenge and, in my turn, tease you by replying that you haven't read this questionnaire all that well after all. The words just won't come out, loser! Having said that, I don't even know myself what I wrote.

Here I am now, with clamps on my breasts connected by a chain that you put in my mouth. You lift my head to pull on the chain. It hurts a lot but your face is just a few centimetres from mine. I lower my head, you insist, I raise it, one of the clamps comes off. The sharp, unexpected pain clashes with the gentleness of our tête-à-tête.
It's so strange I'm laughing. I think you're laughing too.

There comes a moment when you seem to hesitate about what to do next, before fetching a box that you introduce to me as "the box of pleasures". I can't quite make out what's inside, but it looks like drawing materials to me, and I wonder what pencils and erasers have to do with it. In the end, they're neither pencils nor erasers, but some sort of clothespins that you meticulously, conscientiously, methodically hook onto the skin of my testicles.
New pains, new sensations, new contradictory information. In my lower abdomen, I have a string of clothespins, like a swarm of crabs clinging to a rock. You tell me there are ten, but I don't believe you, I know there are at least a hundred.
To remove them, you offer me a deck of cards. There's one that particularly hurts me, but I won't tell you because I'm afraid you'll decide to remove it last. Despite my foggy senses, I calculate, count, take a chance and give you a number. You remove the most painful one first! It's not the triumph of one who has conquered without peril, but from where I'm standing, it looks a bit like it.

You turn up the music and finally offer me a moment of tenderness, a space of sensuality. You caress my somewhat bruised body, speak softly to me, hum softly, I think. I let myself be drawn in, discovering the pleasure and happiness of having been, for what seemed like an instant, a playground, a puppet at your mercy.
I don't come, the pleasure lies elsewhere.
You kindly untie me, show me how to get the blood flowing and send me off for a shower.

The parenthesis closes gently over a cup of tea. We chat for a few minutes, then I take my leave of you and head off to the world outside.

Testimony of J.