La Petite Lueur

Text originally published on my BDSM website La Férule, laferule.com

He says he's scared and really wants to.
Today, he says, he's ready.
He takes a deep breath before looking at us one by one, his expression serious. There are ten of us, ten strangers brought together by the theme of this workshop, "BDSM, getting closer to yourself", halfway between psychology, personal development, fantasy exploration and theater. At this very moment, in another room of this building privatized for a BDSM festival, an orgy is taking place.
Psycho or orgy? When I woke up this morning, I hardly hesitated: psycho. My skin saturated with contacts, I longed to let my brain guide the day. A day of creative expression is never wasted, and my orgasms could wait.
So here I am, in this small room whose blonde parquet floor, fleecy curtains and huge sofa give it the air of a cocoon. Standing in the cocoon is Rob, a ginger giant with the look of a Canadian lumberjack - a paradox, since we're in Australia. He's got the plaid shirt, the tanned skin, the beater hands and the muscles to uproot conifers.
And he also has, in his funny gray eyes, all the shyness of first times.

Rob avoids our gaze as he removes his shirt and pants. Once in his shorts, as if encumbered by his own bulk, he turns, quickly, to the belongings hanging on a rack and chooses, at random it seems, a wrap skirt. The long strap sewn into the waistband puzzles him: should it go over or under the other side of the skirt? Does it make sense? Rob inspects the skirt until my neighbor, another green-haired giant, lets out an audible "Hum-hum-hum!
Rob raises his nose; my neighbor mimes what looks like penetration: the thumb and fingers of his left hand form a hole into which his right index finger sinks. Rob frowns. A hole? What hole? The scene is so incongruous, this half-naked lumberjack being coached by another colossus to wear a miniskirt. Male solidarity where I know nothing about it.
That's it, Rob's found the hole. He slips the strap through after putting on the skirt. On an average-sized woman, it would fall above the ankles. On Rob, it's just below the knee, revealing his thick calves. No one thinks of laughing. On the contrary, there's something moving and deeply vulnerable about this man with exposed legs, bare feet and flailing arms.
His face reflects the strangeness of the moment. Perhaps he feels ridiculous, so masculine, hairy and muscular, with his love handles highlighted by the thin fabric.

An angel passes by.

Rob takes a deep breath. He stares at the carpet in front of him, then at his big, slightly twisted toes, then at the hem of the skirt, then at us in turn, as if seeking our approval. I have no doubt he'll get it from everyone. His eyes rest on me. I tilt my chin in a silent yes. Rob smiles thoughtfully. He says he'd like to wear heels too. A young woman points to a pair of half-hidden patent pumps.
Size 43, it's hers.
He slips on the shoes, readjusting his balance. The pumps force him into a new posture, aligning his calves with his pelvis and shoulders.
He dares a step, two hesitant steps. His heels click on the parquet floor. Tic. Tac. He tilts his head to better hear them, to better embrace their cadence.
Usually, when it walks, it doesn't make a sound.
Rob is still smiling. He moves forward, gradually gaining in confidence. His heels click loud and clear. One turn of the room later, he's strolling along, rolling his hips. His arms loosen, accompanying his thighs. There's a provocation in his posture, a power he's making his own.
He stares at us one by one, taking us to witness his transformation.
In his eyes, that glint. That glimmer of surprise and revelation, that magical split-second that testifies to the fact that suddenly, inside, something opens up and connects, a kind of deep access to oneself, a jubilant realization, as if what Rob had dreamed of and then buried in the magma inside, was now incarnated.
The little glimmer of light that testifies to the fact that, right now, he's allowing himself to be, non-conforming or non-convenient with regard to the norm, the little glimmer of light that proclaims that nothing will ever be quite the same again.

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Madame Lule, may not be used, in whole or in part, without my permission.

Photo: Alice de Montparnasse; model : Doll.