He always has in the past.He always has in the past. And I like having him in control. It makes me feel safe. But God. My hair! Even just this morning, a week later, I don't know how many times I have thought to myself: "What in God's name have I gotten myself into?!" I've been round and round with myself trying to figure out why he would want to do such a thing, and I have no answer. The only thing I am sure of is that there's a lot more psychology than philosophy behind what he did. I just hope there's no pathology. I sometimes think the inside of his mind must look like a painting by Heironymus Bosch (for that matter, mine does, too). Why he did it wasn't upper- most in my mind at the time, though. My hair was. In fact, at that particular moment I wasn't thinking about anything, just feeling pretty goddamn miserable. Listlessly, I stared at myself in the full length mirror. He stepped in front of me, still holding the damp washcloth. Tenderly, he wiped a smudge of mascara from below an eye and even kissed me. "You are beautiful," he said, "Half a century ago you would have been a great beauty exactly as you are, so don't dismiss your appear- ance just because it is different. If you can't see your beauty, then see this as a new kind of nakedness: a new source of that embarrass- ment that I value so much as a gift." I wanted so much to believe in him, to believe he wasn't crazy. I just wasn't sure. How could he want me like this? The only thing that really touched a part of me was the idea that he wanted to make me his completely. He stepped aside and let me look in the mirror. It was hard to look without bursting into tears again. I looked at my feet in the boots, still chained. The chained wrists rested on my thighs, hands trembling. He reached behind me and rezipped the bodysuit, down my back and between my legs, up my front almost to the top. There was a wet patch between my legs. My eyes followed the zipper to my chin. I looked at my face again. It was genuinely shock- ing to see myself that way. |