04 Jul Uniform
He splurts when the water hits his face, a look of surprise, a look of anger and confusion. His white shirt is ripped open, showing off a ripped chest and strong muscles, but also; exposed skin, vulnerable. We all consist of flesh, skin, nerves, muscles. So does J, a man who I consider a friend, a brilliant brain and right now, my punching bag, entertainment, toy and bottom.
For this occasion, he is dressed in a full Eastern German uniform, and he wears it so well. Like a Tom of Finland archetype, but with the added extra touch of…well, the uniform. We are also in a very interesting space, decorated like an interrogation room in Eastern Germany. All the concrete, the weird furnitures, the hard wooden chair and the desk, with a sharp lamp, a separate small room for solitary confinement. Even a nice flag and a framed print of a communist leader and comrade. It is, simply put: perfect.I am, on the other hand, dressed in a sequined see-through dress. Earlier, when seeing us entering the club, it was easy to assume him as the top and me as a bottom. I had assumed that I would be a bottom myself, not bringing any toys what so ever. It quickly changed though, an urge to turn the tables, step out of an assumed role into one what perhaps would suit better for this mood. Feeling that urge to hurt something, to bring someone to that place where bodies clash. Me and J spoke a bit, I pointed out the scene I had in mind was not really pretty at all and that I had to trust him to be able to not lash back at me, if this was something that he wanted to do as well. It is only recently I’ve started playing with people much stronger than myself. A strange rush, as it is possible for them to at any point turn the tables. I’m curvy and have strong legs, but also short and would be no match for J. But as we start to play, it is that tension which makes it interesting, that potential threat, but also about the scene being one in which we are challenging each other and other peoples’ notion of what they see or think they see each and every day. I found a couple of pieces of kit, not much really, but a chain (always good), a water bottle, a piece of rope and that was about it.
“Take off your coat”. I sit in front of him, he stands next to the wooden chair and looks a bit amused, but also slightly perturbed. I am comfortable now. Look straight at him as the coat unveils that chest, a rather proud and composed chest and his chisled jawline, proud but now under more objectification than anything else.My softer chair denotes a dominant position, and I tell him to sit down on his wooden one. I stand up and push my body against him, he is so warm, a mix of body heat and the soft feeling of the white shirt. The black tie is like a flag around the neck. Too much fabric in the way, to many layers. His white shirt tears open easily, the buttons fly all over. He seems surprised at first, but then settles again. A rope around his wrists, raising them over his head, tying them so that magnificent chest is completely exposed.I sit down again, look at him, his skin, and when our eyes meet while I press my brown brogue against his crotch he probably understands what I meant that it is not going to be pretty. Arms spread above his head,held up by the rope and expose that vulnerability and strength. He grunts, shoulders shaking,a low moan rising to a barytone that carries over the sound of the party. He can see me still, meet my eyes, breathing. The brown leather belt in his trousers is removed, it is perfect to act as a blind-fold. The tie, a marker of masculinity turns into a noose, he struggles as I am pulling it. I start to slap his face,punch his stomach,feeling the tensed muscles under my fist as it lands in his side. I straddle him as he sits on the wooden chair. And it feels like it is not possible to get closer to someone, it is not possible to get closer to another human being than we are now. He is not naked, nor am I, but this closeness is about vulnerability and allowing oneself to bask in the sensations. I have to brace myself to not slap his face with the back of my hand, but to use the palm instead. The slaps rains over his face, first slower, calculated, then faster and faster. He shouts, first grunts, then a “Come on! Bring it!”, like he wants to know how much he is willing to take. I step up to the challenge, he tenses more against the restraints now. The slaps now pours over his face, and the rope is pushed, he shouts, yells and feed off me in the same way as I feed off him. Every now and again I throw that water into his face, to force him to stay composed, to force him to remain in this moment.
We all wear uniforms, every day. But they only define us if we want them to, and allow them to.