I cannot forbear to mention among these precepts a new device for
study which, although it may seem but trivial and almost ludicrous,
is nevertheless extremely useful in arousing the mind to various
inventions. And this is, when you look at a wall spotted with
stains, or with a mixture of stones, if you have to devise some
scene, you may discover a resemblance to various landscapes,
beautified with mountains, rivers, rocks, trees, plains, wide
valleys and hills in varied arrangement; or again you may see
battles and figures in action; or strange faces and costumes, and an
endless variety of objects, which you could reduce to complete and
well drawn forms. And these appear on such walls confusedly, like
the sound of bells in whose jangle you may find any name or word you
choose to imagine.
-- Da Vinci
I’ve recently surrendered to the fact that overages of sexual energy often activate the most violent part of my brain. On some level, I’ve always felt, for me, sex and fatalism go hand in hand, but working in a strip club has, believe it or not, kicked my my sado-masochistic fantasies and inclinations into overdrive in a way being a dominatrix never did. So I guess I’ve answered the chicken or the egg question of whether my sadism was a product of working as a domme or one of the many reasons I wanted to become one in the first place.
Examples of random sexual/violent thoughts I've had recently:
Last night, as the hot water in the bathtub lapped across my bare breasts, my eyes hazy and unfocused, I found myself casually viewing the tiles in my bathroom as a strictly solipsistic Rorschach test, picking out images of myself as Salome, with the head of a certain customer I’d recently met on a charger before me, as well as a blank sort of Persephone, with my foot on the head of a smiling man in profile.
I had a dream the other night that a near-stranger with whom I recently had a naughty dalliance on a long train trip was inexplicably trying to steal my gown after I was done dancing onstage. We had a violent tug of war and he stuck his finger in my mouth, upon which I bit it so hard I actually felt the bone and gristle snap, my mouth full of his blood and his actual fingertip. The dream was so vivid I actually believe if I ever had a mouthful of someone else’s blood I’d recognize the coppery taste as surely as if it really had happened to me in reality.
I'm not insane, though-- just dealing with a raging tidal wave of lust from strangers in a new form. Again.
PS Maybe one of the reasons I always draw a correlation between sex and death is that I always feel intimate physical connections with men distance me from the Divine, which is, in essence, the true wellspring of my existence. In that sense it is like death— voluntarily separating myself from the Absolute and laying my flesh on the altar for a carnal connection that is comparatively cheap. As much as I love to touch and be touched, since I've never been in love, I recognize that further effort to connect is fruitless, and it becomes like drowning, I hate it so. It was only different with one boy, ever, who pulled my hair and told me no but loved me fiercely and would have married me if only I hadn't sensed we were not quite destined to be together forever.
A good friend recently told me I’d probably feel an easier and more fulfilling communion with the man I eventually marry, since intercourse itself is such a source of bonding. I hope it turns out that way for me if and when I ever do find that person.