photo by Aaron Hawks
My favorite room to clean is the kitchen.
There is a beginning, middle, end.. and all kitchens are the same- Dishes, wipe down the counters, sink and stove, take out the garbage, sweep and wash the floor- my favorite part. I say wash because I don't mop, I've always gotten down on my hands and knees with a rag; Everything else is leading up to this, and all of it is meditative.
As a masochist living far from M, this is about the only thing I can do for myself to take the edge off. Like a drug addict, I will pace and fret until I am so worked up that all I can do is some sweating housework.
Today I was blessed, even, with bruised and blistered knees - the rice from the other day had pinched skin long enough to create small bubbles, which bit and popped as I moved around with my bucket... my dress riding up as I made sure every spot was clean.
Have you ever cleaned the floor on your hands and knees? It's amazing the humility it gives me, watching so closely every movement and seeing the floor disappear into the negative space of finished. You really know, then, that you've done a good job. And it always leads to cleaning other things: the wall, refrigerator, cabinets, stove. Somehow I always feel like with every circular stroke I'm wiping away some doubt, debt, some anger, some frustration; By getting on my knees to scrub it reminds me of my place, this role that I adore so much, and always of M. Perhaps sometimes even letting myself a fleeting fantasy of Him coming to sneak to watch, my skirt pulled up and me engrossed, feeling his eyes of approval and - hopefully - desire, at seeing his slave in such a way.
I have known, however, a few girls who feel similar burns of stresses and aches and angers that itch at their skin, burning to be let go. These girls do other, more harmful, things to release themselves: Razors, knives, safety-pins; anything that's sharp. One time (years ago), after a fight with her mother, a friend locked herself in the bathroom and I knew what she was doing. I begged her to let me in, and, finally she did. She sat on the toilet with a razor in her hand as I barged in like some sort of vigilantly, her arm running with blood - I could tell it was just enough to hurt, though, just enough to bleed good. She wasn't crying anymore, just looking at her arm with her calm tear stained face.
I didn't say much, I just took her hand and ran it under the water, knowing that doing so must have stung, though she didn't flinch. I patted it clean and clung to her neck, telling her I loved her.
We then acted as nothing happened and moved on with our day.
Sometimes I think girls just need some love, or at least someone to recognize their pain - sometimes, though, I think it doesn't matter; that it just comes down to this unexplainable need to feel nothing but some sort of searing pain to rid themselves - myself - of bottled up emotions and held back thoughts. And while I think that most people feel so overwhelmed at times, I don't claim to understand why some desire physical and/or mental anguish to relieve that pain, and certainly don't try to explain why some relish in their said releases.
I am lucky, so lucky, to have someone who counteracts this need. Though sometimes I wonder if He realizes how far this need goes... We will know, though, soon enough.