Thursday October 22nd 2020

The Brightest Flames Leave the Deepest Scars

Madame K is an international woman of mystery and writer of erotic fiction, who is eternally in search of the perfect mojito and the perfect orgasm, preferably at the same time. She fights for a world in which every woman can embrace their sexuality with honesty, humour, and oodles of enjoyment. This is not a sex health column, this is a sex mental health column.

I want to smack him. I want to smack him so hard that you can see where my fingers hit his face. I want him to flinch, recoil. I want the shock and pain to register on his face. Of course, I also can’t shake the part of me that then wants to kiss it better. Yes him, mister chocolate buyer sexy biceps knows what I’m thinking without me having to breathe a word love of my life. I want to smack him really really hard. Right now.

Only the people you love have the power to hurt you. To really hurt you. Other people might annoy, frustrate, let you down, infuriate, terrify even. But they can’t say a single sentence that leaves you feeling as though someone has sliced you in half, and poured broken glass and acid into your heart and sewn you back up, patted you on the back, and told you to get on with it. And the people you love the most do this without meaning to. Without wanting to. Without knowing they have.

It’s so close to lust, this desire to hit him. It’s a very very physical urge, a physical response my body feels it needs to have to release the pain jolting through my system. I need to try and make him feel this agony, to connect this pain to him. And then there’s that second desire, always that second need to kiss it better. I love him, I love him, I don’t want him to hurt.

And I also know that as much as I want to smack him, really really hard, he’s the only one that can take my pain away. He’s the only one that will let me hit him, and then want to kiss me better.  Who will want to cry for my hurting so much I want to hurt him. Who if he had known, had guessed, had dreamt what his words would mean to me, would sooner have cut his tongue out.

And we are both mired in the excess of passionate fury, caught up in the throwing and yelling and slamming, a force of anger so strong we can’t contain it and I am angry with him and angry with myself for being angry at him and he is angry that he has made me angry and at last we come to the heart of the anger which is fear.

My fear he might stop loving me. His disbelief. And his holding me in his love, his safety, and gently calming me.  And I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him so long that his lips are stained with mine.

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