It’s morning and I awake on the bed platform. I had fallen asleep overnight inside Schwelle 7. I feel like a big cat overlooking the savannah, I open my eyes to a quiet, sun-drenched room. In the morning light, her naked sensual body sunbathes, and her curly blond hair falls over her slender shoulders with one hand on her heart and the other on her sex. She mirrors my insecurity. Since we first met not long ago. She saw right into me with her curious eyes. So just like that, she is my Insecurity.
The lips of another warm my shoulder blades from the still chilly morning air. Her moist breath chases the goosebumps away. Again and again, making me feel safe and at home. Her small warm body lies deeply wrapped in the flowery blanket behind me. She is my Security. Her arm reached around me, humming a calming lullaby as I watch insecurity in her morning routines across the room. Security and I have known each other for a lifetime. It has become apparent how there are these two qualities which are fundamental building blocks of my happiness. And so clearly, just this week at Schwelle 7, they were represented by two different people.
Insecurity and I played children together, built a cave of blankets and operated on a clay heart in a teddy bear. She put her vulnerability in my ropes, and I humiliated and loved her in front of a room of witnesses. At first, she had such resistance. Why would anyone want to give away their power? Finally, she barked at me angrily. Because it’s possible, both consciously and consensually, and it’s beautiful to face that resistance. But eventually, the resistance melted away into horniness. Wild and uncontrolled. She was restrained but oh so powerful, like a thunderous storm. And the room of witnesses worshipped her. Together we were each other’s sexual archetypes. I was flooded by that tickling feeling of butterflies in the stomach before the first kiss. And we made love.
Meanwhile, Security and I slept together every night and talked about life and death. She patted me when needed and bit me when it was missing. Together, we were unconditionally there for each other.
Some weeks after returning home to Stockholm, I receive an email. Insecurity is dead. She had driven off the road in the Swiss alps. Crashed and died into the rocks and snow. I should feel sad, I think to myself. I grieve for her family. No parents should have to outlive their children. But for myself? I don’t miss her. The journey we had together was complete. We left no strings undone. We didn’t leave anything for another day. Or at least I didn’t. I definitely can’t speak for her now. Or maybe I have to, now that her voice is gone and our memories are all that remain. Our times in the ropes, in front of that room of witnesses, in our play. Did my insecurity die that day when her car skidded off the road, metaphorically speaking? Most definitely not. It instead encourages me to keep finding that adventure. To dare to be vulnerable. And allow her to live on within me. And so it is, in this exploration of the sadomasochistic and esoteric eros, that we leave marks in each other, so ingrained that they might live on forever.
