So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them...And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good.
"Me and my body are not on speaking terms at the moment."
I backtracked as soon as I said it. Even before I saw the strange look Nurse K. gave me.
"Well, I mean, obviously I can't not listen to my body. It's just that between all the pain lately and this fresh freaky hell with the morphine not showing up, I've just been really pissed with it."
The pain I've already explained here. The morphine was in reference to the drug screen I'm required to have every six months to show I'm actually taking my morphine (as opposed to, say, selling it). For some reason, while the hydrocodone I take for break-through pain did show up in my system, the morphine did not even though I take the both, along with 16 other daily medications, every morning and evening in carefully allotted doses in two separate pillboxes (actually four pillboxes in total, which those of you who follow me on Twitter hear me whine about filling every Sunday night). And, of course, this had to happen right as I was undergoing one of the worst pain episodes of my life.
I really hate my body sometimes. It can't just be normal and do what it's supposed to do. It has to be complicated, enigmatic, anomalous.*
My godfather would scold me right about now. "You shouldn't hate your body, habibti," he would say. "Your body is made in the image of God."
So God is diseased, fragile, painful and utterly inexplicable?
Well, okay, I'll give you that last one.
Thankfully Nurse K. was able to report to me that day that the morphine -- along with the hydrocodone -- did show up in the more sensitive opiate screening my doctor did during my next visit. But it didn't do a whole lot to end my rage.
It's hard not to become almost gnostic when you live in chronic pain and illness. Hard not to think of your body as the enemy. The entity that keeps you bound in suffering and debility. A prison from which you hope you will someday be released.
Yes I know. It's the illness that's the enemy. But neurons and viral DNA and freaky biochemistry are so intangible and disparate. I can see -- and worse -- feel my body, that entirety of neurons and DNA and biochemistry, not to mention sacroiliac joints and shoulders and hips, making it a much easier target for my fury and frustration.
I can't even enjoy sex. My sexuality involves pain but for the last month the mere thought of spanking has made me nauseous. Why couldn't I be into feet or balloons or squirrel costumes? Why does it have to be about getting beaten? I got the bad pain genes; why did I have to get the whip-me genes too?
Though it's not only about spanking.
The last few weeks as my sacroiliac joint has slowly healed, my bottom has been abuzz with desire. I couldn't quite put my finger on what it wanted. God knows, it wasn't for spanking. Mostly just some sort of touch or caress, I think.
My hole in particular has been agitating for attention and soon my fantasies started turning to rectal thermometers and enemas. With a thick, strong nurse who was both strict and affectionate. Or with A., using the embarrassment that accompanies such an intimate and invasive procedure to punish me for whatever misdeed.
Enemas fascinate me, despite my lack of experience with them. They're invasive and dominating like anal sex, but with a softer, more infantalizing, and more embarrassing edge. Done for your own good rather than the good of the fucker.
I also found myself thinking about the P-Spot Vibe. How wonderful it feels in my hole and how it could be used as a sort of punishment (or pseudo-punishment as it would never work as a deterrent for me).
I imagined being a student in a school that utilizes creative -- if sexually abusive -- punishments.** A. would be the strict -- if dodgy as hell -- headmaster. I'd have been caught for some terribly stereotypical infraction like smoking in the lavatory. My punishment would be an hour with The Probe (aka the P-Spot Vibe). The school matron and secretary would drag me struggling and pleading to a Lupus-esque bench, the only thing said struggling and pleading accomplishing is threats of more time with The Probe. And maybe the substitution of a more uncomfortable lubricant.
There would be the helplessness as I'm strapped down to the bench. The humiliation as the secretary pulls up my skirt and pulls down my panties. The tightness in my gut and my hole as I hear the snap of the latex glove on the matron's hand. The chill of the secretary's hands pulling my cheeks apart. The matron's gooey finger invading my hole. The discomfort of the hard silicone penetrating what should never be penetrated. The degradation of having my most intimate orifice on display for these three relative strangers. And finally the shame that accompanies arousal...
By Sunday night as I headed for bed I was randy enough to think about wanking. But it was getting late and my medication was kicking in and, well, it's not like it wouldn't be there tomorrow. I slipped under the covers with sleep encroaching when the epiphany struck. Not a particularly profound one, mind you. Indeed it was more like reality smacking me in the face.
I need a body to feel that delicious tingle of arousal. I need a body to feel the wonder and explosive joy of an orgasm. There may be no dislocated sacroiliac joints in a bodiless soul, but there is also no ability to feel your lover caressing your ass. Or the taste of a fresh Oregon strawberry. Or the grainy sound of Bob Dylan. Or the smell of frankincense at Divine Liturgy.
Suddenly I could feel my whole body. The quilt against my calves. The mattress and underquilt beneath my bottom. The breeze from the fan against the skin of my arms. And yes, the sharpness in my right SI joint and the pinched nerve in my right thigh and the mysterious pain in my lower right abdomen and the achiness in my lungs.
My body and I were most certainly on speaking terms.
And it was very good.
*And, of course, like all women, I have the traditional issues with my body because it's not pretty enough or thin enough or (insert unreasonable cultural expectation for the bodies of women of your choice).
**This fantasy would work just as well in a prison scenario, like this one.